The Bride Wore Blue (13 page)

“Raise someone else’s child?” Nell leaped to her feet and paced the short length of the room. “I always thought …”

Her sister didn’t have to finish the sentence for Vivian to know what Nell wasn’t saying. Nell had grown up believing she’d birth her own children.

Eleanor wiped a tear from her cheek. “Nell, you said a baby is a gift from God.”

Nell sat back down. “Yes, a heritage from God.”

“You don’t believe He can use other people to deliver His gifts?”

Tears spilled down Nell’s cheeks. She nodded and captured Eleanor’s hand.

Vivian pulled a handkerchief from her reticule and blotted her own tears. God hadn’t answered her sister’s prayer in the way they expected, but Nell would have a baby.

Perhaps Cripple Creek was where Vivian belonged after all. She’d start a new job Monday. Did she dare to believe that God was working things out for her too?

Carter pulled a spatula out of a drawer. Hot cakes sizzled on the griddle. The one-hole potbelly in his second floor apartment wasn’t much of a cookstove to speak of. Hot cakes weren’t much of a Sunday supper either, leastwise not compared to the spread he was sure the Sinclair sisters had laid out. Three Sundays ago he’d enjoyed a roasted pork loin and candied sweet potatoes at the parsonage.

That was before the fourth Sinclair sister arrived in town. Before Vivian Sinclair stood up to him on the train. Before she decided to ignore him and he’d determined to avoid her.

Just as well.

Spatula in hand, he scooped up his golden-brown hot cakes and slid the stack onto a blue enameled plate. They weren’t roasted meat, but the cakes still reminded him of breakfast at his mother’s table. He poured maple syrup over the hot cakes until they swam in a pool. Seated at the table against the wall, Carter clasped his hands and bowed his head.
Lord God, thank You for Your provision of this food. My home. My stove
.

While he breathed in the sweet scent of his meal, Carter recalled Tucker’s prayer for him.

And Lord, please give me the grace and strength I need to accomplish the task You’ve set before me. Please keep Your hand upon all those involved in bringing these men to justice. Amen
.

He’d just cut into the stack of hot cakes when he bowed his head again.

And Lord, I could also use an extra helping of grace and strength where Miss Vivian Sinclair is concerned. Thank You. Amen
.

He filled his fork with hot-cake layers and devoured his first bite.

Maybe it was all in his imagination anyway. Perhaps their unfortunate first encounter on the train would always hinder their chance of a true friendship. Or anything more.

He’d chosen to do the avoiding today, when Tucker invited him to join the family for Sunday supper. Romance could never work for him. Not as long as he was a lawman. He wouldn’t put a wife through what he’d watched his mother endure. An officer of the law could be called upon at any moment to walk away from his family and risk never returning to them.

He lifted his mug and breathed in the heavy aroma of coffee before enjoying its rich warmth.

The sharp sound of the buzzer above his door propelled him to his feet, and he banged his thighs on the table. The downstairs office was locked today, but the sheriff had insisted Carter install the buzzer so he could be reached in case of emergency. Usually it was rung by truant kids dared by their friends.

More buzzing. Not kids then.

Carter grabbed his hat off the peg. By the time he reached the bottom step, he could see Edgar Hamilton waving at him through the window. Carter met the saloon owner at the door and motioned for him to come in.

“I know it’s Sunday, but Sergeant Grady down at the police department thought I should tell you something.”

Carter pointed to two chairs along the far wall. “You want a cup of coffee?”

Edgar raised his hand. “Gotta get back to the bar.”

Carter sat beside the balding bartender. “You have a problem over there?”

“A drunk shot up my piano last night.”

“Sounds pretty normal for a Saturday night. And well within the jurisdiction of the police department.”

“That’s what I thought until I reported it to Grady this morning and he asked me if the guy said anything.”

Carter sat up straighter. “I’m listening.”

“Heard him say his cousin was a fool to go and get himself shot by a greenhorn miner, then he paid for his drinks and the piano with a stack of silver dollars. Grady thought he could be talking about the fellow—”

“Mac shot.”

Nodding, Edgar smoothed his thin mustache. “One more thing, deputy. The more I’ve thought about it, the more I remember him lookin’ like the shorter man Miss Sinclair described for the sketch.”

Carter popped up out of the chair like a man on fire. He took two long strides across the room to his desk and pulled the folder of posters and drawings from the drawer. Returning to the chairs, he slid out the sketch of the stockier guy and showed it to Edgar.

The saloon keeper nodded. “A bulbous nose. A rounded face. My artwork didn’t quite match him, but her description sure did.”

Carter’s pulse quickened. At least one of the outlaws was still in the area.

All he had to do was figure out why.

T
he moment Vivian stepped through the door of the Colorado Telephone Company on Monday morning and heard the commotion on the other side of the wall, her stomach knotted. What had she been thinking, accepting a job as a telephone operator? What little experience she’d had with a telephone at Aunt Alma’s dry goods store involved being connected, not connecting other people.

The woman Vivian had seen Tuesday rose from the desk and met her at the end of the counter. “Miss Sinclair.”

“Good morning, Mrs.… ”

“Wilkening. Miss Mara Wilkening.” Miss Wilkening stuck a pencil in the gray braid that sat at the nape of her neck and glanced up at a wall clock. Five minutes to the hour. “It’s good to see you are prompt.”

Suddenly, Vivian was thankful Ida had drilled into her the importance of the timely habit.

Miss Wilkening took the completed form from Vivian and glanced at both sides before setting it on the desk. “Follow me.” She spun around and marched to the open door in the back corner.

Her steps far less sure than Miss Wilkening’s, Vivian watched the older woman’s stiff carriage. The clerk’s dress wasn’t orange today, but her lime green frock didn’t do much to flatter her pole-thin shape either.
Vivian would work on that once Miss Wilkening had proven she was capable of producing a smile.

Vivian expected to follow Miss Wilkening to the stairs leading to the manager’s office. Instead, they stopped beside an empty chair at the end of the row of switchboards.

“This will be your work station.” Miss Wilkening clapped her hands like a crack of thunder, drawing the attention of all three operators seated in front of their respective boards. “Girls, this is Miss Vivian Sinclair.” The clerk looked down at Vivian with narrowed eyes that made her feel even smaller than her five feet two inches. “Vivian will work alongside you.” Her words were pointed at the others, but her steely gray eyes pinned Vivian. “On a trial basis.”

Reminding herself to breathe, Vivian smiled at the other operators. “Good morning.”

“Victoria.” Miss Wilkening pointed to the girl seated closest to them first. “Alice. Eva.”

None of the three girls spoke to her, but each of them nodded, and the dark-haired girl at the far end waved. Not one of them wore a hat, and all were dressed like farm wives. Perhaps during breaks, Vivian would have an opportunity to suggest more becoming costumes.

When Miss Wilkening jerked her hand like an orchestra conductor, the young women all turned back to their boards and began pulling cords to and from lighted plugs. “All right, then,” Miss Wilkening said. “Let’s you and I get down to business.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“First off, this is a job, not a summer fashion show at the opera house, Miss Sinclair.” Miss Wilkening’s gaze settled on Vivian’s hat. “You’ll need to remove that.”

Swallowing her own bite of sarcasm, Vivian set her reticule on the
chair and removed the first of several hatpins. While she continued her task, setting the pins on the shallow desk, Miss Wilkening stared at the chair.

“You won’t need your reticule either. You’re here to work, not to primp.”

The book of Ruth came to mind, along with Ruth’s bitter mother-in-law. Perhaps, like Naomi, Mara Wilkening had been forced to leave Judah and bury her husband and then her two sons. Had she said to her family, “Call me Mara” because the name for
bitter
suited her best?

“To save us both time, I’ll put them in a cupboard for you,” Miss Wilkening said.

Vivian handed over her belongings. As her supervisor crossed the room to a bookcase of open cubes, her heels clicked against the wooden floor. When Vivian’s hat didn’t fit into the box with her reticule, Miss Wilkening set it on the top shelf. Now Vivian would need to ask for help at the end of the day to retrieve her hat. And the shelf probably hadn’t been dusted since it had been built.

Miss Wilkening returned and tapped the back of the empty chair. “Sit. We’ve lost valuable time.”

Vivian lowered herself onto the chair, staring at the panel of lights and plugs in front of her, fully aware that, with this sour woman by her side, the day would feel too much like Ruth and Naomi’s journey to Judah.

On Friday evening, after her first week as a telephone operator, Vivian carried a box of ribbons from her trunk to her dressing table, where she’d carefully laid out several sheets of paper from her sketch pad.

She was hard pressed to find anything to like about her job. Although she’d seen improvement in her skill at operating the switchboard, she was still having trouble keeping all the cords and plugs straight. And Mara Wilkening’s incessant clucking had done nothing to boost Vivian’s confidence.

Vivian chose six ribbons from the box—all different colors. She ran the purple one through her fingers. How she missed working with different materials, textures, and colors. Designing and making the outfits for Ida’s move to Cripple Creek last autumn was the most fun she’d had in a long time. Vivian lifted the lid off her hatpin box, then studied her makeshift switchboard. The divider boards from her trunk sat on the table and leaned against the mirror. For now, the silky ribbons would serve as the cords connecting her imaginary callers. She pinned one end of a ribbon in each of the penciled circles that indicated cords. After a quick review of her board list, she pretended the head of the pin that held the yellow ribbon in place was flashing.

Swallowing a giggle at the silliness, Vivian imagined she heard a voice in her provisional earpiece. “Who are you calling?”

She practiced connecting six calls and only looked at the list once—for the plug that belonged to the banker, Harry Updike. Why was his plug such a challenge to recall? She had no trouble remembering which plug connected a caller to Deputy Carter Alwyn.

Vivian stared at the purple ribbon and thought of something she should like about her job.