The Bride Wore Blue (35 page)

“You think she’ll marry again?”

“I don’t know.” Hattie spread a napkin on her lap. “Widows aren’t easily convinced.”

“Don’t I know it.” Boney slid a pie plate across the table to her. “You ever miss Missouri?”

She tucked errant gray hairs behind her ear. “I miss the river. Especially during the summer.”

He nodded, his mouth full of pie.

“And at times, I miss that girl.”

“The one with hair the color of molasses?”

“That’s the one.” Although she wouldn’t have used a pantry item to describe her hair.

“Well, as time would have it, I was fond of that girl and happen to be quite fond of the woman she is today.” He scooped another forkful of lemon meringue. “Her cooking ain’t half bad either.”

“You always were one to flatter the females, Mister Hughes.”

“Friends call me Boney.” He winked.

The telephone jangled. Hattie lifted herself out of her chair with a
hmph
. Just as well. She’d been dawdling too long on Memory Lane. Some anniversaries of George’s death did that to her. Today was a tougher one. She reached the phone, lifted the earpiece, and spoke into the cone. “Hello.”

“Miss Hattie, there’s a Mr. Harlan Sinclair on the line for you.”

“Sinclair?” Oh, the girls’ father.

“From New York.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Hello, Mrs. Adams!” The line was more scratchy than usual, and he sounded as if he were shouting. “My four daughters have all stayed at your boardinghouse.”

“Yes. Delightful girls, each and every one.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ve been wishing you’d had more daughters.” Her cheeks warmed.
What a thing to say
. “I only meant that I enjoyed having Kat and Nell, Ida, and Vivian here in the house.”

“That’s what I’m calling about, ma’am.”

“About your girls living in my house?” She glanced over at Boney, who was sliding another piece of pie onto his plate. “That’s interesting. It’s been nearly a year since the last one moved out.”

She couldn’t be sure but she thought she heard him sigh.

“Mrs. Adams—”

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Sinclair … your girls call me Hattie.”

“Very well, Hattie Adams, I need to secure two rooms for the third full week of September.”

This was September 9, the second Friday. Hattie opened her mouth.

“Week after next.” Mr. Sinclair’s words were clipped. “I expect I’ll need at least one of the rooms, perhaps both, for a month or more.”

She thought to ask why he didn’t plan to take his lodging in one of his daughters’ homes, but the man clearly wasn’t given to chatter. But then costly long distance rates from New York wouldn’t invite windy conversations. Still … she wondered if his daughters knew he was no longer in Paris.

“Do you have two rooms available for that week?”

“I do, and they’re now reserved for you.”

“Very well. Until then.”

After a click, the static on the line fell silent. Hattie shivered, staring at the phone for a moment. The girls had obviously inherited their warmth from their mother. She returned to the table and regarded Boney, a man with a very warm heart. “That was Mr. Sinclair.”

“Father to our Sinclair sisters?”

“The very one.” She scooped a generous bite of pie. “Mr. Sinclair will arrive in Cripple Creek in about ten days, week after next. And he’s bringing a guest.”

“He’s bringing a friend with him?”

“He let two rooms. He didn’t say who would fill them.”

“Perhaps it’s the girls’ aunt coming with him.”

“Yes, of course. That’s probably who it is. Aunt Alma.” The prospect made her smile.

Alma Shindlebower could brighten a room any day. Perfect!

Hattie raised her cup as if she were toasting her grand inspiration. The lively Alma Shindlebower was just what her friend Boney needed in his life. Willow might not be ready for a match, but those two were long overdue. And soon the Sinclair family would fill her home again.

August 1865

W
hen Maren Jensen arrived in America nearly two years ago from Denmark, she was surprised to find that Thursday quickly became her favorite day of the week—the day the quilting circle met at her employer’s farm. She could barely work a needle before immigrating, and she had little interest in textiles, but she loved the company of women who gathered.

Elsa Brantenberg, her employer, sat in a rocker by the window. A log cabin quilt top draped her lap and spilled onto the braided rug at her feet. Maren sat in a wooden chair on the other side of Mary Lou Kerr and her mother-in-law, Irene, thumbing through a stack of colorful squares. She’d planned to tell her friend Adeline about the drifter called “Wooly” who showed up at the farm yesterday, but they hadn’t had a moment alone this morning.

Mrs. Brantenberg folded her hands over her quilting and looked across the room to where Adeline pulled thread through an appliqué. “I believe it’s your turn to ask God’s blessing upon our time together, Adeline.” She cocked her head and grinned. “I mean to say,
Miss Hattie
.”

Maren raised an eyebrow and wondered if the new nickname Mrs. Brantenberg’s four-year-old granddaughter, Weibke, had assigned Adeline this morning was going to stick. The fifteen-year-old Adeline wasn’t content with a simple summer bonnet, not when she had her ailing grandmother’s closet to draw from. Today she wore a green straw hat with a wide brim and feathers that had made quite an impression on the little girl.

“Yes ma’am,” Hattie said, smiling.

Mrs. Brantenberg folded her hands and bowed her head. “Don’t forget to thank God for our newest member, dear.”

The activity in the room stilled. Without being too obvious, Maren tried to sneak a glance at Augusta Milburn. The newcomer sat on a settee beside her sister Inez, a flower basket quilt top spread over their laps.

Augusta appeared solemn as she pulled a handkerchief from a pocket in her skirt and pressed the cloth against the wet tracks on her face. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come.”

“Unsinnig.”
Mrs. Brantenberg crossed the room and captured Augusta’s hand. “That’s nonsense, dear. You are among friends here.”

Colonel Milburn had not joined his bride in the four months that had passed since the South surrendered.

“It can take a man awhile to travel if he was deep in the south.” Maren had come to appreciate Mrs. Brantenberg’s voice of reason. “Dear, his regiment could’ve been sent west to fight in the Indian wars.”

Augusta shook her head, squaring her shoulders. “The last word from him …” Her words were slow and heavily weighted. “His regiment was in Georgia.”

“In one of the last battles?” Mrs. Brantenberg looked toward Inez, who nodded. “You’ve written to the Department of War?”

“I did.” Augusta looked at the handkerchief in her lap, her index finger tracing an embroidered letter. “They have not responded.”

Inez and Augusta had lost their beloved father a short time ago, and now there was a good chance Augusta would never see her husband again, either. Maren brushed a tear from her own face. Most of the women in the circle were doing the same thing, or shuffling and clearing their throats. Mrs. Weber, one of the women who rode in on the Kerr’s wagon, lost her son in the same battle. Mary Lou Kerr’s husband had come home missing a foot. And now Colonel Milburn was missing. Mrs. Brantenberg was one of the more fortunate ones; her son-in-law had survived the war and returned home. His regiment had been sent to the Arizona Territory, and he returned home yesterday—welcomed, or not.

Mrs. Weber pressed a hand to her long neck. “Here in this quilting circle, dear, none of us are alone. Not in our sorrows, nor in our triumphs.”