The Bride Wore Blue (6 page)

They passed several shops on the main thoroughfare through town, including a barbershop, a cobbler, a grocer, a confectionary, and a butcher. The El Paso County Sheriff’s Office sat on their right, a narrow storefront in a brick building just up the block from the Cripple Creek Police Department.

Vivian opened the door and looked around the modest room. A kerosene cookstove to her left. A file cabinet in that corner, and a closed door in the other. A picture of President William McKinley hung above a plain oak desk.

The man sitting below the portrait didn’t resemble Carter Alwyn in the least. Springing to his feet, the small gentleman with a receding hairline waved them inside. The black bow tie hanging crooked on his crisp white collar further abbreviated his short neck. A bold hiccup escaped his thinned lips, and he hooked his thumb on a button on his red vest, but it was the white apron over black trousers that surprised Vivian the most.

Aunt Alma raised a gloved hand to her mouth and whispered behind it. “He looks more like a bartender than an artist.”

“Miss Sinclair.” He turned his attention to Aunt Alma, a smile revealing a cleft in his pointed chin. “Miss Alma Shindlebower, I presume.”

“Yes.” They answered him at the same time.

“I once had a flame named Alma.” Another smile for Aunt Alma and another hiccup. “Beg your pardon, ma’am. Gotta get me a bottle of bitters when we’re done here.”

Straight-faced, her aunt nodded. The ostrich feather on her summer hat bobbed.

He removed his apron and flung it over a side table, then pointed to the two wooden chairs on their side of the desk. “The deputy is out.”

Vivian seated herself in the chair with the best view of the door. Just as well that Carter Alwyn was absent.

She followed the bartender’s gaze to a wall clock behind them. “You ladies were spot on the dot of ten o’clock.”

“If you’re going to bother to be somewhere, bother to be on time.” Aunt Alma lowered herself into the chair beside Vivian and stared up at the man. “And, sir, who might you be?”

“Edgar Hamilton, ma’am, the proprietor of the Cripple Creek Barroom.” Another hiccup. This time he covered his mouth. “I’m also a humble sketch artist.” He seated himself behind the desk and pointed to a pencil and a pad of drawing paper. He sealed his lips and tapped his chest, swallowing a quieted hiccup.

For the next thirty minutes, Vivian and her aunt recounted the shapes and colors of the outlaws’ eyes. The sizes and shapes of their bandanna-shielded noses. The approximate length and shape of each face. And any other details they recalled.

When they stood to leave, Mr. Hamilton rose and walked to the side of the desk. “Deputy Alwyn said to thank you for your time, if he wasn’t back to do so himself.” He glanced toward the door. “So thank you. I’ll tidy up my sketches and hand them over to the deputy.”

Aunt Alma inserted her arm through the handle of her reticule.

“Tell him he’s welcome to contact us should he have any additional questions.”

The bartender sketch artist had just opened the door for them to leave when Deputy Alwyn practically skidded to a stop in front of them. His black hat lurched forward, and he scrambled to catch it before it hit the ground. If Vivian hadn’t been swift in her back step, he would have snagged her arm in the process.

When he’d righted himself, Deputy Alwyn pressed his hat to his leather vest and met Vivian’s gaze, his eyes as warm as the sunlight slanting in through the open doorway. “I was called away. Tried to make it back before you left.” A shy smile tipped his lips. “As you can see, I did. My apologies for the ham-fisted entrance.”

“Apology accepted.” He needed to quit looking at her as if she were something other than an irritating young woman and as if he were pleased to see her. He wouldn’t so much as share the same side of the street with her if he knew what she’d done. “We were just leaving.”

He worried the brim of his hat with his fingers, turning it in a circle. “Did Mr. Hamilton thank you for taking the time to—”

“He did.” She took a step toward the door.

He scrubbed the trim goatee that framed his chin. “Very well, then. I won’t keep you.”

“Thank you.” Vivian looked back at the shorter man. “Good day, Mr. Hamilton.”

Out on the boardwalk, Vivian’s thoughts raced to keep up with the rapid tapping of her heels. Carter Alwyn the lawman was unnervingly charming when he was eager. Hopefully, it was a one-time occurrence brought on by his dedication to solving a crime.

S
eated in the backseat of Miss Hattie’s surrey, Vivian admired the folks dressed in their Sunday best. From a young age, she had considered Sunday her favorite day of the week. A day of fashion, family, worship, and rest. Perhaps here, in a new place and in the company of her sisters, she could once again enjoy the experience. Even if God wouldn’t accept her, hearing the old, familiar songs lifted on her sisters’ voices might bring her the comfort she’d once enjoyed in God’s house.

She and Aunt Alma had spent the past three days touring the town with her sisters—Nell and Judson’s modest home for lunch, the icehouse and icebox showroom, the Sisters of Mercy hospital where Morgan worked as a doctor, the mine office where Judson worked as an accountant, the mercantile, the telegraph office, the Butte Opera House. A day of rest sounded wonderful.

Aunt Alma twisted on the front seat next to Miss Hattie, beaming a smile as bright as the sunshine lighting the white ostrich feather on her hat. “I’m over the moon to think of sitting in church with all my girls again.”

As if on cue, Miss Hattie pulled up on the reins, directing her mare to stop at a hitching rail across the street from the First Congregational
Church. The white steeple atop the brick building was first to draw Vivian’s attention, but then she caught sight of all three of her sisters waving from the steps. Yes, Sundays could easily be her favorite day again. At least it seemed possible from this side of the door.

By the time Vivian climbed down from the wagon, Judson had taken the reins from Miss Hattie and stood at the hitching rail. “Morning, sis.” Smiling, he wrapped the reins around the wooden post.

“Morning.”

Judson moved to the side of the wagon and extended his hand to her aunt. “Good day, Aunt Alma.” He was as charming as Nell purported him to be.

Her sisters had been lucky in love. While all three of her brothers-in-law were distinctly different, they all seemed like hard workers and attentive family men. She swallowed hard against the ache in her heart and smoothed her skirt.

Aunt Alma clutched her Bible in one hand and accepted Judson’s help with the other. Once her aunt’s feet touched the ground, Judson bowed and offered his help to Miss Hattie.

Her landlady patted his cheek in a motherly way, and then turned to Aunt Alma. “Are you sure you must leave tomorrow? ”

“I’m afraid so.” Aunt Alma sighed. “I have my store to think of.”

By the time they had crossed the road, Ida was down the steps and reaching for Vivian’s hand. “At long last, another Sunday together.”

Vivian squeezed her sister’s hand. “I just hope your husband is as good at preaching as you are at playing checkers.”

“That’s right,” Ida said. “I owe you a long overdue rematch.”

Vivian exaggerated her nod.

“You and I have the first game this afternoon. But first, we’d better go inside before my husband starts without us.”

Vivian stepped into hugs from Kat and Nell and then followed them into the warm foyer. A tall vase of lilacs stood on a mahogany table, an open Bible beside it. But for a few soft greetings, the building held a hushed reverence.

Judson opened the door into the sanctuary and, like a shepherd, ushered them all inside. At the back row, Kat lifted baby Hope from the arms of an elderly woman and led the way to an empty row near the front. Stained-glass windows lined the walls on either side. A rough-hewn cross stood at the back of the raised platform, where Morgan sat at a square grand piano.

Vivian followed Aunt Alma into the row with Nell at her heels and seated herself. On her way up the aisle, she’d gotten a good enough view of the congregation to see that Deputy Alwyn was nowhere in sight. She relaxed against the pew.

Carter had made a habit of arriving at the church early to pray with the reverend and the other elders before the Sunday morning service.

He’d been chatting with Tucker for about five minutes when his friend glanced at his office door. “I guess it’s just you and me praying this morning. You lead out and I’ll close.”

Carter nodded and bowed his head. He’d become a church elder a month ago, and his prayer was much the same every week. He prayed that God would bless his friend with a clear message, boldness in the delivery, and people with hearts to receive it. When he’d finished, he waited in the silence.

“Lord God, I’m in agreement, and I add my own request,”
Tucker prayed.
“I ask, Lord, that You would add grace and give strength to my friend here for the formidable task You’ve set before him. Please protect him in his calling.”

An added measure of humility suddenly poured into Carter. He had been praying for God to help him protect his town and to help him bring the outlaws to justice, but he hadn’t specifically sought God’s grace and strength in the doing.

“Lord God, it is our privilege to pray these things in the name of Your Son, Jesus the Christ. Amen.”

“Amen.” Carter opened his eyes and met his friend’s warm gaze. “Thank you.”

Tucker gave him a knowing nod and stood. “We best get in there before they start without us.”

Carter followed his friend up the center aisle as Morgan Cutshaw played the first bars of “It Is Well with My Soul.”

Before he reached his seat, Carter caught sight of an especially fashionable young woman in the middle of the third row on the right. When her eyes widened at the sight of him, he couldn’t help but smile.

Of course the deputy would attend this church.

Vivian shifted her gaze to the pulpit where her brother-in-law stood, welcoming his parishioners. Carter Alwyn and Tucker were good friends. She didn’t have a problem with that, or at least she shouldn’t.

Ida leaned toward her. “He’s an elder,” she whispered. “They pray together every Sunday before the service.”

Vivian nodded. It’d be a waste of breath to try to convince her sister she hadn’t been wondering about the deputy. Ida had apparently observed Vivian watching Carter walk up the aisle.

Vivian focused her gaze on Morgan’s piano prelude. Unfortunately, her mind wasn’t so easily redirected. She needed to be more careful in her attentions. Better yet, she needed to avoid giving any man undue notice. Even though she had no romantic intentions, those around her weren’t likely to let go of their fondness for matchmaking.

Tucker had just uttered the last word of the benediction when Deputy Alwyn stepped out into the aisle and walked toward Vivian and her family. A wide smile on his face, he greeted her first.

“Miss Sinclair, it was good to see you in the congregation this morning.”

“It was good to see you here … to be seen here.” Vivian looked away. Nell’s crooked grin told her she needed to do a better job of pretending the man wasn’t a distraction.