Too Rich for a Bride (11 page)

Ducks?

“It’s something my mama would say.” Miss Hattie glanced at the ceiling as if she might glimpse heaven there. “It meant I needed to leave room for God to work out His own plans.”

“I see.” Ida chose to keep her own adage to herself—
God helps those who help themselves
. She hadn’t talked to God more than once a day, if that often, since her mother died. Had never really conversed with Him the way her mother had. But they’d read the book of Proverbs often enough in their family Bible readings for her to know that God didn’t favor sluggards.

Miss Hattie glanced at the mantel clock. “You best be on your way, dear.” She walked with Ida to the front door and opened it.

Ida looped the handle of her reticule over her left arm and stepped outside. Though she didn’t see a cloud in the sky, she knew last night’s pounding rain had replaced the dust on the roads with a mud thicker than porridge.

Hattie waved at her from the front porch. “I’ll be praying for you, dear.”

Ida returned the woman’s wave and smiled.
“I’ll be praying for you, dear.”
Something her mother would’ve said.

At the corner, Ida turned down Third Street. She dodged a puddle and hoped her landlady prayed she’d find a way to avoid the mud and keep herself clean. At the bottom of the hill, she turned west on Bennett Avenue. Yesterday on their walking tour, Nell had pointed out Miss O’Bryan’s stenography firm, near the corner of First Street and Bennett Avenue.

Outside the narrow brick building, Ida pulled her mother’s pendant watch from her reticule and checked the time again. Miss O’Bryan’s wire stated a three o’clock appointment, and being anything but early wasn’t in Ida’s nature. She pulled the door open and stepped inside at ten minutes before three.

The room was well-appointed, though devoid of people. Three burgundy armchairs sat empty at one side of the door. Two oak desks filled the center of the office while matching bookcases stood against the wall.

Muffled voices drew Ida’s attention to a closed door at the back of the room. She read the brass nameplate: Mollie O’Bryan. While she couldn’t hear what was being said, she did distinguish two voices—a woman’s and a man’s. Miss O’Bryan must have been with a client.

Ida admired the framed oil painting that hung over the armchairs and then sat down.

“You don’t think I’m smart enough to smell a rat?” The woman had apparently abandoned the notion of using hushed tones.

“I’m only telling you what I heard.” The man’s voice was steady and calm but loud enough to be audible from Ida’s position near the front door. “You don’t want to get tangled up in anything—”

“And just what would you have me do about such hearsay?”

Ida glanced toward the door. Perhaps she should wait outside. She didn’t need any strikes against her, and she doubted eavesdropping, unintentional or not, would sit well with Miss O’Bryan.

“It’s more than mere speculation, Mollie. He’s being investigated for embezzlement.”

“He’s a paying client who has already retained my services.” She paused. “Besides, you know that investigation isn’t conviction.”

“Give the money back. You can’t afford—”

“Right now I can’t afford to listen to you. This is a mining town. If I judged everyone’s moral character before serving them, I’d have no business.”

Ida rose from the chair. She shouldn’t be hearing this. But before she could step outside, the side door was flung open and she let out an audible gasp, like the one that had escaped her at the depot. A flawed tendency. She wasn’t being coddled by the comforts of Maine anymore, and it was time she learn to expect the unexpected. Especially since the unexpected seemed the standard here in Colorado.

The woman charging out of the office wore her auburn hair back in a tight chignon. However, it wasn’t the woman who captured Ida’s attention but the man standing in the doorway with a coat draped over his arm: Colin Wagner, her hero from the train.

Ida took slow steps toward the woman, who looked about her age—maybe a year or two older than her nearly twenty-two years. “Ma’am—”

“Miss Sinclair.” The gentleman’s warm smile did nothing to take the chill out of the scowl shadowing Miss O’Bryan’s face.

Ida gave him a tight nod. “Mr. Wagner.”

He smiled, then returned his attention to Miss O’Bryan. “Mollie, this is Miss Ida Sinclair.”

She’d intruded. At the very least, she’d caught her potential employer in a foul mood. “If this isn’t a good time, ma’am, I can come back later.”

“Call me Miss O’Bryan.” Miss O’Bryan’s features softened as she regarded Mr. Wagner with a sideways glance. “We have Mr. Wagner to thank for my lack of readiness for your arrival.”

“I didn’t mind waiting.” Ida would have gone on doing so if it would have spared her this unpleasantness.

“Colin here”—the woman waved his general direction—“is my legal counsel.”

He shrugged into his tweed coat. “And her friend.”

“Yes, well, be that as it may, friendship hardly gives you the right to tell me who I should accept as a client and who I shouldn’t.”

Ida studied the royal blue Persian rug under her feet, wishing she could disappear beneath it.

“I merely shared information that could help you make an informed decision in regard to a questionable liaison. My obligation as your counsel and even more so as your friend.”

Miss O’Bryan’s grin helped to dispel the darkness from her face. “Your song and dance could help any politician win an election. Nonetheless, I appreciate your concern.” She straightened and her grin disappeared. “But the buck stops here, and I choose to take his bucks. Gladly.”

“Just watch yourself with him. I’d hate to see you taken advantage of.” Mr. Wagner turned his warm smile toward Ida and brushed the edge of his bowler. “Best of luck to you, Miss Sinclair.”

“Thank you.”

Miss O’Bryan waved, shooing Mr. Wagner away, and then spun toward her office. Ida followed her. The woman pointed her to a chair in front of her desk and closed the door behind them.

Ida had barely set her reticule on the rug at her feet and sunk into the cushioned armchair when Miss O’Bryan leaned back against the front of her desk. “So, Miss Sinclair, why do you want to work for me?”

Ida swallowed hard against the suffocating space between them. “You’re a successful businesswoman.”

“And you want to be one.”

Ida straightened, clasping her fingers in her lap. “Yes, ma’am, I do.” She needed this job, and apparently, she had to prove herself worthy of this woman’s mentorship. “Miss O’Bryan, you have a reputation as a business tycoon. You are highly successful in many aspects of enterprise and commerce. I am a capable secretary and assistant with varied office skills. You’ve seen my resume. You have the letter of recommendation from the director of the school of business.”

Pausing for a breath, Ida held the woman’s gaze, focusing on the sparkle in her green eyes rather than on her raised brow. “What you don’t know is that I am just as set on success as you are, and I won’t be thwarted by self-important men who think they know anything and everything better than we do.” Ida scooted to the edge of the chair. “I want to work for you because I think you and I could make a good team.”

Mollie strolled around her desk and sat in the plush high-back chair. She pulled a folder from a file drawer and slapped it down in front of her. “That, Ida Sinclair, is exactly what I wanted to hear. You’re hired.”

Ida blew out a breath. “Thank you, Miss O’Bryan. I promise to make the most of this opportunity.” She’d fretted over a review of office procedures and protocols for an interview that consisted of a couple of rhetorical questions and her passionate response?

“For now, you and I are it.” Mollie glanced at her diamond-studded wristwatch. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to leave for an appointment with
what Mr. Colin Wagner would call a questionable client.” Shaking her head, she pulled a ledger from the top drawer and stood. “You’ll start tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock sharp. Work until half past five with a thirty-minute break somewhere in the middle.”

Ida rose from her chair and followed her new employer out both doors and into bright sunlight.

“Until tomorrow.” Mollie set off at a brisk pace.

Ida didn’t bother to stifle her giggle. Figuring out why Miss Mollie O’Bryan might have trouble maintaining an office staff required no stretch of the imagination.

Fortunately for Ida, she wasn’t timid. She’d been surprised by the woman’s candor, but she could work with it. Truth be known, she found Miss O’Bryan’s frankness rather refreshing. She’d learn a lot from her and she wouldn’t have to waste a moment wondering what was on her employer’s mind.

Neither would anyone else within earshot.

TEN

ucker shifted in the small armchair and realized he had no trouble imagining how a horse might feel being stuffed into a teacup. He’d tried to anticipate the banker’s questions and concerns and was prepared to address them.

His mother had managed to pry the financial ledger from his father’s hands just two days before they left for Colorado Springs. At her insistence, his father agreed to trust Tucker with all of their “business dealings,” which turned out to be a thinly disguised wording for “debts.” If he’d known then what he knew now, Tucker wouldn’t have accepted the book.

At least that was what he told himself.

Until his stop at the post office this afternoon to mail his letter to Willow, he hadn’t known his father was behind on the payments for his sister’s care. When Tucker opened the envelope from the asylum, he expected a progress report, hoping for good news. Instead, he’d received a statement and an ultimatum demanding payment for the past three months. He needed to start turning a profit—and soon.

He and Otis had spent most of Monday afternoon talking about the requirements for expanding the business. He’d added a list to the ledger, along with the estimated costs.

This has to work
.

Mr. Updike settled into the leather chair on the business side of the mahogany desk. He lifted a folder from the top of a tall stack to his left. The sleeves on his herringbone suit jacket had obviously been tailored for someone with longer arms and a taller torso. When he set the closed file down in front of him, only his fleshy fingers extended beyond the cuffs. He gazed up at Tucker over the top of wire-rimmed spectacles “Mr. Raines, correct?”

“Yes sir.” Tucker set his father’s ledger on the edge of the desk. “I am Tucker Raines. Again, thank you for adding me to your afternoon schedule today.”

“You’re new here in Cripple Creek.”

It wasn’t a question. Tucker saw the rest of the statement etched in the little man’s beady eyes.
I didn’t know Will Raines had a son
.

“I arrived in town last week, sir. I’m helping my father with the family business. The Raines Ice Company.”

Updike nodded. “Why are you here, Mr. Raines?”

“My father is ill. I’ll be running the business for him, and I want to expand it.”

His revelation of sickness in the family hadn’t changed the man’s expression in the least.

“Better you running the company than that ugly”—Updike regarded Tucker with a squinted stare and spit the next word—“Negro he had working for him.”

Tucker swallowed his ire, but not very deeply. Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on the desk. “Otis Bernard is a fine man and still works for us.”

Mr. Updike’s lips thinned, and he flipped the folder open. Had the fact that he didn’t share the man’s prejudice cost Tucker the loan? Cost his father his home?

“With the exponential growth here in Cripple Creek and the surrounding communities, I anticipate greater and greater need for iceboxes and ice deliveries,” Tucker said.

Pushing his spectacles up, Updike peered at a page in the folder.

Tucker opened the ledger and pulled out his estimate of growth and his list of needs and expenses. “I brought a list of items that would help us better serve the community’s needs. An icehouse and more wagons, more horses, and more men would produce more regular customers. I’ve prepared an itemized list of our needs and the estimated cost to fulfill them.”