Too Rich for a Bride (29 page)

His hands shaking, Tucker left the gloves, the hand truck, and the last icebox where they lay and climbed up onto the wagon seat. The work to be done, even the cold air chilling his nose, didn’t matter. He carefully opened the envelope as if it were a treasured artifact. Pulling out the thin piece of stationery, Tucker drew in a deep breath before he began to read.

My dear brother,

Willow had actually written him a letter, called him brother. His heart raced.

I know what you did, Tucker.

His heart sank. Did she blame him? Was that why she couldn’t speak to him all these many months? Had she finally written only to tell him so? No, she’d called him
dear
brother.

I know you came every week. You brought me flowers and drawing pencils. You told me stories and sang me songs.

Tucker wiped the icy tears from his face. She knew, even if her attendant had been the one to tell her. Willow knew he’d been there. Knew he cared.

Even more than that, dear brother, you brought me your love even when I couldn’t give you anything in return.

Removing his hat, he lifted his face to sky. “Thank You for the strength to do that, Lord. Thank You.”

Tucker, I’m drawing again. And I’m counting the days until I can come see you in Colorado and I can sketch Pikes Peak.

Would he still be here by the time Willow could make the trip? He remembered Morgan’s statement the first time he’d gone to Sunday supper at Hattie’s.
“Don’t be too surprised when you discover you don’t want to leave Cripple Creek.”
Almost prophetic.

With an undying love,

Your Big Sis,

Willow Grace

“Thank You, Lord. Your mercy endures forever.”

“You’re praying out loud again.”

The angelic voice drew his attention to the woman standing beside the wagon. Ida had been avoiding him. Why was she here? The icehouse was below the depot, not on the way to anywhere. She’d apparently come specifically to speak to him.

That realization sped his pulse as he looked into her royal blue eyes and hoped her reason was more personal than Hattie having a question about her new icebox or needing another block of ice; more personal than delivering a message for his stockbroker, Mr. Miller. More than anything else, though, he hoped she hadn’t come to talk about Colin Wagner. It wasn’t his place to discuss the man with her.

Unless she asked.

Ida glanced at the envelope. “More good news about Willow?”

“It’s a letter from her, in her own handwriting.”

“That’s wonderful!” Ida’s smile could’ve brightened the darkest night.

“Thank you.” Tucker slid the letter into the envelope and put it in his coat pocket. He extended his hand to her, an invitation to join him.

After looking both ways, apparently satisfied no one else was watching, she placed a shiny patent leather–clad foot on the metal step above the wheel and accepted his help onto the seat beside him.

She twisted her gloved hands into a knot on her lap. “I’m on my lunch break, and I don’t have much time.” She pulled a pendant watch from her reticule and glanced at it. “It took me too long to decide to come talk to you.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“But I have only a few minutes left.”

“May I drive you back to the office? We could talk on the way.”

“I’d like that.”

“I’ll close up the wagon, and we’ll go.”

At the back of the wagon, Tucker retrieved his work gloves from the ground. He pushed the icebox to the corner, set the hand truck inside, and latched the tailgate closed. His hands shaking, he untied the reins from the hitching rail. He’d grown up in a house with females, but his mom and sister had never made his heart race or his hands shake.

Ida was watching him when he climbed onto the seat beside her, wishing he could read the look in her eyes. It didn’t matter—hope took flight inside him anyway as he clicked his tongue and flicked the reins. Having her at his side felt right, even if it only lasted until they arrived at Mollie O’Bryan’s Stenography Firm.

“I’m glad you stopped by the icehouse.” He was repeating himself.

“I wanted to ask you a question.”

He looked over at her and suddenly wished they were walking hand in hand instead of bouncing across Carbonate Street in a squawking wagon. “Anything.”

“You’re a preacher”—she glanced at the ice tongs at her feet—“and a businessman.”

He nodded, without a clue where she was heading with such a statement.

“Judson doesn’t approve of my working for Mollie O’Bryan. Kat’s not excited about it either. Even Hattie expressed some concerns about the woman before my interview. People on the street shun us. Even a few folks at the church give me disparaging looks.” Ida folded her hands in her lap and looked him in the eye. “So tell me, do you think it’s wrong for women to be in business?”

Not exactly the topic he’d hoped to discuss with her, especially given her reaction to his business-related question at the bench. He’d need to proceed with caution.
Help me, Lord
.

Tucker guided the team around the corner and onto Bennett Avenue, pulling the reins to slow the horses. “Fundamentally, no.”

Her lips pursed, Ida raised a thin eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“It means I believe, based upon my study of Scripture, that it isn’t the work or the money we earn that matters to God. It’s the place our ambitions hold in our hearts and in our passions in relation to Jesus Christ.” Tucker looked ahead through town, wishing there were more blocks between Fifth and First streets.

“So as a man of the Holy Word”—she watched him closely as if trying to see into his soul—“you don’t think I’m doing anything wrong working in the world of business.”

“Not in principle, no.” He held her gaze. “Many stories in the Bible show God includes both the poor and the rich in His divine purposes.”

“And what about women who pursue financial success and find it?”

“Are we talking about women in general? About Mollie O’Bryan? Or about you?”

Ida looked down at her gloved hands then back up at him. “What do you think of
me
making my own money?”

Tucker drew in a long, deep breath, taking time to gather his thoughts. Not an easy thing to do with her undivided attention fixed on him. “Have you read Lydia’s story in the book of Acts? She was a seller of purple cloth—a successful businesswoman. A woman Paul found praying at the river with a group of women. She was a woman who followed Jesus.” The wagon passed Third Street, and Tucker hoped he’d have enough time to bring this discussion to a satisfying conclusion.

“So God doesn’t mind that I work in business and make money if I put Him first.”

Tucker nodded. Had he said all that?

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Tucker brought the wagon to a stop in front of the brick office building that housed Ida’s office. He hopped down and hurried to her side of the wagon to offer her a helping hand. Once he let go of her hand, which he was reluctant to do, she hurried to the office door, then turned and waved.

“Good day, Tucker.” She’d used his given name. “And thank you for the Sunday school lesson.”

“Any time, Ida.” Smiling, he watched her disappear into the office. Yes, without a doubt, God’s ways were higher than his ways. His thoughts were most certainly higher too.

He could rest in God’s ways, even where the mesmerizing Miss Ida Sinclair was concerned.

THIRTY-TWO

he chalk in Mr. Miller’s hand moved across the board especially fast today. Wednesday mornings at the stock exchange weren’t normally this busy, but then, Ida hadn’t had enough experience to rightly judge the ebb and flow. For all she knew, an escalation of buying and selling was a common occurrence the week of Christmas. Or perhaps this being the last trading week of the year spurred the frenzied activity. Mollie had gone to a meeting in Colin Wagner’s office, so she wasn’t there for Ida to ask. Whatever the cause, an unusually high number of arms reached for the ceiling and an added dissonance of shouts rang out.

“Miss Sinclair.”

Ida recognized the gravelly voice. Picturing a short Ebenezer Scrooge with sleeves too long for his arms, Ida turned to face the smaller-than-life banker. “Mr. Updike.”

Clearing his throat, he looked down at his feet and then up in her general direction. “Miss Dunsmuir said you were the one who helped my boy Delos with his multiplication tables.”

“I was.” He would no doubt have plenty to say about his boy not needing tutoring from the likes of
her
. Ida held her breath, anticipating the worst.

“Yes, well, thank you.”

She released her breath. “You’re welcome. I’m glad I—”

“Don’t get me wrong, Miss Sinclair.” He crossed his arms. “I still don’t believe you or Mollie O’Bryan belongs here.” He glanced around the room full of men.

“Good day, Mr. Updike.” She’d spoken as softly as she could. The exact Scripture reference escaped her memory, but thanks to all the time spent gathered around the family Bible, the gist of the passage had not.
A soft answer turneth away wrath
.

Now if only she could remember that on a regular basis.

Ida headed for the one empty chair in the back row and watched an old miner walk toward her. She’d seen him here at least twice a week, sporting his usual attire—worn overalls and an equally worn canvas hat. Boney Hughes obviously wasn’t intimidated or influenced by the dandies in the room.

“Hello, little lady,” he said.

“Hello, Mr. Boney.” She smiled, remembering looking up from the mud at his mule’s snout.

“I’ve been watching you and Miss Mollie.” He smoothed a leathery hand over his long beard. “You two ladies seem to have a special sense when it comes to buying and selling stocks.”

“No, Mr. Boney, we just have a good job and attentive ears.”

He chuckled, revealing more gaps in his teeth than a bow saw. “Well, maybe you’ll find a ripe opportunity on the board today.”

“I hope so. I do have my eye on some mine stock.” According to the preliminary assay report she’d heard about, she could be buying her dream house before the end of the year.

“I’ll let you get to it.” Boney waved his hat at her and turned toward his corner at the back of the room.

Ida watched him go. He was a bit crusty, but fascinating.

Though not nearly as fascinating as the preaching ice man who studied Bible stories about successful women.

Tucker stepped out of the post office, studying the familiar handwriting on the envelope he carried. Another letter from Willow, only this time the envelope wasn’t addressed to him.

Mr. and Mrs. William Raines

Not wanting to think about what that meant, he slid the envelope into his coat pocket and climbed up into the wagon beside his business partner.

Otis shifted on the seat and eyed him with his crooked brow raised. “You’re not gonna read it?”

“It’s not addressed to me.”