Why he cared what she thought remained a mystery. They scarcely knew each other, after all. Still, from the moment of their first encounter, he’d locked those beautiful blue eyes into his memory.
“Stop it, man. Don’t be thinking about a woman. You’ll be back in Chicago before long and there are plenty of sensible—or not-so-sensible—women there to fill your thoughts.”
Indeed, as soon as the gambling hall began to go up—he’d decided to call it The Lucky Penny—Mick would search out the perfect candidate to run the place in his stead, someone from his neck of the woods, most likely. If he selected a local for the job, the community would surely turn on the poor fellow; the whole thing might even end in bloodshed. No, he couldn’t risk that. Wouldn’t be good for business. It would have to be someone his investors approved of—someone with a head for numbers, a heart for turning a profit and big-city experience.
Shouts rang out and Mick turned his attention to the street below. Several of the railroad men had gathered there, instigating yet another fight. These Texans were certainly boisterous, and a sure sight more complicated than he’d figured. Prideful, to be sure. And standoffish. Maybe it had something to do with all the dust they swallowed as the trains barreled by. Clogged up their throats. Regardless, many of them had already voiced an opinion by refusing to do business with him. Pure stubbornness.
And then there was the issue with the property. According to the land agent, the owner—a man from the Houston area—was holding out for more money. Mick would pay it after all, just to get the game under way, though he hated to give in to such tactics.
He sighed as he thought about the situation. Really, what did it matter, when all was said and done? The payoff would be worth it. And he needed to get started on the building as soon as possible.
“Soon, fellas.” He watched the brawling men as the quiet words slipped from his lips. “Soon you will have much more to do than duke it out in the streets. Soon you will be sitting at The Lucky Penny dropping all your hard-earned money into my lap.”
If everything went as planned, the new building would be up before summer’s end.
Mick used his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Troubling thoughts continued to plague him as he climbed into bed. He ached to shut the window, to drown out the whoops and hollers from below. Mick knew that many of the sounds came from The Golden Spike, just a few doors down, and that knowledge only added to his aggravation. Unfortunately, the heat simply wouldn’t allow him to reclose the window. He shoved the pillow over his head in an attempt to silence the ever-present shouts and laughter of the men.
Out of the darkness, a shot rang out. Mick sprang out of the bed and raced toward the window, his heart pounding. With great relief, he saw that the sheriff had fired the shot into the air to send the men on their way. They scattered with little trouble, drifting off to the various hotels and boardinghouses.
Mick fell into bed a second time in a more hopeful state. Surely these Texans would eventually thank him for coming. Once The Lucky Penny opened, offering them more gambling opportunities, better liquor and a classier decor with a real stage for entertainment, Mike felt confident he’d be Spring Creek’s new hero, if they’d just give him half a chance.
Chapter Eight
The shrill whistle of the morning train from Galveston roused Ida from her groggy state. The grinding of brakes, the piercing squeal of metal against metal, the rhythmic clacking of wheels against lines of track—these familiar sounds at daybreak merged with the shouts of the railroad men as the cars inched their way by. Why must we live so close to the switchyard?
Papa had built the lumber mill years before the track was laid. But then the railroad had come through and taken over the town—in a hundred different ways.
Ida stretched for a moment and allowed her eyes to become accustomed to the sunlight peeking through the lace curtains. She propped up her pillows and sat up in the bed. Then Ida reached for the worn Bible on the bedside table, one of her most precious possessions, and ran her finger across her mother’s name inside.
“Oh, Mama, I wish you were here.” She missed their morning prayers together and her mother’s nightly readings from the worn book.
Ida leaned against the pillows and opened the Bible to the book of Esther, where she read, for the hundredth time, the story of the young queen approaching the king’s throne with fear and trembling.
Ida closed her eyes, deep in thought. Every time she pictured Esther approaching the throne, she couldn’t help but envision herself doing the same thing.
Oh, but what would it be like, to come into the king’s chambers uninvited? To approach without invitation? And yet, Esther braved the journey, taking one courageous step after the other, and all because of God’s calling—for such a time as this.
One step at a time, Ida saw herself inching toward the Savior’s outstretched arms.
Come to me, child. Don’t be afraid.
At some point along the way, fear gripped her heart and her eyes flew open.
“I am afraid,” she whispered as she clutched the Bible to her chest, tears springing to her eyes. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to do what You have called me to do. Or that I will somehow do it incorrectly. And I’m afraid—” she paused, startled by her thoughts “—that Papa will die someday, too, and I’ll truly be alone.”
She began to cry in earnest now. Where did this fear come from? Just because she’d lost her mother didn’t mean Papa would soon follow.
She wiped her tears from her face. No, she wouldn’t give herself over to mourning and fear—not right now, anyway. Ida needed to be strong for her people. Esther wouldn’t have given in to fear, would she? No, Esther was a woman of great strength, and Ida would be, too, regardless of the cost. She would meet with Reverend Langford today, as scheduled, and he would help her take a stand for the people of Spring Creek.
A rap at the door startled Ida back to her senses.
“Ida, are you all right? It’s time to wash up and get started on breakfast.” Her father’s reassuring voice brought comfort. The sun now streamed in the window as reality set in. I’m late.
“I’ll be there in a moment, Papa.” She quickly got up and went to the washbasin to scrub the anxiety from her face. Her father would know. He always seemed to, though he rarely questioned her moods anymore. If anything, he simply left her to her ponderings and watched her out of the corner of his eye.
Ida scrambled into her dress and pulled her hair up into a messy knot on the top of her head. Another quick glance in the mirror gave her an opportunity to rehearse a smile, one she hoped to use on Papa as soon as they met in the kitchen. She knew he would be seated at the small table in the corner of the room, waiting for his coffee, ready to talk about what the day ahead held for them both. Hopeful and happy, as always. If only she had inherited that tendency.
She scurried down the stairs and into the spacious kitchen. True to form, Papa sat, spectacles perched on the tip of his nose, reading his Bible.
She forced the smile. “Morning, Papa.”
Ida kissed him on his forehead and he reached to squeeze her hand. “Child, you’re troubled this morning.”
She tied an apron around her waist. “I’m fine. Truly.”
“Humph.” His eyes narrowed. “I’ve never known you to be dishonest, daughter.”
Ida focused on the coffee, hoping to avoid his penetrating gaze. For some reason, she couldn’t utter a word. Not over the lump in her throat, anyway.
He pushed his spectacles up. “Why not share what’s in your heart? Don’t you think it would make you feel better, after all?”
“I will, Papa,” she assured him. She brushed tears from her eyes before facing him. “As soon as I’m ready.”
With biscuits to knead, eggs to scramble and thick slices of ham to fry, she managed to avoid more conversation with her father. Thankfully.
At six forty-five sharp, a rap on the back door signaled the inevitable. Papa welcomed in ten
hungry workmen. Their clothes, dingy and ragged, still carried the odors of a thousand yesterdays. How many times had she asked if she could launder their shirts and underclothes? Their pride appeared to be stronger than their noses, no question about that. And on this morning, she thanked the Lord for the smell of the food, which—at least temporarily—masked the stench of sweat and sawdust.
The men stampeded in, tramping mud all over her once-clean kitchen floor. One by one they pulled off their hats, revealing hair in want of trimming. Why couldn’t they take better care of themselves? Bathe once in a while? They could all take a lesson from Mick Bradley.
No. She would not think about him today. Pray for him, yes. Think about him, no.
“You’ve no manners a’tall,” Ida scolded as the men guffawed and slapped one another on the back, paying no attention to her words. Nothing new there.
One of the fellows reached toward the platter of ham steaks on the countertop and snatched a loose piece with his fingertips. Ida slapped his hand. “Enough of that. Now get to the table, all of you. You’ll be serving yourselves, today Plates are on the buffet, silverware and napkins in the drawer beneath.” After giving instructions, Ida poured steaming cups of coffee for all, then retreated to the far side of the room as they bowed their heads for the morning blessing.
“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” she explained afterward as they stared at her in confusion. Her father cast a curious glance from across the table and she offered up a weak smile. In truth, she simply needed to be alone with her thoughts. And the heat in this room, especially with so many pressed together, proved more than she could bear.
Ida went to work at once on the pots and pans. Her mind drifted to the man who so often captivated her thoughts of late. He’d surely made his presence known. At the mercantile. In the streets. And everywhere she turned.
The more she learned about Mick Bradley’s shameful plans, the more she distrusted him. And the more she distrusted him, the stronger was her resolve to see him gone. Or to make him see the error of his ways.
To Ida’s way of thinking, a man like Mick Bradley would be a tough sell to the Almighty. Pressing him through the pearly gates would take a bit more than Southern hospitality. It would truly take a miracle. Of course, the Lord was in the miracle-working business, but Ida still found it difficult to imagine.
She made up her mind to drop in on a few of the shopkeepers and encourage them to refuse his business. Of course, kindhearted Dinah would probably flinch at that idea. She tended to mix her faith with kindness, perhaps too much so.
I’m not unkind—just firm.
For a moment Ida reflected on the stubbornness she’d seen etched in Mick Bradley’s handsome face. Ironically, it mirrored her own.
Regardless, she would teach him a thing or two about how to do business in Texas.
Mick breathed a sigh of relief as he left the land agent’s office, the deal squared away once and for all. Now to begin the arduous task of clearing the land and purchasing lumber. He’d heard rumors about a lumber mill nearby. Surely that would be just the place to acquire all the pine he’d need.
Minutes later, as Mick neared the mill, a two-story house came into view. White with green shutters. Well maintained. Must be the lumber-mill owner’s home. Should he knock on the door to inquire about purchasing lumber, or head around back to the mill?
Then, just as he drew near, the front door to the house swung open, and Ida Mueller appeared on the front porch with a bonnet in her hands. She scurried to close the door. In a hurry, as always.
He stood just yards away from her, close enough for his heart to nearly stop beating altogether. What was it about this woman? Why did he lose the ability to think clearly at the very sight of her?
“Miss Mueller.” He removed his hat and flashed a smile, hoping she would return the gesture. When she did not, he popped the hat back into place and weighed his options. Common sense finally won out. He was here to do business, after all. “I’ve come to purchase some lumber.”
“Oh?” She crossed her arms and gave him a curious look. From up there on the porch, her stern stance gave the illusion of height, though he calculated she couldn’t be much more than five feet tall, at best. Still, her presence filled the porch.
“Yes,” he replied. “Who would I speak to about that?”
“You would want my father.” She nodded toward the mill. “Though I can’t imagine he will be selling you lumber today or any other day.”
“Oh?” His smile faded. “And why is that?”
“Mr. Bradley, in case you haven’t noticed, we’re not keen on a gambling hall going up in town—we’ve got enough trouble with the saloons as it is. It’s not likely my papa will lend his support to you or your establishment in any form or fashion.”
The truth, at last. The reason for the coldness in her stare, the stiffness in her stance.
“But your father is a businessman. Surely he will see past any bias his daughter might have to sell me the lumber I need.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.” Her blue eyes flashed with determination. “Though you are welcome to ask him yourself, of course. I was just headed into town for the afternoon to work at a reputable place of business.”
The corners of his mouth turned up in amusement. “So you’ve taken on a job as barmaid at one of the saloons?”
Ida’s hands went straight to her hips. “How dare you suggest such a thing? You take that back,” she said angrily.
Disappointment washed over him—she’d found no humor in his joke. He wished he could indeed take his words back, but there was little he could do to remedy the situation now. “I’m sorry, Miss Mueller. I spoke in jest.”
“There was nothing funny in what you said. Nothing at all.”
“Again, I apologize.” After a brief, awkward pause, he offered, “If you will wait until I’m done, I will escort you back to town.”
Ida shook her head, slipping the bonnet over her blond curls and tying it at her chin. “That will not be necessary. I make the walk every day on my own, thank you kindly.”
“But I’ve seen how the men jeer at you.” He gave her what he hoped would be a fatherly look. “An escort would prevent that from happening, I assure you. Please wait for me.”
Ida shook her head once more. “I would rather risk the jeers of a hundred railroad men than have a gambling-hall owner walk alongside me. And that is my final say on the matter.” She marched down the steps with her chin jutted forward.
Mick stepped out of her way, realizing she would not be stopped. He followed her with his gaze until she made it to the street. Did she really consider him to be a bigger threat than the fellows who whooped and hollered as she walked by? Did she not recognize a true gentleman when she saw one?
Mick made his way around the house to the mill. Whether or not Ida’s father would sell him the necessary lumber remained to be seen, but Mick wouldn’t give up. No, he would proceed with his plans. And no one—not even feisty and determined Ida Mueller—would stop him.
Chapter Nine
After a particularly long day, Ida arrived home to find Papa dressed in his Sunday best. She looked at him with curiosity as he straightened his tie, and asked the obvious question. “Going somewhere?”
“Into town for supper.” He turned to her with a mischievous grin.
“But I’m planning to cook bratwurst. That’s your favorite,” she argued.
“It’s pot roast and potatoes night down at The Harvey House,” he said. “And Myrtle Mae has invited us to come for dinner.”
“Myrtle Mae Jennings?”
Ida saw her father’s thick mustache twitch a bit. That always meant a smile hid underneath.
“Papa?”
“What, Ida? Can’t a man eat pot roast without a hundred questions from his daughter?” he asked, eyes twinkling.
“You can eat anything you like,” she responded, “but I suspect there is more to this story than meets the eye. Am I right?”
/> After clearing his throat, he offered up a vague answer. “Myrtle Mae is a fine woman.” He glanced in the mirror to check his tie. “And a mighty fine cook.”
“So am I,” Ida said, hands on her hips.
Her father reached over and gave her a light peck on the cheek. “Yes, but we never know what the future holds.”
“What are you saying?” She stared at him in disbelief. “Are you telling me I’m being traded in for someone who knows nothing about cooking German fare?” Her papa cut potential arguments short with a shake of his head.
“Daughter, I’m not trading you in or asking you to give up cooking. Trust me when I say I would never do that. I’m just in the mood for pot roast and potatoes, that’s all.”
“Sure you are.”
“Now don’t make more of this than need be. Come along and be a good girl now. Let your papa escort you to town for a nice dinner.”
Her father headed toward the door, gesturing for her to follow. However, Ida stood with her feet planted firmly. Surely he must be joking. Why had he set his sights on Myrtle Mae Jennings, of all people? Everyone in town knew she was a busybody and, well, a chatterbox. Such a thing could hardly be tolerated in a woman.
On the other hand, perhaps Ida shouldn’t judge too harshly. Dinah had flat-out accused her of gossiping recently, with regard to Mick Bradley. But that was different, of course.
“Come, Ida. We are to arrive at six-thirty,” her father said impatiently.
“But, Papa—”
“Come.” He opened the door and extended his hand. She glanced in the mirror. “Can’t I even have a minute to freshen up?”
“One minute.” He gave her a wink. “I’ll be on the porch swing, dreaming about that fine meal we’re going to have.”