around the edges for some, but her landlady didn’t seem bothered by that in the least. Neither did Mr. Boney seem put off by Miss Hattie’s refinement. Perhaps the charming miner just needed a little push.
Willow, her steps lighter, fairly waltzed into the parlor. At the sight of her, Mr. Boney set his coffee mug on the hearth and stood.
“Willow. I thought I recognized your voice.”
Had he heard their conversation?
“Hello, Mr. Boney.” Willow shook his hand and met his gaze. “Did Miss Hattie have another problem with the sink?”
“No ma’am. I think I fixed it to last a good while.”
But he was here in the evening, and no less close-lipped about his visits than Hattie was.
“Miss Hattie went to pour me a cup of tea. She said she’d return to you soon.”
He didn’t so much as blink.
“She’s a good woman, our Miss Hattie,” Willow said.
“Indeed she is, and a mighty fine cook.”
He only visited Hattie because of her cooking and baked goods? Willow seated herself in the Queen Anne chair. She doubted Hattie’s cooking was the only draw for this man. Her stuffed pork chops and carrot cake were delicious, but …
“Hattie tells me you’re selling iceboxes while Ida, uh, recuperates,” Boney said.
“Yes. But I’m afraid I’m not as good at bookwork as she is. I hope she’s not sorry she left me in charge.” And that she returned to work soon, preferably before Mr. Van Der Veer began sending her painting jobs.
Boney sat back down on the hearth. “I’m sure you’re doing fine.” He picked up his mug and swirled the coffee. “Hattie’s glad to have you back here at the house. The company is good for her.”
Well, at least they agreed on one thing—Miss Hattie needed company. Now if she could only make him understand Miss Hattie needed more than boarders, or even female friends, to keep her company.
Miss Hattie strolled in carrying a tea tray. Boney took it from her and set it on the table in front of Willow.
Hattie smiled. “Thank you, kind sir.”
“You’re most welcome, lovely lady.” Boney held his snowy beard to his chest and bowed.
About to choke on their sap, Willow pressed her hand to her mouth. The display had been for her benefit. These two were having far too much fun teasing her.
Hattie laughed, then met Willow’s gaze. “Boney and I are good friends. We have been for a very long while.” She glanced at the miner. “Perhaps we’ll tell the story sometime.”
Willow stirred a spoonful of honey into her teacup. “A story I’d enjoy hearing.”
“Me too.” Boney chuckled. “Right now, however, I best be on my way.” He kissed Hattie’s hand with royal flair. “I doubt it’s proper for a man to call on such a pretty girl this time of night.”
Hattie giggled and fanned herself like a giddy schoolgirl.
Willow shook her head. Perhaps there was no matchmaking to be done here. Those two were already a pair.
S inging the last bars of “The Sidewalks of New York,” Susanna set the stack of extra dressing gowns and petticoats into the trunk at the foot of her bed. She lowered the front of the writing desk and stared at the wooden box at the back. Her grandmother had carved the image of a phoenix on the lid. She was that bird, and she would rise from her ashes in Scandia, Kansas, and make her perch in Colorado. In Cripple Creek, to be precise. Until Trenton was ready to marry her and take her to New York.
She carried the box to the bed and sifted through the stack of photographs inside it, all of them images of her. Just days after Trenton had arrived in town with his photographic van, he’d followed her around with his camera. Pictures of her at the confectionary shop wearing her father’s crisp white candy-maker’s hat. Standing in front of a flowering crab-apple tree. Dressed for dinner, seated on the settee in her parents’ parlor.
If she hadn’t been so shortsighted, she’d already be singing for the upper tens in New York’s high
Willow, her steps lighter, fairly waltzed into the parlor. At the sight of her, Mr. Boney set his coffee mug on the hearth and stood.
“Willow. I thought I recognized your voice.”
Had he heard their conversation?
“Hello, Mr. Boney.” Willow shook his hand and met his gaze. “Did Miss Hattie have another problem with the sink?”
“No ma’am. I think I fixed it to last a good while.”
But he was here in the evening, and no less close-lipped about his visits than Hattie was.
“Miss Hattie went to pour me a cup of tea. She said she’d return to you soon.”
He didn’t so much as blink.
“She’s a good woman, our Miss Hattie,” Willow said.
“Indeed she is, and a mighty fine cook.”
He only visited Hattie because of her cooking and baked goods? Willow seated herself in the Queen Anne chair. She doubted Hattie’s cooking was the only draw for this man. Her stuffed pork chops and carrot cake were delicious, but …
“Hattie tells me you’re selling iceboxes while Ida, uh, recuperates,” Boney said.
“Yes. But I’m afraid I’m not as good at bookwork as she is. I hope she’s not sorry she left me in charge.” And that she returned to work soon, preferably before Mr. Van Der Veer began sending her painting jobs.
Boney sat back down on the hearth. “I’m sure you’re doing fine.” He picked up his mug and swirled the coffee. “Hattie’s glad to have you back here at the house. The company is good for her.”
Well, at least they agreed on one thing—Miss Hattie needed company. Now if she could only make him understand Miss Hattie needed more than boarders, or even female friends, to keep her company.
Miss Hattie strolled in carrying a tea tray. Boney took it from her and set it on the table in front of Willow.
Hattie smiled. “Thank you, kind sir.”
“You’re most welcome, lovely lady.” Boney held his snowy beard to his chest and bowed.
About to choke on their sap, Willow pressed her hand to her mouth. The display had been for her benefit. These two were having far too much fun teasing her.
Hattie laughed, then met Willow’s gaze. “Boney and I are good friends. We have been for a very long while.” She glanced at the miner. “Perhaps we’ll tell the story sometime.”
Willow stirred a spoonful of honey into her teacup. “A story I’d enjoy hearing.”
“Me too.” Boney chuckled. “Right now, however, I best be on my way.” He kissed Hattie’s hand with royal flair. “I doubt it’s proper for a man to call on such a pretty girl this time of night.”
Hattie giggled and fanned herself like a giddy schoolgirl.
Willow shook her head. Perhaps there was no matchmaking to be done here. Those two were already a pair.
S inging the last bars of “The Sidewalks of New York,” Susanna set the stack of extra dressing gowns and petticoats into the trunk at the foot of her bed. She lowered the front of the writing desk and stared at the wooden box at the back. Her grandmother had carved the image of a phoenix on the lid. She was that bird, and she would rise from her ashes in Scandia, Kansas, and make her perch in Colorado. In Cripple Creek, to be precise. Until Trenton was ready to marry her and take her to New York.
She carried the box to the bed and sifted through the stack of photographs inside it, all of them images of her. Just days after Trenton had arrived in town with his photographic van, he’d followed her around with his camera. Pictures of her at the confectionary shop wearing her father’s crisp white candy-maker’s hat. Standing in front of a flowering crab-apple tree. Dressed for dinner, seated on the settee in her parents’ parlor.
If she hadn’t been so shortsighted, she’d already be singing for the upper tens in New York’s high
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