Spring Creek Bride Read online

  “Are you quite done?” he asked at last.

  “I am.” Ida was completely exhausted and shaking to the core. Still, she kept her hands firmly planted on her hips, and never let her gaze slip from his.

  Mick let out a whistle. “Well, if that doesn’t beat all!” After a chuckle, he added, “I do believe you’ve missed your calling, Miss Mueller.”

  “Oh?” She brushed a loose hair behind her ear, puzzled. She suddenly realized the men had stopped working so they could listen to her talking to Mick.

  “If it’s true that preaching is left only to the menfolk, then the church has done you a great disservice,” Mick announced. “Why, I can see you up there now, pounding your fist on the pulpit, shouting at the parishioners, pointing out the error of their ways.”

  A roar of laughter went up from the crowd of workers. A couple even slapped their knees. As a smile lit Bradley’s face, she weighed her options. Fighting the temptation to do or say the wrong thing, Ida bit her lip until it nearly bled.

  Clearly, the man refused to see the light. But he knew how to get his digs in, didn’t he.

  His expression softened a bit as he added, “Look. Don’t you think I’ve got enough trouble from the men around here? Why would a pretty girl like you want to add to my grief? What have I ever done to hurt you?”

  She began to tremble in anger. Why, if he didn’t understand what he’d done to hurt her after all the time she’d just spent explaining, then he must be daft. Ida could hardly control her temper as she spouted, “You’re…you’re…impossible!”

  She stomped her way back into the store, outraged and overwhelmed. No man had ever made her feel so…confused.

  Sophie took one look at her and sighed. “Oh my goodness, Ida. Whatever happened out there?”

  Ida couldn’t answer at first. Speaking over the lump in her throat proved to be nearly impossible. Finally, she managed a few strained words. “He said I’ve missed my calling.” She reached for her apron and, in her fervor, tied it a bit too tight. As she loosened it, she said, “According to Mick Bradley, I should have been a preacher.”

  Sophie laughed so hard she couldn’t speak for a full minute. Then she said, “You know, he may have a point. You do have passion!”

  “Sophie, I’m not looking for you to agree with the man.”

  “And you have a mighty fine vocabulary to boot! Not to mention the fact that you know the Bible stories inside and out!” Sophie collapsed in laughter again.

  “Sophie, I thought you were in agreement with me about the gambling hall!”

  “I am, Ida, of course I am. I’m sorry for laughing. I just think that Mick Bradley is impossible, don’t you?” she asked.

  Instead of replying, Ida reached for a broom and began to sweep—vigorously. Yes, Mick Bradley was impossible, all right. No question about that. So was her friend Sophie. Those two deserved each other.

  The thought of Sophie and Mick together suddenly overwhelmed Ida with such jealousy she had to excuse herself and get her bearings. She had no idea what was happening to her, but she didn’t like it at all. Not one bit.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mick watched from a distance as the foundation was laid on his new property. He always loved this part, watching the concrete, soft and pliable, harden into something of great strength. He understood such a hardening—he had lived through it himself.

  Some of the workers had questioned his use of concrete. Most of the buildings in the area had the usual pier-and-beam foundation. Still, Mick wanted to work with the latest technology, and a concrete slab was the way to go, from what he’d learned. Especially in a humid climate like this, where termites made regular appearances.

  Not that he really minded what the locals thought about his decisions, anyway. They already considered him odd; the concrete had only served to reinforce that fact in their minds.

  What mattered—what really mattered—were the opinions of his investors back in Chicago. They were the only ones he had to please. And surely they would agree with his choices. He needed to build a place that would withstand the elements and any other forces that might come along. The stronger, the better. He had a feeling the building would have to withstand some interesting challenges before all was said and done.

  Mick allowed his gaze to shift to the mercantile next door. Several times he’d caught Ida peeking through the window, her interest in his business more than a passing fancy, no doubt. Once he’d even waved, just for fun. Naturally, she hadn’t waved back.

  Mick looked out over the lot once more. Tomorrow morning, the framework of the building would go up. And though he’d hired a perfectly fine contractor, Mick would be right here, watching every move the builders made.

  Lost in his thoughts, Mick didn’t notice the man who sidled up next to him until he heard, “Young fella, how’re you doing?”

  Mick sized up the old man, wondering if he was friend or foe.

  The stranger removed his hat, revealing a near-balding head that glistened in the sun. “We’ve howdied, but we ain’t shook yet,” the fellow said with a smile.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ve seen you about town,” the man explained, “and I’ve heard yer name from plenty of folks, but we ain’t been formally introduced.” After a short chuckle, he extended his hand. “Jake Langford, local reverend.”

  This guy sure didn’t look—or sound—like any reverend Mick had known. Not that he’d known many.

  Langford looked out over the lot with a hint of a smile. “I reckon yer wondering what I’m doin’ here.”

  “I figure I know what you’re doing.” Mick crossed his arms, ready to do business. “You’re here to tell me you’d like to see me out of here, like all the others. And to tell me you’d like to see my place shut down before it even opens.”

  “Well, if I had my druthers, I’d see ’em all shut down,” Langford said. “But that ain’t why I’m here. On the contrary. I’m just wonderin’ why yer drinkin’ downstream from the herd.”

  “Beg pardon?” For the life of him, Mick couldn’t make sense of these Texans.

  Langford chuckled. “Seems to me, you’d be drinkin’ upstream. Tryin’ somethin’ different. We’ve got an overabundance of saloons in town as it is. Why not try yer hand at something more practical? We’ve a need fer a proper feed store. In fact, this property was going to be used for the new feed store, but Skinner changed his mind. That’d be a good venture, and a profitable one, at that.”

  “Feed store?” Mick laughed, long and loud. “I don’t know the first thing about feed stores—unless the ‘feed’ happens to be whiskey or gin.”

  “What about a boardinghouse?” the reverend asked. “Goodness knows we could keep it filled up.”

  “Don’t plan to be keeping any of the fellas through to the morning.”

  Langford shook his head and looked him square in the eye. “What are you searchin’ for, son?” Langford asked.

  “Searching for?” Mick wondered if he’d heard right.

  “I’d have to say a young fella like yourself must be lookin’ fer somethin’. Maybe yer thinkin’ you’ll find it in this here gamblin’ hall you’ve got yer heart set on buildin’.”

  “I’m looking to please my investors, Reverend. That’s my job.”

  “A place like this must be very excitin’.” Reverend Langford rubbed his chin as he looked out over the property again. “But I have a feelin’ a man could walk away feelin’ near empty.”

  “Empty pockets, maybe, but he will have enjoyed himself.”

  As the older man leaned forward, Mick noticed a jagged scar on his forehead and a dozen questions passed through his mind.

  “I understand emptiness,” the reverend said. “Been there myself. I could tell you all sorts of stories, if’n you had the time.”

  Mick looked at his pocket watch, anxious to get back to work. “I’m not sure where this is headed, Reverend.”

  “You can say what you want about yerself, but
that don’t change the facts.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m jest sayin’, you can put yer boots in the oven, but that don’t make ’em biscuits. Yer no more a gambling-hall owner than I am.”

  Mick laughed again. “I’ve been a gambling-hall owner for quite some time now. And I’m not sure what you’re trying to accomplish, but if you think you can talk me into changing my mind about The Lucky Penny, you may want to reconsider.”

  The man’s expression remained the same. “No man can change the mind of another. But if you’ll give me a minute or two, I’ll be happy to explain where I’m headed with all this.”

  Mick gave a curt response. “Talk fast. I’m a busy man.”

  The reverend’s brow wrinkled. “When I was a young feller in Albuquerque, not much more’n a boy, I had an eye for nice things. No money to buy ’em, so I got in the habit of stealin’. Started small. Candy from the mercantile, that sort of thing. Then one thing led to another and before you knew it, I was takin’ from folks in a big way—robbin’ at gunpoint, even.” He shook his head. “Hard to imagine now, ain’t it?”

  “Well, I certainly never met a preacher who’d spent the better part of his life running from the law, if that’s what you mean.” A chuckle escaped from Mick’s mouth.

  “I didn’t run fer long. The law caught up with me in Denver. I’d robbed a man who happened to be armed. He shot me three times. Hit me in the belly. I spent several days in the jailhouse with the doctor tending to my wounds. Many was the time I thought I was a goner. But God—”

  “God met you in the jailhouse?”

  “I guess you could say that.” Reverend Langford smiled. “Truth is, He sent a pretty young thing to carry in my meals. She had such a peaceful way about her, always whistling and singing about the love of the Lord. I’ll admit, it was her beauty that caught my eye at first. But sooner or later, those stories she told me were naggin’ at my conscience.”

  “What stories?”

  “About a God who could forgive, and give me a second chance—if I was willin’ to change, to give my heart to Him. She told me that He would forgive me my past, and give me a fresh start. And that’s just what happened.”

  “I see,” Mick said politely.

  The reverend gave him a pensive look. “God’ll do the same for you, if you ask.”

  Didn’t sound quite like Mick would expect a sermon to sound, no hellfire or brimstone at all. Surely Ida had outdone the reverend in that respect. The man’s words were kind but firm. Still, the effect was the same as if he’d heard them hollered down from a pulpit with a finger pointed directly at him.

  “Thank you, Reverend Langford, but God and I parted ways a long time ago, and I don’t think we have much to say to each other these days. However, I do appreciate your stopping by.” Mick shook the man’s hand and then saw him off the property.

  Mick left the site that evening with a headache, more exhausted than he’d been in months. The sun had barely tucked itself in for the night when Mick decided to turn in. Unfortunately, he couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned, thinking about the reverend’s words. For whatever reason, he couldn’t seem to shake them.

  Whether Mick wanted to admit it or not, the fellow was right on some level. He did feel empty. And alone. Odd, how you could feel that way in the midst of so many people. What was it the old guy had said again? You can put your boots in the oven, but that don’t make ’em biscuits…

  Despite that riddle rattling around in his head, Mick was finally able to drift off to sleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  On Wednesday afternoon, Ida was pondering the gambling-hall situation in a less volatile state of mind. After several days of thinking through Reverend Langford’s Sunday sermon on forgiveness, she decided she’d best keep her temper in check, lest it get the better of her and spoil her whole plan.

  It had taken several days, but Ida had indeed come up with a plan. She would arrange a protest, with the help of others in the community, of course. Surely if they linked arms, God would move on their behalf. The shopkeepers would join her, no doubt. A petition was in order, and maybe even a march through the center of town, ending at Mick’s site. And if she was very lucky, she might even be able to convince her father’s men to stop working for him.

  Yes indeed. Together they would end Mick Bradley’s dream of building a gambling hall in the town of Spring Creek.

  In this excited frame of mind, Ida stopped at the church to speak with Reverend Langford on her way into town. She wanted to ask him if she might use the church for a planning meeting. He met her on the front steps of the tiny building with a smile.

  “Howdy, Ida. Pleasure to see you. What brings you here midday?”

  She mustered up the courage to speak her mind. “Reverend, I’ve come to ask a favor.”

  “What can I do fer ya?”

  “I know we have spoken in the past about Mr. Bradley and his gambling hall.”

  “Sure, sure. And I need to update you. I talked to Mick yesterday afternoon. Seems like a right nice fellow, though a bit off course,” the reverend said.

  Perhaps this would be harder than she’d thought. If Mick Bradley had won over the reverend with his persuasive speech, Ida had a tough road ahead of her. “Yes, he is a nice man, I’m sure,” she responded. “But that doesn’t change the facts. His plan to build a gambling hall puts our town—and its residents—at greater risk than ever. With that in mind, I would like to ask your permission to hold a meeting at the church this evening after midweek service to discuss a plan of action.”

  The reverend gave her a pensive look. “Instead of talkin’ about him, why don’t you invite him to join us at the meetin’? We’ll see if we can’t reason things out with him—let the love of Christ shine through. Wouldn’t that be the best way to handle things?”

  “I just can’t help thinking it’s a bad idea to involve him without talking things over with church folks first, to get their input. Surely, if we all put our heads together we can come up with a practical solution to this problem—one we can all live with, including Mr. Bradley.”

  The reverend let his hand rest on her arm. “We must be careful in our approach, Ida. We don’t want to get folks riled up. Goodness only knows what they’ll do if they get too upset.”

  “Oh, no. Indeed. I’m looking for a peaceful resolution to this problem, I assure you. Perhaps start a petition, that sort of thing. Maybe hold a prayer meeting in front of Mr. Bradley’s lot. I want to see this come to a satisfactory conclusion—for everyone.”

  “Truly? For everyone?”

  She swallowed hard before answering. “Truly, Reverend. I want the best for Mr. Bradley, whether it appears that way or not. I’ll admit I haven’t exactly shown him the kindness of the Lord. I let my temper get the best of me, and spouted off like a teakettle gone to boil. But I’ve prayed about that and asked God to forgive me.”

  “Have you, now?”

  “I have. I don’t mind admitting that I still have my doubts about whether he’ll come around. But I think we stand a far better chance of convincing him if we band together.” After a brief pause, she added the words that had been nagging at her conscience all along. “I want him to be won to the Lord. Truly I do. I can think of no happier ending.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Mr. Bradley just needs a bit of convincing, is all.” Ida’s excitement grew as she spoke. “We’ll show him the light—one way or another. And I promise to pray before the meeting. In fact, I’ve been praying ever since the man came to town.” Indeed, she wasn’t sure when she’d ever spent so many hours in worship.

  “Well, I will add my prayers to yours, then, and we will see what the Lord does.” Reverend Langford offered up a comforting smile. “In the meantime, feel free to use the church for your meeting tomorrow night. But promise me you will talk with your father about this first. I don’t want to come between a man and his daughter.”

  “Thank you, Reverend, I will.”
/>   Ida fanned herself as she continued on into town. One meeting with the fine church folks of Spring Creek should suffice. She would present her case, focusing on the safety and well-being of the children. She would remind folks how simple—how safe—their lives were before the saloons came in.

  Then, when she had them convinced, Ida would turn her attention to a reasonable plan of action. They would pray, of course. And with everyone in accord, they would pay Mick Bradley a visit at his construction site for a peaceable demonstration—one meant to make their position quite clear. Surely he could be persuaded to listen to a group of folks who approached him in Christian love.

  Ida pushed aside images of Mick’s handsome face and tried to stay focused on the task at hand. We’re not trying to drive him out of town…necessarily. No, she would be more than happy to see him stay—once he saw the error of his ways.

  Mick watched as the exterior walls of The Lucky Penny started to go up. He could see it all now—this building would be a gem, standing out above every other place in town. It would be an establishment local folks could brag about, and one that would draw railroad men from near and far, bringing revenue into Spring Creek in a number of ways.

  Yes, the locals would no doubt eventually link arms with him and offer their support once they realized he wasn’t here to hurt them. Of course, he hoped to make a profit from the gambling hall. So did his investors. But their success would mean success for the townspeople, as well.

  As Mick pondered these things, Ida Mueller hurried by. Mick gave her a nod, and added, “You’re late.”

  She paused and looked up at him. “Beg your pardon?”

  “You always arrive a few minutes after two.” He reached for his pocket watch and gave it a glance. “It’s nearly two-thirty. You’re late. Later than usual, I mean.”

  “Well, I’ve had other business to attend to this afternoon. Let’s just leave it at that,” Ida said.