The Bride Wore Blue Read online

  “Miss Sinclair, it was good to see you in the congregation this morning.”

  “It was good to see you here … to be seen here.” Vivian looked away. Nell’s crooked grin told her she needed to do a better job of pretending the man wasn’t a distraction.

  Morgan shook the deputy’s hand. “Supper’s at our house today. Can you join us?”

  Carter looked at Vivian, then back at Morgan. “I appreciate the invitation, but I need to decline.”

  “Another time, then,” Morgan said. He chucked Hope under the chin, causing the baby to giggle.

  “Yes, another time.” Deputy Alwyn waved his hat. “Miss Sinclair. Ladies.”

  Vivian didn’t watch him walk away. Instead, she tapped Hope on the nose.

  Avoidance was best. So why was she disappointed that he had other plans?

  An hour later, Vivian sat in Kat and Morgan’s parlor, staring at the checkerboard.

  “Just admit it.” Ida assumed a regal pose, her nose in the air. “I’m still the reigning champion.”

  Vivian raised her index finger without looking away from Ida’s neat row of kings. She was tired of settling for second best. Pressing her lips together, she studied every piece on the board.

  Why hadn’t she seen it before? Vivian moved her checker, capturing two of her sister’s recently crowned pieces and gaining a new king. She couldn’t contain her giggle.

  Ida was clearly not as amused and could only stare at the board in obvious disbelief.

  Morgan sauntered into the parlor. “Kat says supper is nearly ready.” He joined the crowd encircling the octagonal game table. “Who’s winning?”

  “I am.” Vivian’s assertion came out almost in perfect harmony with Ida’s reply.

  “You can’t both win.” Aunt Alma had been observing the match from an armchair near the window.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t see it coming.” Ida glanced at Tucker, who sat backward in a chair. “This is your fault.”

  “Of course it is.” A coy grin dimpled his chin. “Why is it my fault this time?”

  “Same humdrum reason—you’re such a charming distraction.”

  He snatched Ida’s hand, and she giggled like a schoolgirl.

  Vivian longed for such a house, where love and laughter filled the rooms.

  If only she were lovable.

  On her tiptoes in front of her open wardrobe, Vivian pulled her purple sateen hat from the top shelf.

  Monday. She’d been gone from Maine for nearly two weeks and had arrived in Cripple Creek almost a week ago, but in many ways, today felt like the beginning of her new life. Since Father left her in Portland, Aunt Alma had served as her guardian. This morning, her aunt would board the train to return home, leaving Vivian here to sink or swim. She’d been sinking since her father left for Paris.

  At her dressing table, Vivian looked in the mirror. She tugged the collar of her purple serge jacket straight. She’d pin her hat on after breakfast.

  Today she’d strike out on her own and swim. She had plenty of ideas for costumes but no real experience with the business side of clothing design. Working at the shop in Victor would give her the know-how she needed to succeed in bigger cities like San Francisco or New York or Paris. Perhaps her father had done her a favor in telling her not to come to France. She wasn’t ready. Not yet.

  Vivian pulled back the curtains on her second-story window and looked down on the center of town. Banks. The stock exchange. Hotels. All represented people who might appreciate her eastern-inspired designs. The possibilities for success were endless.

  Satisfied she’d done all she could to prepare for the day, Vivian wrapped her shawl about her shoulders. She fairly floated as she made her way down the pine staircase, her steps made light by a newfound confidence. No music wafted from the phonograph this morning. Instead, Miss Hattie warbled, “Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine … praising my Savior all the day long.” Vivian peeked inside the parlor.

  Miss Hattie sat in a rocker in front of the fireplace with a Bible on her lap. She quieted and motioned for Vivian to join her. “Come in, dear.”

  Vivian took a slow step through the doorway. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “The Lord would probably welcome a respite.” The laugh lines that framed Miss Hattie’s blue-gray eyes crinkled like lace.

  Before Vivian could respond to the warm-hearted landlady, the front door opened and all three of her sisters and her niece swept into the parlor on a wave of chatter. Vivian wanted to hold baby Hope but didn’t dare take the chance of spoiling her dress before meeting Mrs. Ondersma.

  Kat looked around the room. “Where’s Aunt Alma?”

  Miss Hattie rose from her chair. “She insisted on cooking us breakfast her last morning here.”

  “Well, it smells wonderful.” Kat kissed Hope on the cheek and laid her in Miss Hattie’s open arms.

  Nell sniffed the air. “Skillet-egg-pileup. That pungent aroma is as recognizable as the scent of a pine forest after a good rain.”

  “My specialty.” Aunt Alma sashayed into the room wearing a well-floured apron.

  “I’m tired of hearing my stomach growl.” Miss Hattie patted her generous belly. “Is this mystery specialty of yours ready for consumption yet?”

  “Indeed it is.”

  They all fell into line behind Aunt Alma. Except for the butterflies flitting about Vivian’s midsection, breakfast was delightful.

  An hour later, she stood on the Midland Terminal Railroad platform with her sisters and Aunt Alma. A sharp whistle drew their attention to the top of the grade where the train puffed its way down the hill from Ute Pass.

  “In one of his infrequent letters, Father mentioned plans to—” Kat shouted as the train pulled into the station and the last loud puff of steam blew out from somewhere under the iron monster. The contraption then went eerily silent except for a faint hiss. “Ahem, as I was saying,” Kat continued, “Father mentioned plans to come to Cripple Creek next year. You could join him, Aunt Alma.”

  “We’ll see.” Their aunt swept a curl of copper hair behind her ear. “Oh, but I’m going to miss this little one.” She looked at Vivian. “And all my girls—young women now.”

  Finally, her aunt had accepted the fact that Vivian had grown up. Now all Vivian had to do was prove it to herself.

  Vivian boarded the train with Aunt Alma and sat on the aisle. She’d get off in Victor.

  Shortly after the noon hour, Vivian settled her lavender lace shawl over her shoulders, then tucked her sketch pad under the arm that held her reticule. She lifted her skirts with her free hand and stepped off the platform onto the packed-dirt road beside the depot in Victor. The short ride on the Florence and Cripple Creek Railway had been uneventful.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Vivian studied one mountain and hillock after another—all of them covered with metal miniatures of the Eiffel Tower, evidence of the mines that dotted this valley like a polka-dot print. Unlike the mines at Cripple Creek, Victor’s mines spilled over into the town itself. The Strong Mine stood like a sentry just across the road from the depot. Coal smoke layered the air, punctuated by the constant drone of the stamp mill. Not the most pleasant of environments, but she could adapt if it drew her closer to her dream of becoming a sought-after dress designer.

  She pulled Miss Hattie’s note from the seam pocket in her skirt.

  South down Second Street to Victor Avenue. Turn right, then left on Third Street. Etta’s Fashions sits on the left side of the street.

  Miss Hattie’s directions looked easy enough to follow. Vivian adjusted her sateen summer hat to the proper angle and started down Second Street. Weathered pine fronted the shops and stores that lined the wide streets in contrast to Cripple Creek’s more modern brick faces.

  Vivian turned left onto Third Street and began studying the signs that hung from the facades on the left side of the street. Painted in crisp white letters on a lavender sign, ETTA’S FASHIONS stood out, the fourth storefront. Vivian
glanced down at her lavender shawl. She’d chosen the right color to wear; apparently it was the proprietor’s favorite.

  Several felt-covered forms stood in the windows on either side of the door displaying a variety of outfits. One such figure was dressed in a Sunday dress made of taffeta. Another was clad in a plaid skirt and a bibbed shirtwaist. The window on the other side of the door featured a brocade ball gown and a sateen-lined mantle. All the fashions mirrored the small-town feel of the Cripple Creek District, which excited Vivian. She’d been studying the latest from Paris in magazines such as Godey’s Lady’s Book, Frank Leslie’s Gazette of Fashion, and Harper’s Bazar and was certain she could reproduce the latest fashions. Maybe even improve upon them for life in the West, more durable yet still fashionable.

  Drawing in a fortifying breath, Vivian reached for the brass door latch. A bell jingled as she stepped inside.

  “Good day!” A woman’s voice came from a back room, puffed out on ragged breaths as if she’d been running. “I’ll be with you straightaway.”

  “Thank you.” Vivian raised her voice to be heard over the clatter behind a closed curtain. “No need to rush on my account.”

  She studied the store, which was barely twice the size of the sheriff’s office in Cripple Creek. A round oak breakfast table sat in a front corner, framed by two spindle-back chairs. Outdated issues of women’s magazines covered its top. A smaller side table held a stack of drawings of men’s suits and coats.

  A stately looking woman stepped out from behind a curtain, wearing wheeling regalia—bloomers and all. Graying tufts of blond hair framed her lined, narrow face beneath a yellow straw hat that sat askew atop her head. The woman did a slow turn like the ballerina on Vivian’s mother’s music box. “How do you like the wheeling outfit, Miss?”

  The knickerbockers were too ballooned and unshapely for Vivian’s taste, but the woman was clearly proud of them. “It’s quite sporting, ma’am. And yellows and greens are especially fashionable colors this summer.”

  “They are.” She clutched the seams on the bicycle bloomers and pulled on the abundance of fabric. “It’s not for me.” She peeked at her bare feet, a smile adding fullness to her cheeks. “If it were mine, I’d have the button boots to complete the outfit.”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s for a schoolmarm, but seeing as we’re of similar size and shape—close enough, anyway—I decided to see what a cycling getup felt like.”

  Vivian studied the ruffled hems. “And what do you think?”

  “Well, I feel quite sporting in it. A bit of a spring chicken.” Another twirl. “Do you ride?”

  “I haven’t, but I have a sister who has, and she rather enjoyed it.” Ida seemed game to try most anything. Anything respectable, anyway. Although in some circles women wheelers were still considered indecent and definitely eccentric. Vivian looked from the full-length gilded mirror on one wall to the teakettle atop a small potbelly stove on the other. “You have a lovely shop.”

  “Thank you.” The woman extended her hand to Vivian. “I’m Etta Ondersma, the owner.”

  Vivian accepted her hand and glanced at the costumes adorning the windows. “You made all of these?”

  Mrs. Ondersma laughed. “I’m afraid my expertise lies in the design and procurement of materials. My sewing skills are fairly limited—camisoles and dressing gowns. Three very gifted seamstresses do the stitching for me.” A thick line creased her generous forehead as she assessed Vivian from her pointy-toed shoes to her summer hat. “You’re obviously working with a gifted designer. From the East?”

  Vivian straightened her shoulders. “Thank you, ma’am. I am from the East Coast—Maine.”

  Mrs. Ondersma’s thick eyebrows formed an arch. “And your designer? ”

  Time to get down to business. Vivian removed her sketch pad from beneath her elbow and smiled. “I designed the suit myself.”

  “You did? And the hat?”

  Vivian nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

  Mrs. Ondersma walked around Vivian, then stopped directly in front of her. “But you’re so … young.”

  Vivian swallowed her frustration, willing her face not to betray her. “I’m eighteen. Young to some, I’m sure.” She laid her sketch pad flat on her hands as an offering. “I’ve had what my father calls an ‘obsessive fascination with fashion’ since I was old enough to attend school. I’ve been studying design for many years. Hattie Adams in Cripple Creek told me about your shop.”

  “Hattie, you say?”

  “Yes ma’am. I’m a resident in her boardinghouse.”

  She reached for the pad. “I presume these are sketches of your designs.”

  “A sampling. I have dozens more back in my room.”

  Etta Ondersma carried the sketches to the round table. Vivian seated herself in the second chair as the shop owner perused page after page and outfit after outfit. “You favor the Gibson girl influence. The narrower, wasp waist. Gigot sleeves. Straighter lines. Laced collars. Braiding at the hems. Flouncing.”

  Vivian nodded. “My other samples include tea aprons. Capes and cloaks. I can design fashions from travel frocks to wedding gowns and pieces with calico prints or satin in mind.”

  “Your designs are a bit more modern than mine, but lovely. I’m sure your flair for eastern fashion would be well received, particularly in Cripple Creek, which is becoming the cat’s meow when it comes to culture and refinement.”

  Hope welled in Vivian. Perhaps Mrs. Ondersma would pay her to do most of the designing and patterns from the boardinghouse in Cripple Creek. If not, she’d gladly ride the train to Victor every day for the opportunity to gain experience. She sat straighter, her hands folded at the table’s edge. “I’d like to think that you and I could form a good team. You know the local women and their needs, and I—”

  “I agree. You and your designs have much to offer the women of Colorado.” Etta Ondersma’s frown defied her enthusiastic statement. She rubbed the gold wedding band on her left hand. “My husband passed this winter, and money has been tight without his income.” Closing the sketch pad, she slowly raised her head. “I’m sorry, dear. Right now, there isn’t enough business to hire a second designer or even another seamstress.”

  If the woman hired a younger, more relevant designer, she’d gain new clients, which would build the business. Keeping her argument to herself, Vivian lifted her sketch pad off the table. She knew not to spoil her chances in case Etta Ondersma changed her mind. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Ondersma. And my condolences.”

  Nodding, the widow stood, and Vivian followed suit. “The town is still growing. We can pray that my business will expand as well.”

  Vivian wanted to take comfort in the woman’s compliments and assurances, but marriage wasn’t an option for her. She had to find work. Granted, she didn’t deserve the career of her dreams. But if not dress designing, then what? That was all she’d ever thought about doing. She tucked her sketch pad under her arm.

  “Rest assured, you’ll be the first I contact should I need a designer,” Mrs. Ondersma said.

  As Vivian left the shop, she didn’t have the faintest idea what she would do in the meantime.

  Carter’s bay stallion snorted at a passing wagon team and yanked the reins tight at the hitching rail. Carter pushed his hat back on his head and studied his friend, Gilbert Neilson, the chief of police for Victor. The two of them shared a ten-year history, having both lived in the silver camp of Leadville before moving south to the Cripple Creek District. They sat in front of Gilbert’s office, swapping stories over mugs of coffee strong enough to grow hair on a baby’s chest.

  Just last week, the Bank of Victor had succumbed to a robbery, the third Colorado bank hit in less than two months. Carter suspected the men who robbed the banks were connected to the train bandits, if not the same. “There were three guys in on the robbery at the bank in Divide too.”

  “Yup.” Gilbert sat slouched with his legs extended, leaving plenty of room for pas
sersby on the boardwalk. “Older one clanged the sawed-off barrel of a scattergun between the bars at the teller window.”

  “Second fellow a tall one, carry a nickel Schofield?”

  Gilbert nodded. “Held the revolver on the guard by the door. Third one, younger, stood just outside with a wide-brim cowboy hat pulled down over his whiskered face. Told folks the banker was holding a meeting for his tellers and would reopen soon. A shopkeeper said the kid had a southern accent.”

  Carter took a long swig of black coffee. The robbery pattern was as distinct as the tea roses on his mother’s English dinnerware. Gilbert raked his hair, the color of a cooked carrot. “Did either of the train robbers have an accent?”

  “Witnesses didn’t hear the tall one say anything. The second one sounded like he had something in his mouth and smelled of licorice root. Witness said it sounded like he was chewing on marbles.” Miss Vivian Sinclair had said it, to be precise.

  Gilbert straightened. “Sounds like the same guys hittin’ the banks took the cash box Tuesday.”

  Carter set his mug of steaming coffee at his feet. “Only two men involved on the train, but they didn’t need a lookout.”

  “Could’ve been waitin’ for them with mounts.”

  “We only found evidence of two horses.”

  “Three banks. Whoever’s doing the robbing should have had enough by now. That first haul in Manitou Springs should’ve satisfied them for a month of Sundays.” Gilbert peered into his cup and gave the contents a swirl. “Dealin’ with a real greedy bunch.”

  “Especially if they’re responsible for the escapade on the train too.” Carter picked up his folder and pulled out the sketch Edgar Hamilton had made of the two men. “Here’s a drawing based on the information one of the witnesses gave.”

  Gilbert stared at him, his eyes narrowing as he tipped his head. “Miss Vivian Sinclair?” His tone carried more than a hint of teasing.

  “How did you know?”

  “Small county.”