Spring Creek Bride

Eugene squared his shoulders and added his final thoughts on the matter. “The whole thing just gripes my gizzard. I’ve had enough of folks sweeping in and taking over.” He began to list all the times such a thing had happened, and Ida sighed. She couldn’t argue the point. Spring Creek had been taken over by out-of-towners, after all.

“What is this man’s name?” she asked when Eugene finished.

“Bradley.” Eugene’s eyes held a gleam of suspicion. “Mick Bradley.”

“Did someone call my name?”

The crowd grew silent and a parting of the waters seemed to take place as Mick made his way through the throng. Ida kept her distance, just in case the men got riled up.

“Someone got something to say to me?” Mick asked as he looked around at the crowd.

No one uttered a word, and the beating of Ida’s heart seemed to drown out everything else for a moment. Even though he might have come to town to create trouble, she still found him an inordinately handsome man. With a fresh, clean-shaven face, no less.

Focus, Ida.

Nothing in the fellow’s air spoke of ill will for the people of Spring Creek. Surely the others were wrong about him. Likely, he would turn out to be the new owner of the Salyer farm, was all. And, if so, she would take over a pecan pie once he got settled in. Just to be neighborly, of course.

Just then he looked her way and they exchanged a glance. She couldn’t help but notice the pleased look in his eye when he saw her. She tried not to react, but the edges of her lips betrayed her. Ida swallowed hard, trying to maintain her composure.

When no one responded to Mick’s question, he tipped his hat and went on about his business looking over the items on the shelves. He asked Ida to help him with a toothbrush and tooth powder. A feeling of contentment washed over her. See there. He’s well groomed in every conceivable respect. And he didn’t come in to purchase chewing tobacco, like most of the other men. No, this one is certainly different from the others.

Ida waited on Mick at the register, ignoring the whispers and stares of the others in the room.

When he left the store, another lively conversation erupted. Ida did her best to ignore it, though she was as intrigued by Mick Bradley as they were. But she was hoping for the best, while they were expecting the worst. Would he be good for Spring Creek, or bad? Ida didn’t know, but she was sure of one thing—she would take a dozen Mick Bradleys over those foolish railroad men any day.

As Mick made his way across the street to the hotel, he thought about the reception he’d just received in the mercantile. Just the little bit of conversation he’d overheard while entering the store had been enough to convince him of their distrust. But what had he done to prompt such a reaction? What motivated such a hard and swift judgment on their part?

His suit, maybe? Some of the fellas had seemed to give him a once-over, taking in his clothes. Sure, most of the Spring Creek men were dressed in more casual attire. But a man’s suit shouldn’t make him suspect, should it? A few men had looked at his feet. So what if he opted for shoes over boots? Nothing odd about that, at least where he hailed from. Were Texans always this skittish as far as Northerners were concerned?

Mick tugged at his collar and willed the heat to go away as he entered his room. How in the world would he stand this? Surely in this sort of heat, the pine trees must be whistling for the dogs.

Why had he come to Spring Creek again? From his second-story window at The Harvey House, the town didn’t seem terribly impressive, at least not in comparison to Chicago.

Well, that’s why I’m here. To make it impressive.

He chuckled as he lay down on the bed, remembering the greeting he’d received at the front desk when he’d checked in earlier.

“You ain’t from ’round here, are ya?” the clerk had asked.

“No, sir. I’m from the Windy City.”

“Amarillo?”

Mick couldn’t help but laugh. The fellow had looked a bit miffed.

He certainly wasn’t making a lot of friends here in Spring Creek.

Maybe, as Orin had suggested at the barbershop, the local men feared he’d come to town to find a wife. Mick found himself smiling as he thought about the blonde. What a lucky coincidence to see her again. And luckier still that he’d learned where he could find her on a regular basis. She’d given him an impish smile, one that made him want to visit the mercantile again soon.

Well, no matter, Mick thought as his eyes began to close. He shook off any ill-conceived notions of courting her or any other woman in the near future. No, he’d better keep his head on straight while he was in Spring Creek. Otherwise someone might just come along and knock it off.

Chapter Five

Mick’s stomach rumbled for the umpteenth time. Now that he’d had a good rest, he was ready for a meal. The smells coming from the kitchen caused his stomach to leap as he entered the dining room. Wonderful, blessed food. How long had it been since he’d had a meal in a room that wasn’t rocking back and forth as he ate, the clacking of train wheels reverberating in his aching ears? Too long.

He glanced around the noisy room. Dozens of men, mostly railroad workers, he would guess, filled the place. He couldn’t help but notice their inquisitive stares, their eyes filled with distrust. Had the rumors of his presence spread that quickly?

He observed his prospective patrons. He’d seen worse than this scraggly bunch. Before long, these fellas would be his allies.

Mick soon found himself seated across the table from a stern-looking older man with a broad cigar hanging from his lips. Unlike the others in the room, he was dressed well. Surely he didn’t work for the Great Northern.

“Cain’t say as I’ve seen you ’round these here parts,” the fellow quipped, the lit cigar jumping up and down as he spoke.

Mick nodded. “New to the area.”

“Come in on the afternoon train?”

“Yes, sir.”

The man gave him a pensive look. “Don’t look like the other railroad fellas.” He paused for closer inspection. “There’s something different about you.”

I was just thinking the same of you.

“Ah. Well, that’s because I don’t work for the railroad.” Mick hoped the conversation would shift in another direction.

At that moment, the waitress appeared with a menu in hand. Mick quickly ordered the largest steak in the place, along with sliced potatoes and a huge piece of apple pie.

His dining companion made introductions, though the look in his eye did little to make a stranger feel welcome. “Name’s Chuck Brewster.”

“Mick Bradley.” He extended his hand and gave the fellow a hearty handshake, then turned his attention to a glass of sweet tea.

For the better part of the meal, Mick avoided the older man’s probing questions. Brewster could be a local businessman sniffing out competition. Or maybe he worked for the law. When Mick asked him a question or two, Brewster was as cagey as Mick had been about answering. For sure, he had something up his sleeve.

Mick left the restaurant at a quarter after six with a very full stomach, surprised to see the sun only just leaning toward the western sky. The slight oranges and reds ran together, casting a colorful haze across the street. For half a minute, the town almost looked presentable. He pulled a map from his pocket and began to walk in the direction of the property where his new facility would go up, passing the land agent’s office on the way. He’d have to stop by first thing in the morning to seal the deal. After that, nothing could stop him.

He located the lot in question, and found it to be an overgrown field next door to the mercantile—a ragged piece of property at best.

Mick looked it over with a careful eye. A considerable amount of work would need to be done before any building could begin, but at least the patch of land was strategically nestled between the bank and the mercantile, perched and ready for notoriety. In his mind’s eye, Mick saw the place—roulette wheels spinning, cards slapping against tables, glasses filled with alcohol, barmaids laughing, the heady scent of tobacco hovering in the air…

Only one thing seemed poised to get in his way. He turned and looked directly across the street at Spring Creek’s largest—and from all rumors most notorious—saloon. The Golden Spike. The name shimmered in lights above the doorway. And standing just beneath the glittering letters was a familiar man with a lit cigar dangling from his lips.

With a silent nod in Chuck Brewster’s direction, Mick turned and headed back toward the hotel.

Chapter Six

The late-May sunshine rippled through the trees, causing the pine needles overhead to glisten like an emerald-green parasol. Ida wound her way beyond the gristmill, through the comfort of the familiar forest, and entered the clearing to the west of Spring Creek’s tiny schoolhouse. The rustic wood-framed building hadn’t changed much over the years. Indeed, it had remained every bit the same since Ida’s childhood days.

Standing there brought a rush of warmth to her soul, and memories surfaced. She saw herself as a little girl once more, rolling hoops with a stick across the schoolhouse yard. Pigtails bounced about on her head, and gingham skirts twisted around her ankles, just as they did now. Oh, the joy of those days! What sweet and simple times she had known as a child in this blessed place. What innocence and wonder.