Free Too Rich for a Bride by Mona Hodgson Page A

he did every Wednesday. In it, Willow’s green eyes sparkled like polished emeralds in a full-face smile. His finger traced the image of her, pencil and sketch pad in hand, while his heart remembered happier days when they went to the river together. He and Sam fished while his sister sat on the grassy banks drawing whatever struck her fancy.
    That was before his father had her committed to the Stockton State Mental Asylum.
    During his most recent visit, just before he left for Colorado, an attendant had led Willow to the front porch. Tucker followed them out. He and his sister sat in white rocking chairs with a stone pot of red geraniums on the table between them. It may as well have been a six-foot tall stone fence.
    “Willow, I received a letter from Mother yesterday.” Pausing, he studied her for even the slightest hint of a response. Nothing. Not so much as ablink. Her doctor had told him to use her name often and to mention the names of the people she loved. They all hoped using Willow’s name frequently might trigger a pleasant memory that could one day bring her back. So far, nothing he or anyone else had tried was working. Water therapy. Music. Work. Art.
    Nothing .
    Willow, her hands folded in her lap, had stared out at the lush garden, her rocker still. Tucker watched a gilded butterfly flit from one sunflower to another just beyond them. Before the tragedy, his sister would’ve recited the specifics of its species for him. Now the butterfly fluttered in her line of vision seemingly unrecognized. How could she look out at the world, and not see it? Not respond to any of it?
    Tucker set the photo on the table and twisted the cap off the inkwell. Breathing a prayer for guidance, he dipped the quill in the ink and began this week’s one-sided conversation with his beloved older sister.

NINE

    da stood in front of the full-length mirror in her upstairs room at Hattie’s Boardinghouse. In a slow twirl, she checked for any unruly threads or twisted seams in her clothing. She’d chosen a blue serge skirt and embroidered jacket for this afternoon’s meeting with Mollie O’Bryan. Vivian had suggested the dress while helping her pack for the move out West. Her youngest sister insisted the outfit would reflect business savvy without masking her femininity. If only Vivian possessed as much common sense as she did fashion sense. Ida hoped Aunt Alma was keeping a close watch on her.
    Satisfied with her overall appearance, Ida returned to the wardrobe for the finishing touches. She pulled the mushroom-style hat with yellow silk roses off the top of the cabinet and carried it to the dressing table.
    She sank onto the cushioned bench and reached for the jam jar where she kept her hatpins. She could scarcely look at her pins the past two days without thinking of the ice man—Tucker Raines. She let herself enjoy the memory of their first meeting as a smile tugged at her mouth.
    He delivered ice to the boardinghouse wearing a preacher’s hat. His father was sick and sour. His mother looked and sounded frail. One minute, he came across as lighthearted with a clock-stopping grin. The next, dark storm clouds rolled in from out of the blue. Like Monday afternoon at MissHattie’s. Then there was the memory of yesterday afternoon and him escorting her muddy self back to the boardinghouse.
    Ida wove a pin through the back of her hat. Why was she spending so much time thinking about him? The ice man was a curiosity, that was all. Certainly not someone she’d have business with, so she’d have to live without knowing the rest of his story. She had her own story to live anyway—a tale of inspiring success.
    Once she’d fastened the hat to her head, she glanced at the stack of notebooks on her bedside table. She’d spent the better part of the morning reviewing her class notes. Proper correspondence formats. Bookkeeping methods. Telephone etiquette.
    Confident she’d done all she could to prepare for her interview, Ida left