Her heart dulled. She’d lost her love for him so long ago.
Autumn’s breath swept up her nose as she turned toward the boardinghouse. September was glowing bright with the aspens’ glorious fire, but Leadville had already seen snow showers. An odd longing for her old life hit her. Where the Mississippi lapped gently against her hometown. Where her girlish heart had been stolen by a handsome preacher man in a Cape Girardeau chapel.
Sometimes she missed home…but no... Mama was dead, and Papa was mean. And besides, she had promised Emmett.
Even though she didn’t miss him.
With a shiver, she rushed through the front door of Dornfeld’s Boardinghouse. A stuffy warmth surrounded her. She hated wasting money from the mite box to pay her room and board, but as he’d lay dying, Emmett had insisted otherwise. In sermon-like words, he’d assured her she’d never survive all alone at the roughhewn mission he’d established. Guilty, exhausted, she’d assured him she’d leave it.
Even though she couldn’t leave Leadville.
She shrugged out of her grim black burnoose and hung it on the bent willow rack. In the tiny foyer, Miss Frieda greeted her like an archangel, hands on hips stretching out her elbows in a wing shape.
“You look froze to death, Lila,” she trumpeted, voice loud. Her bright eyes announced something significant was afoot, and Lila prepared herself or whatever was coming next.
“I had a good turnout at Bible study,” she replied, mild. “We’re studying Esther, a strong and brave woman, who stood up to her husband.” Deep inside, she groused. Emmett had declared her unfit to teach anything about scriptural men.
Miss Frieda’s lips tightened like a purse string. “You might consider using your teaching talents for the schoolhouse. Not a half-hearted mission for the dregs. In the worst part of town.”
“Those dregs are people, too.” She sighed deep, and stomped her feet together on the old puncheon floor. The argument was old and unwinnable.
“I worry about you, is all.” Miss Frieda stared past her at a mirror in a cracked frame.
“No need, Miss Frieda. I may be small in stature but I am perfectly capable of running Gethsemane. Emmett trained me well.”
And oh, he had. And in many ways, he’d trained Miss Frieda, too. Despite the landlady’s displeasure at the company Lila kept, her soul was kind enough to keep the rent as low as possible, and each day, she cooked extra for the “dregs.”
But Lila read something else in Miss Frieda’s face, and set up a proper barrier. “No, Miss Frieda. Please, no.”
Miss Frieda stared at her ample feet for a moment, then stared at Lila full on. “Asa…well… I signed up a new boarder a bit ago, whom Asa has recommended well. And a handsome man, at that. You get yourself gussied up and then come to tea in the parlor. I’ve got my lemon cake, too.”
Lila bristled; she was tired of taking orders, but she’d learned respect for her elders her whole life long. Miss Frieda blushed so prettily at mention of her suitor. “Miss Frieda, I admire Asa, too, but please?”
“It’s been two years since Emmett passed, darlin’.” The old hand touched Lila’s cheek.
“I know you’re being kind, but...I don’t need another man.” Another man to ruin her life.
“Maybe not now. But I got widowed young myself, and it gets mighty lonely. I’d not wish the same for you.”
Miss Frieda’s sad words gentled Lila’s pique, and besides, hot tea and fresh cake were hard to resist. She relented, patted an old cheek as plump and pink as a ripe peach. “You’re a kind friend, Miss Frieda. All right. I’ll be down soon.”
Her drab day dress trailed behind her as she hurried up the stairs to her room. Two years, indeed. In just days, she’d be free of her half-mourning garments, no longer forced to wear gray and dull purples. Oh, the royal blue velvet day dress was the first thing she’d shake out of the camphor.
China dishes clinked downstairs, and she halted in front of her own mirror. Strangely, perhaps, Emmett had never seen fit to condemn the lovely clothes of her trousseau.
Although he had often mentioned her red hair. She scowled at his memory and stared at her reflection. A sign of witchcraft in medieval Europe, he’d declared with a laugh. And red hair presaged hellfire. Oh, red hair, a vulgar error of nature. But he’d saved himself by holding a lock to his lips.