the front room. “Were Grandpa and Grandma happy when you got married, Ma?”
Her mother’s voice floated back to her from the kitchen. “I’m afraid they didn’t have a thimbleful of choice in the matter.”
Megan hardly heard the reply. She was frowning at her reflection. No matter how she altered the position of her bodice or tugged on the straps which raised the stays, she was unable to produce the desired end result with the equipment at hand.
“That’s no answer. Were they surprised?”
A distant sigh. “Your grandpa took the measles and your grandma got drunk. I suppose you could say it surprised them some.”
Moving to the quilt-covered bed behind her, Megan picked up the neatly laid-out gingham pinafore lying atop the covers and slipped it on over her shirtwaist. She had to do a little jig to make it slide down. No question about it, she was still growing, and the pinafore was starting to pinch in certain critical places.
“Was it ’cause they didn’t think you were old enough?”
“Your grandma was only fifteen when she was married,” Sarah replied. “No, I think what riled them was who I married. I could’ve been forty and they wouldn’t have approved. Turns out they were both right. Too late for me to apologize now that they’re both gone. I was too smart and too pig-headed to listen to the advice of a couple of old folks.”
Megan adjusted the pinafore to its unsatisfactory best, then picked up her hairbrush and began working on her waist-length hair.
“Do you think you’ll be happy married to Hull?”
“Who says we’re getting married? Girl, you’ve been growing up when I wasn’t looking.”
Megan smiled at her reflection. “Hull’s nice enough, isn’t he?”
Her mother’s response was deliberately flat. “Yes, he’s nice.”
“He likes me, and I know he likes you. Don’t you like him?”
“Hull’s all right. Yes, I like him, but people don’t get married just because they like one another.”
A dreamy cast came over Megan’s face as she swayed approvingly before the mirror. “Do preachers get married?”
“I don’t see why not.”
That comment brought forth a broad smile from both the reflection in the mirror and its owner. A few final sharp strokes through her tresses and Megan returned the brush to its resting place atop the bureau. She all but skipped into the next room.
“Is my hem long enough?”
Sarah turned to her daughter, and Megan saw that she wasn’t the only woman in the house who had been hard at work on her appearance. Her mother’s long hair had been piled up into an elegant knot atop her head, where it was secured in place by tortoiseshell pins.
“Why yes. And you look lovely.” Rising, she planted a kiss on her daughter’s forehead. “You’re the prettiest daughter I could ever have. That anyone could ever have.”
Megan fidgeted under the praise while simultaneously casting an envious eye on her mother’s elaborate coiffure and wondering if she could somehow manage to duplicate it. It wasn’t that it made Sarah’s hair any more attractive as much as it contributed to her more, well, more mature appearance, something that concerned Megan very much just now.
Hull had resurrected his Long Tom, but instead of setting it back up at the far end of his claim where it had stood originally, he’d moved it downstream. Now it stood in the lee of the pulverized boulder whose disintegration Josh Lahood’s henchman had inadvertently begun.
It was strange having help. He’d worked alone for so many years he hardly knew how to handle not having to do everything himself. Of course, he was within easy shouting range of his fellow miners, but men like Conway and Miller hadn’t come to the mountains to idle away their days in casual conversation. Time enough for that after sundown, when it grew too cold and dark to work.
And even then there were those in whom the gold fever ran so hot that they remained to work their claims by the light
Her mother’s voice floated back to her from the kitchen. “I’m afraid they didn’t have a thimbleful of choice in the matter.”
Megan hardly heard the reply. She was frowning at her reflection. No matter how she altered the position of her bodice or tugged on the straps which raised the stays, she was unable to produce the desired end result with the equipment at hand.
“That’s no answer. Were they surprised?”
A distant sigh. “Your grandpa took the measles and your grandma got drunk. I suppose you could say it surprised them some.”
Moving to the quilt-covered bed behind her, Megan picked up the neatly laid-out gingham pinafore lying atop the covers and slipped it on over her shirtwaist. She had to do a little jig to make it slide down. No question about it, she was still growing, and the pinafore was starting to pinch in certain critical places.
“Was it ’cause they didn’t think you were old enough?”
“Your grandma was only fifteen when she was married,” Sarah replied. “No, I think what riled them was who I married. I could’ve been forty and they wouldn’t have approved. Turns out they were both right. Too late for me to apologize now that they’re both gone. I was too smart and too pig-headed to listen to the advice of a couple of old folks.”
Megan adjusted the pinafore to its unsatisfactory best, then picked up her hairbrush and began working on her waist-length hair.
“Do you think you’ll be happy married to Hull?”
“Who says we’re getting married? Girl, you’ve been growing up when I wasn’t looking.”
Megan smiled at her reflection. “Hull’s nice enough, isn’t he?”
Her mother’s response was deliberately flat. “Yes, he’s nice.”
“He likes me, and I know he likes you. Don’t you like him?”
“Hull’s all right. Yes, I like him, but people don’t get married just because they like one another.”
A dreamy cast came over Megan’s face as she swayed approvingly before the mirror. “Do preachers get married?”
“I don’t see why not.”
That comment brought forth a broad smile from both the reflection in the mirror and its owner. A few final sharp strokes through her tresses and Megan returned the brush to its resting place atop the bureau. She all but skipped into the next room.
“Is my hem long enough?”
Sarah turned to her daughter, and Megan saw that she wasn’t the only woman in the house who had been hard at work on her appearance. Her mother’s long hair had been piled up into an elegant knot atop her head, where it was secured in place by tortoiseshell pins.
“Why yes. And you look lovely.” Rising, she planted a kiss on her daughter’s forehead. “You’re the prettiest daughter I could ever have. That anyone could ever have.”
Megan fidgeted under the praise while simultaneously casting an envious eye on her mother’s elaborate coiffure and wondering if she could somehow manage to duplicate it. It wasn’t that it made Sarah’s hair any more attractive as much as it contributed to her more, well, more mature appearance, something that concerned Megan very much just now.
Hull had resurrected his Long Tom, but instead of setting it back up at the far end of his claim where it had stood originally, he’d moved it downstream. Now it stood in the lee of the pulverized boulder whose disintegration Josh Lahood’s henchman had inadvertently begun.
It was strange having help. He’d worked alone for so many years he hardly knew how to handle not having to do everything himself. Of course, he was within easy shouting range of his fellow miners, but men like Conway and Miller hadn’t come to the mountains to idle away their days in casual conversation. Time enough for that after sundown, when it grew too cold and dark to work.
And even then there were those in whom the gold fever ran so hot that they remained to work their claims by the light
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