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Spring Creek Bride

By Janice Thompson

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CHAPTER ONE

Spring, Texas 1902
Ida Mueller pressed a lock of unruly hair behind her ear and rounded the large dining table with a chipped serving bowl in hand. Chair legs scraped against the wood-planked floor as the rowdy lumber mill workers rushed to seat themselves in readiness for another of her home-cooked meals. She couldn’t help but smile at their enthusiasm.
“Smells good enough to eat!” one of the younger fellows chided.
Ida plopped a spoonful of crisp fried potatoes onto his plate and kept moving as she responded. “You’ve eaten at my table every day for nearly a year, Carl Walken, and haven’t found reason to complain yet.” She reached up with the back of her hand and wiped a bit of perspiration from her brow.
His eyebrows elevated mischievously. “Ain’t just the food keeps me coming back.” A playful wink followed.
“Ya reckon?” Another of the men elbowed him.
Several of the fellows let out whistles and Ida felt her cheeks turn warm. She scurried around to the opposite side of the room and continued on with the chore of feeding the work crew, doing all she could to ignore their usual flirtatious ways.
“None of that now.” Her father’s stern voice rang out from the head of the table. She shot a smile in his direction. He always knew how to keep his men in line, especially when it came to his daughter.
“Aw, Mr. Mueller.” One of the fellows groaned. “You never let us have any fun.”
“Better mind your P’s and Q’s,” Ida quipped. “I’ve got a platter of Weiner Schnitzel in the kitchen, but I’ve half a mind not to serve it.”
The men took to hearty grumbling and she returned to the kitchen for the cumbersome platter of meat. For a moment—just a moment—she leaned against the countertop and drew in a deep breath. The south Texas heat wrapped itself around her like a dressing gown and she fought to think clearly.
On days like this, and in situations like this, she missed her Mama more than ever. Seven years as the woman of the house had scarcely proven Ida worthy of filling her mother’s shoes. Sure, Papa offered plenty of encouragement, but she struggled daily to keep up with the workload of caring for her home, her father, and a crew of ravenous workers. And she struggled to overcome the grief of losing the one person a girl depended on above all others—her mother. Oh, how she longed for what she could not have.
“I need you, Mama,” she whispered. Indeed, at this awkward age of nineteen, Ida found herself in need of a great many things that only a mother could offer – a shoulder to cry on, an ear to question and a heart to share. Instead, she found herself relying on Papa’s manly advice, and the ever-present teasing from the lumber mill workers, a daily reminder that she, a lone female, resided in a world of men.
“Mama, I don’t know how you did it.” She whispered the familiar words as she snatched up the plate full of Weiner Schnitzel and headed back into the dining room once again.
As she came around the corner, Ida caught a glimpse of herself in the elegant carved mirror that hung above the buffet. Frustrated, she reminded herself to deal with her uncontrollable blonde hair after feeding the crew. How any of the men could find her attractive remained a mystery.
Besides, Aunt Dinah would never let her hear the end of it if she didn’t start taking better care of herself. Ever the proper lady, Ida’s best friend and confidante was of the notion that a woman should be able to handle a full day’s work, a brisk walk to town to help tend the family store and an hour’s Bible reading in the evenings, with time left over for necessary grooming. All in the hopes of acquiring the one thing Ida wasn’t sure she wanted—a husband.
No matter how far she looked, Ida remained convinced she would never find a man who even came close to the one she held in the highest esteem—her Papa. She would never settle on a husband till she found a man as amazing as he—strong spirited, full of goodness, and with a heart like a jewel. No, surely such a fellow did not exist. And if he did, he certainly didn’t appear to be seated at this table.
Ida couldn’t help but give her father an admiring gaze as she carried on with the business of feeding the men. Even for a man in his late forties, Dirk Mueller was quite a handsome fellow. He wore his strong German features proudly, and still carried the rich accent of his parents, who had settled in Texas nearly fifty years ago to begin their mill work. His heavy blonde moustache had lately begun to gray, she’d noticed, but it didn’t matter. He was still every bit the mighty man she’d always known and loved.
Any future husband of Ida’s had some mighty big shoes to fill.
Not that she needed to be daydreaming about husbands.
“Thinkin’ I’m hungry?” Ida looked down as Carl spoke, shocked to see that she had placed five or six large slabs of the veal steak on his plate.
“Oh dear.”
Her father’s eyebrows arched as if to ask the obvious, “Where is your head today, daughter?”
She simply shrugged and lifted three of the pieces of meat from Carl’s plate. “I knew you had a taste for my cooking, is all.”
With fork in one hand and knife in the other, the young man dove into the food. The others followed suit and the air soon filled with the sound of chomping, chewing and cutting.
Her father cleared his throat quite loudly and Ida anticipated his next words. She knew him so well.
“I don’t believe we’ve thanked the Almighty yet.” Her Papa’s voice deepened in reverence. “So you’ll be putting down those utensils, gentlemen, or there will be no dinner for you today. Or any other day, for that matter.”
They complied with sheepish grins, as always.
Ida couldn’t help but notice her father’s beautiful German accent deepened further as his prayer began. “Almighty God, Maker of heaven and earth, we thank Thee for this, Thy bounty. For Thy goodness is everlasting, from generation to generation, and Thy blessings overflow. Be with each of these men today as they seek to serve Thee with their labors. Amen.”
“Amen.” The men echoed, then tore into their food once again.
Ida slipped away into the kitchen, anxious for a moment’s peace. Perhaps here she could think clearly. Once the dishes were done, of course.
She worked at a steady pace, allowing her thoughts to drift—until a familiar shrill whistle signaled a train’s arrival. The afternoon run from Ft. Worth came like clockwork at 1:30, just as she finished washing the dishes. Some things were sure and certain.
Others were not.

***

Mick Bradley peered out of the grimy train window and took in his first glimpse of Spring, Texas. “Hmm.” Not quite what he had pictured and a sure sight hotter. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swept it across the back of his neck to remove the moisture. No point arriving in town looking like a vagabond. Not with so much at stake.
The porter approached, pocket watch in hand. “Just a few more minutes, Sir.”
Mick nodded in his direction, but said nothing. His mind took in the sights of his new home. Off in the distance a large hotel with a freshly painted sign greeted him. Sellers Hotel. And to his right, The Harvey House. After locating a barbershop, he’d have to settle on one or the other.
A bustling Mercantile appeared to be doing quite a good business. Shoppers scurried to and fro with packages on their arms, stirring up dust on the street. A couple of women caught his attention, but for the most part, he only noticed the men. Hundreds of men.
Yes, the booming little town of Spring must surely need his services.
Mick’s brow furrowed as he counted the saloons. “One, two…” He strained to see a bit further down the street. Three? In such a small area? Their owners would be a source of contention, no doubt. Surely they would seek to complicate his plans to build a new gambling hall.
But, what of it? He and his brother had encountered plenty of trouble when they opened their first place up north. These Texans couldn’t be any worse than Chicago’s most notorious, and he had handled them with little grief.
At that moment, two men took to brawling in the middle of the street, not twenty feet from the door of the jailhouse. The taller, more muscular one clearly had the upper hand. A crowd gathered round, cheering them on. Before long, the two were on the ground, tussling. They went at it, cheek to fist, until one of them passed out cold. With such a large group about, Mick couldn’t tell which one had taken the fall, but it must surely be the smaller of the two. That’s how life was, after all. The boisterous crowd thinned as it declared a victor and the little guy stood to his feet and raised his fist to the air with a triumphant shout.
“Hmm.” Maybe these Texans weren’t going to be so easy, after all.
The passenger in the seat next to him stood and gave a polite nod. Mick returned the gesture and rose to his feet. His back ached from sitting so long and his cramped legs begged for a good, long walk. How many trains had he boarded over the past several days? Somewhere between Illinois and Texas he’d simply lost count.
The next few weeks and months would give him plenty of opportunity to stretch his legs. And his imagination. Before long, he would be the talk of the town.
Probably sooner, rather than later.

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