Twice a Bride Read Free

He was thirty-seven years old, and he’d grown tired of living out of avan. It was time he settled down; time that his clients came to him. That was why he’d opened the Photography Studio, although Colorado hadn’t been where he’d expected to hang his shingle. He’d spent some time in New York during his traveling years and had been set to return there with an ambitious wife to photograph the cream of society—magazine editors, newspaper moguls, and the latest songbirds of the opera.
    Trenton’s eyelid twitched, and he reached up to still it. He’d expected to return to New York with a wife, but then—
    The bell on the outer door jangled. He had company.
    Opening his mouth to speak, Trenton contested the persistent cramp in his tongue. “B-be … r-right there.” After adding the last sheet of parchment paper to the stack, he stepped into the office and closed the door to the darkroom behind him. Mollie Kathleen Gortner stood at the counter in a navy blue suit. An angled hat eclipsed the mine owner’s narrow face.
    “G-good day, m-ma’am.”
    “And to you, Mr. Van Der Veer.” She stared at the leather apron he’d donned to unpack the boxes. “You telephoned. My print is ready?”
    He’d telephoned Monday and had expected her to come by yesterday. As he opened his mouth to speak, he felt the muscles on the right side of his face contract. “Y-yes. Right here.” He lifted the portrait from a stack of prints beneath the counter and laid it in front of the businesswoman. She’d brought in a mine-claim certificate and a feathered fountain pen for her sitting.
    She examined the sepia image. “Nicely done, Mr. Van Der Veer.”
    “I’m g-glad you approve.” He’d like the image better if Mrs. Gortner hadn’t looked so serious. Perhaps women in Kansas weren’t alone in taking themselves too seriously. He shrugged. If only shrugging were enough to rid him of the memories.
    Mrs. Gortner pulled a fan from her reticule and flipped it open. “Has Mrs. Hattie Adams spoken with you yet?”
    No more than a handful of women had visited his shop. Mostly businessmen.Miss Mollie O’Bryan and Mrs. Gortner being the exceptions. “No. Sh-should I ex … pect her?”
    “Mrs. Adams is a widow and the owner of Miss Hattie’s Boardinghouse over on Golden Avenue. She’s been in town for at least a dozen years and is a good woman to know.” Mrs. Gortner fanned herself. A strand of red-brown hair streaked across her forehead. “As the co-chairwoman of the Women for the Betterment of Cripple Creek, I mentioned you and your photographic services at our meeting last Friday. Several of the women seemed taken with the idea of scheduling a sitting, Hattie Adams in particular.”
    “Thank you.” The two words jerked out as one.
    “You’re welcome.” Not seeming at all put off by his stammering, she returned her fan to her reticule and pulled out the balance she owed.
    After writing out a receipt, he slid the print into a crisp manila envelope, hoping the mine owner had the kind of influence that would bring him business.
    She held the photograph as if it were a fragile baby. “Do you know what else would help to make your business boom, Mr. Van Der Veer?”
    An articulate spokesman wouldn’t hurt.
    “Painted portraits are all the talk now, you know. You need to hire someone who can paint portraits from your photographs. The time saved from a portrait sitting would be a wonderful selling point.”
    He rubbed his jaw. He’d read all about photographic portraiture in Peterson’s National Magazine but hadn’t given it any thought.
    “Mark my words, Mr. Van Der Veer. You hire someone who can paint mantel portraits from your prints, and your quiet little business will boom.”
    “I’ll g-give it some thought, Mrs. Gortner, and let you know wh-what I decide.”
    Trenton opened the door for her, then looked at the clock above the door. He had a sitting in thirty minutes. Inside the studio, he set up his tripod six