The livery was always slower on Sundays. Perhaps after services, and after treating Clara to lunch, of course, he could put in more time on the house. If he worked diligently, he could finish it by the end of the month. It would still need furniture and trimmings here and there, but it would be livable.
And that’s when he could ask Clara to marry him.
Chapter Twelve
THE CHURCH SERVICEmet Clara’s every expectation. Reverend Marsh was an enthusiastic pastor, bringing the words of the Bible to life with his sermon, and the other people in attendance at the little church were friendly and welcoming. Clara was happy to recognize Caroline and Emma from the mercantile. Knowing those two ladies, along with Miss Darby and Abigail and Deirdre, who lived at the boardinghouse, Clara felt almost at home. Even the woman who had served them dinner at the hotel last evening, Miss Taylor, stopped to say hello.
And yet it was strange, too, to hear different sorts of birds through the open windows, singing along with the hymns, as she sat next to Roman. A distant hammering became the background to the service, from men who either didn’t attend or who were in a rush to finish work.
All the while, Roman sat beside her, his pleasant baritone singing along with the hymns, and the secure warmth of his presence making her feel as if all was right with the world. Occasionally, they’d catch each other’s eye and smile.
It was, Clara decided, the most enjoyable church service she’d ever attended.
“Would you like to have lunch?” Roman asked after they left the church.
Clara waved to Emma, with whom she planned to meet for tea later that afternoon at the mercantile. Emma was holding her baby and leaving at that moment with a tall dark-haired man Clara assumed must be her husband. Roman nodded to the man.
“I’d love to. I’m absolutely famished,” Clara said. “I believe Miss Darby put on a roast back at the boardinghouse.”
Roman offered his elbow, and Clara took it as they made their way down the road. “I have a much better idea. In fact, I might have already put it into motion with Miss Darby, so I hope you’ll be agreeable to it.”
“Oh?” Clara raised her eyebrows.
But Roman didn’t answer. Instead, he rewarded her with a mysterious smile and escorted her to the boardinghouse. Once there, he left Clara in the parlor and disappeared through the dining room toward the kitchen. When he emerged with a closed basket and a jar of lemonade, she figured out at least one piece of the puzzle.
“Are we having a picnic?” She stood, delighted at the idea.
“Perhaps,” was all Roman said, keeping up the mystery.
He led her behind the boardinghouse and past the hill where the hotel’s stables sat near the building. Before long, they arrived at a line of trees. Roman wove between cottonwoods and pines, Clara just behind him. On the other side of the trees, they emerged alongside a quiet little stream.
“This is Silver Creek,” Roman said, turning to see her reaction.
“It’s . . . beautiful . . .” Clara trailed off, thinking the word wasn’t quite enough for the scene that lay spread out before her. The creek was very low, but it still flowed silently along its way. Behind it, more trees sat watch as the ground began to rise in hills. And above the hills, the Sangre de Cristo Mountains towered, seemingly oblivious to the beauty they lent this tableau.
Roman set the basket down and tucked the jar of lemonade against a small stone before coming to join her. “Isn’t it? I never saw anything like this as a boy. When I arrived in Colorado, I remember I stood looking at the mountains, aghast at their sheer size. But I still hadn’t seen anything quite like this until I came to this valley. You ought to see the creek in May and June, when the snow is melting from the mountains. It resembles a small river then.”
