His Substitute Wife Read online

  “I’ll do that.” Blake bent and reached for the rag on the porch floor.

  “Here, Blake, use this.” Audrey held out her handkerchief. “That rag is so dirty you’ll get more paint on you than you’ll take off.”

  “I don’t want to ruin your handkerchief.” He scowled, turned his head a bit. “I can’t see my face in this window anyway. I’ll just—”

  “Let me.” She dipped her handkerchief in linseed oil and stepped close. “Bend down.” She went up on tiptoe, turned his face toward the light and dabbed at the paint. “I don’t want to wipe it and smear it all over your cheek.”

  “At least it’s not dark green.”

  She looked into his eyes, warm with a teasing light, and lost her balance, fell against him. He caught her with his free hand. Her pulse jumped, raced. Heat spread across her cheeks. She pushed herself erect, tugged at her bodice. “I’m sorry. That was clumsy of me.”

  “I’ll steady you.” He clasped her about the waist.

  She told herself not to think of the warmth and strength in his arm, or how it would be to have the right to rest her head against his shoulder. She willed her hand to stop shaking and reached for his face again.

  “Good thing I didn’t grab you with the hand I’ve got this brush in.” He frowned, cleared his throat. “I should put it down, before I get paint on your gown.”

  “No need, I’m finished.” She settled back on her heels, wished she could have stayed in his clasp, and immediately chastised herself for the thought. She grabbed hold of the broom she’d leaned against the railing and swept the pile of dust from the porch down the steps and into the road. The horse snorted, tossed her head. She leaned the broom against the porch and stepped over to the mare, stroking the velvet-soft muzzle and crooning tender words.

  “I didn’t know you liked horses.”

  She looked up and watched Blake come down the steps, paint bucket in hand. Her pulse stuttered when he stopped beside her. She nodded, focused her watery gaze on the mare. “I’ve loved horses since I was a little girl. I used to beg to be taken for carriage rides in the park. Father always promised we would get a horse, but we never did.” She combed through the mare’s forelock with her fingers, smoothed it down. “You don’t need a horse living in the city. But I thought living out here a horse would be a necessity.”

  “It would—if I’d turned cowboy instead of storekeeper.”

  She glanced up. Her stomach fluttered at his teasing grin.

  “What’s this about turning cowboy?” Mitch Todd strode out of the store balancing a small keg of nails on each shoulder. The door swung closed behind him, the bell jangling.

  Blake laughed. “I was just joking. I’m not cowboy material. I’ve seen the way they ride.” He set down the bucket of paint and lifted a keg from Mitch’s shoulder to the wagon. “This another load of wood for the apothecary’s house? I thought that was almost finished.”

  “It is.” Mitch set the other keg on the seat and freed the reins. “You’re looking at the parsonage. John Ferndale told me to start building it. We hauled in a load of stone from the mountain and finished laying up the foundation walls yesterday. In case you don’t know—this is your last keg of four-pennys.”

  “I’ve got them on order. They could be in today.”

  The words brought a tingle of pride in Blake’s success with the store. She smiled and looked down the road at the stone-framed hole in the ground beside the church. “Pastor Karl must be excited. He will soon be reunited with his family.”

  “It will be a little while, but I’ve got three men working on the parsonage.” Mitch stepped up into the wagon, clicked his tongue and grinned. “We want to keep our pastor happy.”

  “I can’t think of anything that would do that better than having his wife and children with him.”

  Something in Blake’s voice made her heart ache with the wish that it could be so for him. She wouldn’t allow her thoughts to go further than that. She glanced up at him, her breath catching at his handsome profile as he stood beside her watching the wagon lumber down the rutted road toward the church, and couldn’t resist the need to know. “Do you want children, Blake?” He looked down and heat flowed across her cheeks. “I mean...when—”

  “I know what you meant, Audrey.” The muscle along his jaw jumped. He leaned down and grabbed the handle on the bucket of paint. “Yes. I want children someday. Every man does.” He stopped, looked at the bucket in his hand. “I’ll take this around to the loading dock and clean things up before the next train comes.” He strode off around the corner.

  She stared after him, his figure blurred by the film of tears in her eyes. “Forgive me, Lord. I’ve caused so much hurt. Please let Blake find true love with a woman who will make him happy. A woman who will bear him the children he hopes to have one day. Please, Lord, it’s my fault he’s in this position. Please help him to find the answer he needs to save his inheritance so he can be free of our pretend marriage and find the woman who will answer the longing of his heart.” Would any woman be able to do that after his love for Linda?

  “Good morning, Mrs. Latherop. How are you keeping this lovely day?”

  Oh, no! She blinked her vision clear, spun about to face Pastor Karl. Had he overheard her prayer? “I’m fine. It is a lovely day, isn’t it? And an exciting one for you. Mr. Todd told us that they are going to start building the parsonage today.” Stop blabbering! She gripped her broom handle and forced a smile. “May I help you?”

  “Indeed. I believe you are the very person I need to help me.”

  “Then I shall be pleased to do so.” She lifted her hems with her free hand and climbed the steps, entered the door he opened for her and set the broom in the corner out of the way. The pastor started talking before the bell stopped jingling.

  “I have a problem.” He removed his hat, held it at his side. “Mr. Todd told me yesterday that the parsonage will be ready to occupy within two weeks’ time. I was so excited I sent Ivy—that’s my wife—a telegram with the good news. Her reply came this morning. I just received it from Asa Marsh.” He lifted his right hand, the telegram gripped in it. “She’s bought the tickets for her and the children. They will be here in two weeks!”

  The man looked completely undone. She hastened to calm him. “And how is it you wish me to help?”

  “Any number of ways!” The pastor paced back and forth in front of the counter, the telegram flapping in his hand. “Mrs. Karl and I have always moved into parsonages that have been occupied by a previous pastor and his family. Moving into an unfurnished parsonage is a new experience for me, and, well, I’m feeling quite inadequate.” He stopped pacing, shoved the telegram into his coat pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “I have been writing down everything Mrs. Karl mentions in her letters that she will need at the parsonage. But the list is nowhere near complete. Even I can tell she will need much more than what she mentions. And, well...” He gave her a pleading look.

  “You would like me to go over the list with you?”

  “To start.”

  “To start?” She stared.

  “Mrs. Latherop, I know you’re a new bride, and that you spend a good deal of your time helping your husband in the store. And I feel terrible for asking, but there is no other woman in Whisper Creek but Mrs. Ferndale, and while I appreciate her good heart and giving nature, she’s just not capable of doing what I need.”

  “And what is that, Pastor Karl?”

  He handed her the paper. “If you would go over this list and add any necessities that Ivy has not mentioned. Mr. Ferndale and the church will be paying, so no luxuries, of course. And please set aside for us the items already here in the store that we will need, and have your husband order the rest—along with the necessary furniture. Only the bare minimum, of course. We can do without any carpets or runners or such things. And then—�
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  “Yes?”

  “If you would come to the parsonage and put all of the furnishings in order—the way a woman likes them.” His eyes pleaded with her. “I will understand if you do not wish to—”

  “I will be happy to do whatever I can, Pastor Karl. I will go over the list today and have Mr. Latherop order the necessary items.” She glanced down at the paper. “I believe you mentioned children. And children have specific needs, depending on their ages...”

  “Of course—how remiss of me!” His face flushed. “Mrs. Karl always takes care of the things concerning the children.”

  “Mothers usually do.” She smiled, moved behind the counter and picked up a pen. “What are your children’s ages?”

  “Edward is nine years old, Minna is seven years old and Nixie is four years old.” The pastor’s face softened; a smile curved his lips. “They write me notes at the end of their mother’s letters. Even Nixie has learned to write ‘I love you, Papa’—though I’m certain it’s with her mother’s help.” The pastor straightened and slapped his palm against the counter.

  She jerked, making an ink blotch on the paper.

  “It has just occurred to me, Mrs. Latherop, that letters are wonderful things. They are uplifting and strengthening and...” The pastor laughed and stepped back from the counter. “And I think there is a sermon in there somewhere. I shall save it for church.” He dipped his head in a small, polite bow. “Thank you, Mrs. Latherop, for your kindness in helping me to prepare for my family’s arrival. Now, I must get back to the church and help as best I can. Good day. And may God bless your marriage with happiness and healthy children as He has Ivy’s and mine.” He walked to the door, pulled it open. “I will return later in case there is some information you need.”

  “There is one thing more. You didn’t mention if Mrs. Karl is shipping any of your personal furniture or household equipment.”

  “No, nothing but clothes and personal items. When you live in a parsonage, the furnishings all belong to the church.”

  The door closed behind him, the bell jangling. She looked at the list and sighed. It was a short list. It seemed the Karls were accustomed to living with very little in the way of comfort. She heard the sound of footsteps and looked up. Blake stood in the storage room doorway, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, a towel in his hands. A faint smell of linseed oil and turpentine wafted into the room. “I was washing up and couldn’t help but overhear.” He tossed the towel to the side and stepped into the room. “It sounds as if you have quite a task ahead of you.”

  Did he approve? “And you, also. There is a lot of furniture and other household items that will need to be ordered. I only hope they will arrive before Mrs. Karl and the children.”

  “Then we had best start. You tell me what is needed, and I will make out the orders. That will save time as I am familiar with the various companies with which I do business. And I know the products they sell, and which are of the best quality.” He joined her behind the counter and reached for paper and pen. “Let’s begin with the furniture as there are most likely to be shipping problems or delays with large items. What is first?”

  “I haven’t gone over the list as yet. But we can do this room by room. We’ll start with the bedrooms as they require the least fussing. They will need beds, of course.”

  “How many of what size?” He looked up and their gazes met. Her heart skipped. He cleared his throat.

  “I don’t know.” She pulled her thoughts together. “There are three children—two daughters and a son. I suppose the girls share a bed.”

  “That makes sense. So, two double beds and a single.” He frowned, lifted his pen from the paper. “Perhaps we should make that three double beds to allow for an...er...addition to the family.”

  “And if the...addition is another daughter?”

  “There is that. Though it hardly seems fair to the boy.” His grin set her pulse skipping again. “All right. Two double beds and one single. What’s next? Dressers? Three of them?”

  “Three will be sufficient if there are wardrobes in the rooms. And three nightstands to hold oil lamps. Will they need washstands?”

  “No. There will be a dressing room like ours, with a bathing tub and hot water.”

  Ours. He didn’t mean it the way it sounded, of course. But the word stole her breath just the same.

  * * *

  Blake glanced at the page number and set his book aside. It was too comfortable sitting and reading while Audrey sat on the settee and sewed. And too easy to remember things that were better forgotten—like the way the light had edged her red curls with gold when she bent her head over that list. Or the way the look in her eyes had softened when they talked about the Karl children. He bit back a growl, went to the window and looked down the moonlit road toward the train depot, fixing his thoughts on the mundane. “The store did a good business today.”

  “And well it should. You have worked hard to make the store a success.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at her. “As have you.”

  She looked up from her sewing, shook her head. “I only help when things are busy. It is your skill and ability that have enabled you to attain your goal.”

  He frowned, irritated by her niceness. He was itching for something to break this...this hominess. “Don’t you ever accept credit for the things you do?”

  Her eyes widened. She gazed up at him for a moment then lowered her head. “I gobble it up like candy when it’s deserved.”

  “Well, that judgment should be left to others.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. I guess I’ve never thought about it that way.” She shifted the green dress in her lap, lined up the lace she was attaching to the collar.

  The stove crackled, poured warmth into the room. He shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the window frame. “The nights are cooling fast. I’ve been wondering what winter will be like here in Wyoming. I’ve asked a few people, but they are all from back East and no one knows. At least we don’t have to worry about being cold. Not with the coal being mined close by, and the train hauling it east.”

  “And with this wonderfully comfortable home you’ve built.” She rested her hands in her lap, looked at him and smiled. The gold flecks in her eyes warmed to a dreamy glow. “I can’t wait to see how beautiful the mountains will be with the pine trees having a white covering like frosting on a cake. And the trains chugging through the valley when it’s all covered with snow.”

  “If we’re here.”

  The glow in her eyes faded. “Yes. There is that to consider.” She lifted the dress and took another stitch.

  Guilt pierced him. Audrey didn’t deserve to suffer for his foul mood. He yanked a hand from his pocket and scrubbed the back of his neck, searching his mind for a topic that would put that happy lilt back in her voice. “I haven’t had a chance to ask about your visit with Mrs. Ferndale the other day. Did everything go all right?”

  “Yes. It was very pleasant.”

  “Then she didn’t ask you any difficult-to-answer questions?”

  “No. I was worried about that—unnecessarily so.” She set her sewing aside and rose, ran her palms down the front of her skirt. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

  What had caused that abrupt change of subject? “Sounds good.” Surprise flashed in her eyes. If she hadn’t expected him to agree, why had she offered? Curiosity rose. He followed her into the kitchen and adjusted the draft to make the coal burn hot while she filled the teapot with water. “What did you and Mrs. Ferndale talk about?”

  “Oh, this and that—a lot of woman things.” She spooned tea into the china teapot, went to the dresser for cups and saucers.

  She was avoiding looking at him. His curiosity deepened. “Such as...”

  “Her needlepoint—she does lovely work. And her d
aughters. And letters. And cooking.” She took biscuits from a cupboard, put them on a plate with marmalade and honey.

  He split one of the biscuits and drizzled honey on it, mentally discarding the topics of needlepoint and cooking. “What kind of letters?”

  She bit at her lip, brushed a few biscuit crumbs off the worktable and threw them away. “Homesick ones.”

  “To her daughters?”

  “No. They’re not her letters. That is, she didn’t write them.”

  He held his silence.

  She poked at the curls on her forehead, smoothed the front of her gown. “It was a story she told about her grandmother and grandfather. Do you want butter for your biscuits?”

  “No, thank you.” He went to the refrigerator for the milk, then leaned against the worktable and watched her. She was nervous. And it seemed to have something to do with the story about those letters. “What was the story?”

  “Something about her grandfather being lonely when he came to America.” She picked up the plate of biscuits and carried them to the table, arranged the cups and saucers and flatware, smoothed the tablecloth.

  “So he wrote letters home to his wife?”

  “No. He wasn’t married...then.” She went to the stove and poured the steaming water into the china teapot, then turned to face him. “He wrote back home to his sister, asking her to come to America and offering her a home with him.”

  He picked up the tea tray and carried it to the table, heard her sigh. She had no choice but to follow. “So his sister came to America...” He used his tone to urge her to continue.

  “No.” She poured their tea and slipped onto the chair across from him. “His sister was to be married. She told a friend about her brother’s letter, and the sympathetic friend wrote him a letter...to help keep him from being lonely. He was attracted to her...kindness and wrote her in return.”

  “I should think so.” She glanced up but looked away before he could read the expression in her eyes. “And this is the young woman who became Mrs. Ferndale’s grandmother.”