His Substitute Wife Read online

  Will I? Will I ever forget the feel of Linda in my arms? Will the longing to hold her and kiss her, to have her for my own, ever go away? He stared down at the baskets and clenched his hands to keep from throwing them at the wall, busting the table in pieces and walking out the door to never return. It would cost him all he had to leave, but he could find employment, make his way somehow. At least he would be away from all these things that brought back the memory of his plans for a life with Linda. But he had Audrey to think of now. She had come all this way to save his store for him; he couldn’t walk out on the debt he owed her for that. He had to figure out a plan that would release them both from this sham of a marriage!

  His temple throbbed. He unclenched his hands, piled the baskets one atop the other and carried them to the counter. Audrey had that stricken look in her eyes again. He groped for something to take her mind off Linda and their situation. “Show me where you would place the things in the window and I’ll clear the spot. If you’re of a mind to, you can put the things you suggested there while I finish switching the goods on the tables.”

  She nodded, picked up the bolt of green organdy and followed him down the length of the counter toward the window. “I think it would be good to put them in the center front, where those saws are—if that’s all right?”

  “Makes sense.” It was the best response he could manage. He lifted the saws out of the window and carried them to the storage room, fighting the swelling pain of betrayal.

  * * *

  “I’ll tell them if I ain’t too busy—or they ain’t.”

  What an officious little man! Audrey held her smile and stared back at the stationmaster peering out at them, his balding gray head and slumped shoulders framed by the ticket window in the depot wall.

  “But I can’t promise you. Things get busier than a hornet’s nest ’round here when a train stops. Them conductors only got but twenty minutes to get any messages from dispatch, see to their passengers and the loadin’ and unloadin’ of freight before they’re out of here. And we got to see to the consignments and waybills. And I got the telegraph and all.”

  Blake nodded, let go of her arm and shoved his fingers through his hair. “I understand you have a job to do, Asa. And I know it’s against the Union Pacific rules for any signs to be placed on their stations. But I was wondering if a small one sitting here at the window would be acceptable? That would—”

  “I’m afraid not. Rule says clear, no signs nowhere on the property. There’s the telegraph! Got to answer it.” The balding gray head dipped her direction. “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Latherop.”

  “And you, Mr. Marsh.” She was talking to air. The stationmaster had slipped off his stool and disappeared. Clicking sounds drifted out of the open ticket window.

  “Well, that puts paid to that idea.” Blake frowned, grasped her elbow and turned toward the steps. “I’ll have to wait for the train passengers’ patronage until I get the store sign made. A large sign, big enough to be read from here. I’ll hang it on the board across the top of the porch.”

  “And that will teach Mr. Marsh there is more than one way to skin a cat!”

  Blake jerked to a stop. His eyebrows rose. “‘Skin a cat’? Why, Audrey Prescott...er Latherop. You’ve read Major Jack Downing’s adventures!”

  She lifted her chin. “Hasn’t everyone?”

  His smile turned into a grin—the crooked kind he used to wear when he teased her about something. “Men, yes. But I don’t know any other women who read Seba Smith. They read Godey’s Lady’s Book.” The grin faded with his words. He released her arm, looked off into the distance.

  Godey’s Lady’s Book. Linda’s favorite—for fashion. Linda didn’t read the articles. She took a breath and prepared to throw herself on the sacrificial pyre of Blake’s teasing. Anything to draw his thoughts back away from her sister. “Father and I read Major Downing’s adventures together. We discussed them over his morning coffee.” Blake didn’t respond. She moved closer to the edge of the platform, looked down the dirt road to the beginning of the town and returned to their purpose in coming to the depot.

  “A large sign will be easily read from here, Blake. And I’m certain one will draw the passengers to your store.” She glanced over her shoulder at him, then lifted her hems and walked down the steps. “Twenty minutes is a long time to simply stand around this station trying not to get in the way of the other passengers or the train crew. And the short walk will be inviting to those who have been sitting in a swaying passenger car for hours.”

  “I’d forgotten how optimistic you are, Audrey.” Blake trotted down the steps and stood beside her. “You’re right about the sign. But it has to wait until the store is painted and the trim finished, so there’s the meantime—and it’s obvious Asa Marsh will be of little help. But it’s my own fault. I should have waited to open the store. I was too eager to—” He bit off the words, grasped her left hand and tucked it through the crook of his right arm. “In case anyone sees us walking while I show you around Whisper Creek.”

  “Such as it is...” She took a skip to catch up with his long strides.

  “Sorry.” His steps slowed, stopped. He stared down at her hand resting on his arm. “Where’s your ring?”

  “The ring is safe in its box.” She lifted her chin, looked full into his eyes. “It’s too large and I don’t want to lose it—should anyone ask.” The muscle along his jaw twitched. He nodded and moved forward. She cast about for something to distract him from his tormenting thoughts. “The hotel looks finished outside, except for needing paint and trim like your store. But, I can hear them working inside. When does Mr. Stevenson expect to open for business?”

  “Mr. Stevenson?” Blake stopped walking, gave her a puzzled look.

  Featherbrain! You distracted him all right. How would you know the hotel owner’s name? She widened her eyes in a look of confusion. “Am I wrong? These things were only mentioned in passing.” Oh, wonderful! That will keep him from thinking of Linda. She pressed her lips together and slid her gaze back to the large raw building before more of her knowledge of Whisper Creek and its residents slipped out. Blake was too much of a gentleman to question her explanation, but she could almost hear him wondering how much of his letters Linda had shared with her. Blessed Lord, please don’t let him guess that it was the other way around. That I—

  “The name is correct. Your memory serves you well.” His arm relaxed beneath her hand. She held back a sigh when they started walking again. “To answer your question—Garret Stevenson hopes to open by the end of September on a limited basis. It will be winter before all of the rooms are finished. And then, of course, they will have to be painted and furnished before they can be occupied.”

  “And he will buy the paint and the furnishings from you? That’s wonderful, Blake!” She smiled up at him. His strained look brought her back to reality. “I mean—if you still have the store then.”

  “Which I will—if I can’t come up with a plan.” Bitterness laced his voice. “I’ve tried, but I’ve thought of nothing that will work. If it weren’t for that contract I signed...”

  Her heart ached for him. “It’s not even been a full day, Blake. And this is an...unusual circumstance. You will think of something.”

  “More optimism?”

  His teasing tone fell flat. “No, not optimism. I have faith in your abilities.” She waved her hand forward. “What is the building on the other side of your store going to be?”

  “An apothecary. The owner is not in town yet.” His gaze shifted to their right. “I assume he and his wife will come when the store and their house are finished.”

  She looked away from the twitching muscle along his jaw and followed the direction of his gaze. A narrow path to the side of the stores led into the tall grasses. She lifted her gaze into the distance and gasped at the sight of a large white house with
a porch and a round turret situated by the creek that flowed down the long valley. “What a beautiful house. It could sit on the finest street in New York.”

  “It belongs to Mr. Ferndale, the town founder. The smaller, octagon-shaped house under construction is the apothecary’s.”

  “Octagon-shaped? I’ve never seen such a house!” Framework for the eight-sided structure sat beside the creek a fair distance beyond the Ferndale home. Movement caught her eye and she shaded her face with her hand, made out the figures of two men crawling along the roof. The muted sound of hammering floated off down the broad valley. She looked into the distance beyond the homes until her gaze collided with the encompassing snowcapped mountains. “I thought the West was full of cows and cowboys and such.” She drew her gaze back to look up at him. “Where are the ranches?”

  “There aren’t many in Wyoming, though ranchers are beginning to move in because of the land opening up and the railroad coming through. I’ve heard some cowboys bought the land in the adjoining valley and are building a cabin and pens and such. Rumor is, they plan to go back to Texas and bring a herd of cattle up next spring. But it’s only rumor. What I know for certain is that there will be no ranches in this valley. Mr. Ferndale owns all of the land and he refuses to have Whisper Creek turn into what he calls a ‘rowdy cow town’ with drinking and gambling and other...disreputable pursuits. He envisions Whisper Creek as a town modeled after his home village back East. That’s why he advertised for—why he won’t allow bachelor businessmen to invest in the town. He wants men who will build stores and homes and raise families here.” He turned his back, cleared his throat.

  She stared at his rigid shoulders, snagged her lip with her teeth and clenched her hands. Linda Marie Prescott—or whatever your name is now—it’s fortunate for you you’re not here, because I could cheerfully shake you until your teeth rattled! She looked around for a safe subject, found it in the water gushing and splashing down the mountain behind his store. “Is it possible to get closer to the waterfall, Blake? I’ve never seen one.”

  “Yes, of course.” He turned and offered her his arm. “It’s a bit of a walk—if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. It’s a lovely day.”

  “All right then. We’ll go around the hotel to reach the path. I’m afraid it is not a good one, merely beaten-down grasses.”

  He led her between a small copse of pines and the side of the hotel, then turned right and walked along a rutted dirt path that ran behind the buildings. She glanced up to get her bearings, stopped and stared at a wide, odd-looking wood barrow sitting beneath the floor of a deep, roofed porch. “What is that?”

  “My cart. It’s how I get my supplies from the depot to the store. That’s my loading dock.”

  She lifted her gaze. “Is that another porch above it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that building that adjoins the porch?”

  “My stable.”

  Her pulse jumped. She’d always wanted to ride a horse. Perhaps—“You ride?”

  “No. I need a horse to pull the cart. Mitchel Todd—he runs the logging operation here in Whisper Creek—has been allowing me the use of one of his horses until I can buy one.” He released her arm. “The path is this way. Take care where you step—the grasses are treacherous and the ground is rough where we buried the pipe for the water supply. The trail is too narrow to walk together. I’ll go first in case—”

  The blast of a train whistle drowned out his words. His head turned toward the tracks.

  The look in his eyes pricked her heart. He’s hoping Linda is on that train. He wants her to come back to him. Her hope for a pleasant, distracting walk to the waterfall died. She lifted her skirt hems and started up the few steps to the loading dock.

  He pivoted toward her. “What are you doing?”

  “I’ve changed my mind. I think it would be best if we stayed here.”

  “But the waterfall...”

  She shook her head and continued up the steps. “You can show me the waterfall another time. I forgot that Mr. Marsh might tell the porter about your store. You need to be here if any passengers come to make a purchase.” She hurried across the deep porch, wrenched open the door and rushed through the storage room and up the stairs, aware of him following behind her. She reached the top, swung around the newel post into the short hall on the right and peered over the railing. Blake paused at the bottom of the stairs, then walked on. Tears stung her eyes at the anguish in his unguarded expression. She listened to his footsteps fade away as he entered the store.

  Every part of her being longed to help him, to right the wrong done him, but it was impossible. She knew from experience that only God could heal his wounded heart. She shoved away from the railing, grasped hold of her skirts and walked into the bedroom she was using—their bedroom. Everything here was either built or purchased with her sister in mind. There was no place in the living quarters she could go that did not remind her of Linda. And if it was that way for her, how much worse it was for Blake. What had ever made her think coming here to save Blake’s store would ease his agony over Linda’s betrayal? How could he forget what had happened when everything around him was a constant reminder of his lost love? Including her. She never should have come.

  Her back stiffened. It was another mistake she would have to live with. She was here now. And she would make the best of it for Blake and herself until he came up with a different plan to save his inheritance. There was no doubt that he would—or that his plan would be much more sensible than hers. Meantime, she would stop trying to ease his pain over Linda’s desertion and concentrate on making his life, and hers, as comfortable and pleasant as possible under the circumstances—starting with this room.

  She marched to the bed, stripped off and folded the beautiful blue-and-white coverlet, then opened the blanket chest at the foot of the bed. She snatched out a wool blanket the mustard color of an autumn leaf and put the coverlet inside. The silver ring box gleamed at her. She spread the blanket on the bed, snatched up the ring box and shoved it out of sight at the bottom of the chest. The throw on the back of the rocker worked nicely to hide the ornate dressing table. She arranged her grooming items on top of the woven wool, straightened and looked around. Much better. At least she would be able to sleep in this room now.

  Now, for Blake’s room. She set herself, walked the U-shaped hallway around the stairwell, grasped the knob on his bedroom door and froze, unable to open it. It was too...intimate. She whirled about and started back down the hallway.

  The room is empty but for a cot.

  She stopped, turned and stared at the door once more. A deep breath steadied her. She squared her shoulders, marched back and opened the door. A cot stood in the middle of the room, a sheet, blanket and pillow tangled together on top of it—mute testimony of a sleepless night. She blinked away a rush of tears and opened the doors of a sizable wardrobe on the inside wall. There was a canvas bag on the floor with a rumpled white shirt sticking out of it. She closed the doors and hurried back to her bedroom to get clean linens.

  * * *

  It was a challenge. Audrey eyed the cot she’d moved so it sat between the two shuttered windows in the side wall and nibbled at her lower lip. How could she make the bed linens stay in place? There was nowhere to tuck them, unless—She smiled, snapped the sheet through the air, let the excess fall to the floor and then tucked the corners beneath the feet of the crisscrossed legs. That should work. Blake’s weight would hold the corners of the sheet firmly in place. She added a top sheet and then the blanket, tucking only the bottom corners under the legs at the foot of the cot, then shoved the pillow into a clean pillow slip, fluffed it and laid it on top. There!

  She gathered up the dirty linens, shoved them in the bag in the wardrobe, then stepped back and eyed her handiwork. At least the cot looked more like a bed now. And, if her idea worked
as she hoped, Blake would be able to sleep without the linens strangling him in a tangled mess. But he needed a bedside table, and an oil lamp—the days were getting shorter. There had to be one she could use somewhere.

  She rushed out into the hallway, glanced toward the door to Blake’s office on her left, then walked ahead to the sitting room. She did not want to overstep her wifely role in this strange marriage. She wouldn’t enter his office unless he gave her permission to clean it. She swept her gaze around the sitting room and spotted a lamp table in the far corner. Would Blake be upset if she took it for his use? Perhaps not, once the deed was done. She carried the table and oil lamp back to Blake’s bedroom and placed them beneath the shuttered window on the right side of his cot. Perfect!

  Now, for his clothes. They would be in a dresser in her room—the bedroom he’d planned to share with Linda. Guilt tightened her chest. She pushed it aside and concentrated on the task she’d set herself. She had to bring Blake’s clothes in here where they would be handy for his use. If he didn’t have to constantly enter that bedroom it would be one less reminder of Linda’s betrayal.

  She returned to her room and opened one of the large bottom drawers of the highboy. Shirts. She’d guessed right—it was Blake’s dresser. Propriety blended with modesty and brought warmth crawling into her cheeks. She closed the drawer and stared at the dresser. This was too intimate. How could she possibly move his clothes?

  Pillow slips.

  The idea brought a smile to her lips. She ran to the blanket chest and pulled out a pillow slip, returned to the highboy, covered Blake’s shirts and pulled the drawer free. The bulky weight plopped her to the floor on her backside. “Oh!” She shoved the drawer off her legs, scrambled to her feet, lifted it tight against her stomach and headed for the door. It was a close fit. She turned sideways and edged out into the hallway.

  “Audrey, I heard a scraping sound. What are you doing?”

  Blake! She whipped around toward the stairs, caught her toe in the hem of her skirt, stumbled and pitched forward, still clutching the drawer that rammed straight into Blake’s abdomen.