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Mail-Order Bride Switch
Dorothy Clark
His Imposter Bride Garret Stevenson must find a bride or forfeit his newly built hotel. With his deadline approaching, he plans an in-name-only marriage with a maid who’ll cook and clean for his guests. When a pampered, pretty heiress arrives instead, the deception confirms Garret’s distrust of women. But Virginia Winterman has more substance than her elegant clothes suggest.Fleeing West to escape a cruel suitor, Virginia finds a business arrangement with Whisper Creek’s brusque hotel owner is mutually beneficial, and she relishes being useful. Yet what was once a practical solution soon blossoms into a deeper union. Can Garret get past old betrayals before his future with Virginia slips away?Stand-In Brides: Mail-order mix-ups turn into happy marriages in a new Wyoming town


His Imposter Bride
Garret Stevenson must find a bride or forfeit his newly built hotel. With his deadline approaching, he plans an in-name-only marriage with a maid who’ll cook and clean for his guests. When a pampered, pretty heiress arrives instead, the deception confirms Garret’s distrust of women. But Virginia Winterman has more substance than her elegant clothes suggest.
Fleeing West to escape a cruel suitor, Virginia finds a business arrangement with Whisper Creek’s brusque hotel owner is mutually beneficial, and she relishes being useful. Yet what was once a practical solution soon blossoms into a deeper union. Can Garret get past old betrayals before his future with Virginia slips away?
Award-winning author DOROTHY CLARK lives in rural New York. Dorothy enjoys traveling with her husband throughout the United States doing research and gaining inspiration for future books. Dorothy believes in God, love, family and happy endings, which explains why she feels so at home writing stories for Love Inspired Books. Dorothy enjoys hearing from her readers and may be contacted at dorothyjclark@hotmail.com.
Also By Dorothy Clark (#ucb528068-b455-5a02-8f0e-f55c811532dc)
Stand-In Brides
His Substitute Wife
Wedded for the Baby
Mail-Order Bride Switch
Pinewood Weddings
Wooing the Schoolmarm
Courting Miss Callie
Falling for the Teacher
A Season of the Heart
An Unlikely Love
His Precious Inheritance
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Mail-Order Bride Switch
Dorothy Clark


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08257-0
MAIL-ORDER BRIDE SWITCH
© 2018 Dorothy Clark
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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“You do not have to earn your way, Virginia. You’re my wife. It’s my duty to take care of you. As for Millie, she had entered an additional agreement with me to act as a maid and cook for a wage. I do not expect you to do the same.”
You’re my wife. Her heart pounded. If only she were his wife. His loved wife. Instead of a duty. She lowered her head lest he discern the turmoil of emotions reflected on her face. Emotions that unsettled and confused her.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes. I understand.” What you are saying. Not what is in your eyes.
“We’d better go in now. Before you get cold.”
She wasn’t at all cold. She was warm from his touch and the look in his eyes. She nodded and they started forward side by side. She looked at the road ahead and fought back tears. It was both too long and too short. Nothing was simple anymore.
Dear Reader (#ucb528068-b455-5a02-8f0e-f55c811532dc),
I have enjoyed returning to Whisper Creek while writing Garret and Virginia’s story. I will miss the growing town and the people who have settled there, but as you may already know, the Love Inspired Historical line is closing. This is, therefore, my last Love Inspired Historical book. I am both sad and excited. I don’t know what the future holds for my writing—that is in the Lord’s hands. I will follow where He leads.
It has been my great pleasure to write the LIH stories for you. Thank you for your faithfulness in buying and reading them. And I thank you also for the multitude of letters and emails you have sent me over the years. I will miss hearing from you.
I hope you enjoyed Garret and Virginia’s story, and I thank you, dear reader, for choosing to read Mail-Order Bride Switch. If you care to share your thoughts about this story, I may be reached at dorothyjclark@hotmail.com or www.dorothyclarkbooks.com (http://www.dorothyclarkbooks.com).
With deepest appreciation,
Dorothy Clark
Who can find a virtuous woman?
for her price is far above rubies.
The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her...
—Proverbs 31:10–11
To my readers. Thank you for your years of faithfulness. I am so very grateful.
To my editor, Shana Asaro—I so appreciate your wonderful editing talent, your kindness and patience, your willingness to answer my questions and much, much more. I will miss working with you.
To the art department—thank you for the beautiful covers you have designed for my books over the years. I truly appreciate your talent and hard work.
And to Sam, my critique partner and friend. Once again, thank you. I don’t know what’s ahead—but I sure hope you’ll be with me.
“Commit thy works unto the Lord,
and thy thoughts shall be established.”
—Proverbs 16:3
Your Word is truth. Thank You, Jesus.
To God be the glory.
Contents
Cover (#ub2a628fb-6535-5124-8a79-bad0d9a2874d)
Back Cover Text (#u2ec98cf0-7b3f-58cd-9db5-bb470f1c0768)
About the Author (#u6f567ce0-e5e9-5a37-97ac-2ddb8edcffc5)
Booklist (#u5a77154d-7d5f-50ad-b517-ee0804ddf1b4)
Title Page (#u5889a90a-ee99-57c8-9966-58d26d08b6aa)
Copyright (#ubb769eaf-e565-5884-a3c2-8cd8fcf62717)
Introduction (#uce428c8f-3548-54ca-9961-fa56f437d856)
Dear Reader (#u4a53bc3a-0882-5951-92cd-4b08fb8c3e11)
Bible Verse (#uee7f66bf-f36e-5d36-9235-793fd6c9d8ed)
Dedication (#ufebbcbab-a29e-5734-a392-6506491b3030)
Chapter One (#ubbc8ae92-7cd2-532a-8c25-f408c8f0795d)
Chapter Two (#ua291b17f-2ed9-566a-b0b5-2a559f483e27)
Chapter Three (#u378c2749-bbea-52a2-8a15-309f432e2022)
Chapter Four (#u69a56010-b050-5d86-bb22-488925a943db)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ucb528068-b455-5a02-8f0e-f55c811532dc)
Medicine Bow Mountains, Wyoming Territory
January 1869
Garret Stevenson kicked the snow off his boots, climbed the steps to the roofed platform of the Union Pacific Railroad station and stopped. Light from the train’s lamp pierced the deepening twilight. Snowflakes shimmered in its gleam, were swallowed by the smoke the wind wrenched from the stack. He slid his gaze over the few passengers whose business had driven them from the train to brave the winter cold. There was only one woman among them. She had to be the one. His chest tightened. The flames in the oil lamps flickered and snow swirled through the frigid air, making vision difficult. He clenched his jaw, yanked the brim of his hat lower and started forward, noted the woman’s fur-trimmed hat and coat and stopped. The woman couldn’t be Millie Rourk. No maid would wear such a costly coat and hat. Or carry a fur muff. He frowned and swerved toward the passenger car.
A gust of wind swept across the platform, and he caught a flash of white from the corner of his eye and glanced back. The woman had stepped behind the partial protection of one of the platform posts and was struggling to hold down her long skirts. Why didn’t she go back aboard the train, out of the weather? A stronger gust of wind hit, whipping her skirts into a frenzy. He stiffened, stared down at the two black leather valises revealed by her flapping skirts. Was he wrong? Was she Millie Rourk?
He skimmed his gaze back up the opulent dark red velvet of her fur-trimmed coat. No, his first instinct had to be right. The woman was obviously rich and pampered.
The train whistle blasted its signal of imminent departure. A few soldiers hurried by him, leaped down the steps and trotted to the passenger car. The conductor glanced his way. He leaned over the railing and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Is there a woman yet to detrain?”
The conductor shook his head, grabbed the metal railing and leaped onto the passenger car’s small boarding porch.
His stomach churned. He raised his voice over the moan of the wind. “Was there another woman passenger aboard for Whisper Creek who missed—”
The conductor jabbed a gloved finger toward the station platform. “Only her.”
He turned, looked at the woman being buffeted by the gale. She was staring at the train, a lost expression on her face.
“All aboard!”
The wind carried the words over his shoulders. A door slammed behind him. The train lurched, rolled forward and picked up speed. His stomach soured. His hands clenched. Where was Millie Rourk? She must have missed an earlier switch of trains. And that meant the earliest she could arrive was tomorrow morning. And that was too close to his contract deadline for comfort. What if she didn’t make it on time? He stiffened, his pulse throbbing. Or—what was most likely—she could have never intended to come in the first place and had simply taken his money. He should have known better than to trust a woman! Not that he should be surprised. If your own mother deserted you, why should you expect decent behavior from any woman!
Well, there was nothing he could do about it now. He would know for certain tomorrow morning when the train arrived. Maybe John Ferndale would give him a little more time when he explained.
He slapped the snow from his hat and collar and looked across the empty platform toward the woman. She was tugging one of her valises toward the station door. He shot a quick glance down the road toward town. There was no one in sight. The woman would need help getting to wherever she was going. Perhaps he had found a client for his hotel. He crossed the platform, his boots thudding against the snowy planks. “Pardon me...”
She lifted her head and blinked, her bright blue eyes fastened on him.
“Are you expecting someone to come for you, or—”
“Y-yes. Are you, M-M—” Her teeth chattered. She frowned, tried again. “Mr. Steven-s-son?”
He stared. “Miss Rourk?” He’d found his bride—unless she froze to death.
“I—I’m—” A shudder shook her.
His manners overcame his shock. “I’m Garret Stevenson, but that can wait. You need to get inside where it’s warm before we talk, Miss Rourk.” He grabbed her valises, carried them to the top of the steps and returned. “This way.” He placed his hand at the small of her back to steady her against the driving wind, gripped her elbow with his other hand and helped her down the steps. He turned back and grabbed a valise in each gloved hand, crooked his elbow her direction. “Take my arm and hang on. My hotel is not far, but you’re so slight, the wind will blow you away.”
* * *
“We’re here.”
Virginia shivered and lifted her head, but the snowfall was too thick to see the building. Garret Stevenson helped her up three snow-covered steps, across a plank porch and through a door—painted dark plum, from the little she saw of it in the flickering light of the side lamps. He stomped his boots on a braided rug, then led her straight across the large room toward the end of a stairway climbing the back wall. She caught a glimpse of a long desk standing parallel to the stairs, and an open cupboard of small cubbyholes hanging on the wall behind it. Warmth from the fire in a stone fireplace caressed her cold face as they walked by. She cast a longing look at the seductive flames and shivered her way after him.
The room they entered was small, well furnished. His private quarters? Her heart lurched. He put the two valises on the floor at the end of a short hallway on their left and motioned toward a settee and two chairs facing a fire on a stone hearth on the right side of the room. “You can warm yourself by the fire while I get some coffee. Then we’ll talk.” He strode toward a door in the wall beyond the fireplace and disappeared.
Another shiver shook her. She glanced at a rough wool jacket hanging from one of the pegs beneath a shelf on the wall beside her, then turned and hurried toward the fire. Her long skirts whispered against an oval, fringe-trimmed Oriental rug as she crossed the room. She shook the snow from her fur muff into the fire, laid it on the arm of a chair and did the same with her hat.
Then we’ll talk.
Her heart thudded. He thought she was Millie—however would she explain? This whole situation was ludicrous. And it would never have come to be if only her father believed her instead of Emory Gladen. But Emory always had a charming excuse for his small cruelties. She brushed the snow from her shoulders and removed her gloves, reminded herself she was doing Garret Stevenson a good turn by coming to Whisper Creek to marry him. To marry him! Her cold fingers fumbled at the buttons in the fur placket that ran down the front of her coat to its hem. She shrugged out of the heavy velvet garment, gave it a brisk shake, then hurried back across the room to hang her things on the pegs. She placed her hat beside a man’s wool hat already on the shelf.
The warmth of the fire wooed her back to the hearth, coaxed the chill from her flesh. Snow melted off her long curls and made cold damp spots on the back of her dark brown wool gown. She leaned her head back and shook her hair, tried to rub away the dull throbbing in her temples and remember the story she had rehearsed.
Footsteps drew her attention. She opened her eyes. Garret Stevenson came into the room still wearing his coat and hat. He was carrying two large cups, the steam from them rising to hover like clouds over his hands.
“This should help.”
He glanced her way, slid his gaze downward. His face tightened.
She glanced down, saw nothing amiss. “Is something wrong?”
“That’s a stylish dress for a maid.”
His words were curt, brusque. Her shaking increased. But it wasn’t from the cold. It was from the heat of anger in Garret Stevenson’s eyes. He seemed to have taken an immediate disliking to her. What would happen when he learned she wasn’t Millie?
He handed her one of the cups. “Do you use milk or sugar?”
“Black will be fine.” She’d rather chance the bitter taste than anger him further.
He set his cup down on the candle stand at the end of the settee, walked over to the shelf with the pegs and took off his coat and hat. He was a tall man, broad of shoulder and efficient in his movements. She slid her gaze over his suit. Expensive fabric and well fitted—
“All right, Miss...”
He turned and his eyes fastened on hers, sent another shiver up her spine. The coffee she held danced. She stilled her shaking cup with her free hand. “Yes?”
“Who are you? And don’t say Millie Rourk. Make it the truth. I can’t abide liars.”
She squared her shoulders and met the blaze of anger in his dark blue eyes. “And I find people who leap to conclusions about others trying. I do not lie, sir.”
He snorted, walked back to the candle stand and picked up his coffee. “And what do you call your presence here in my home if not a lie, Miss—”
“Winterman. My name is Virginia Winterman. And I consider my presence here a kindness to you, and a blessing to me. I believe you will agree, if you will give me a moment to explain, Mr. Stevenson.”
“I don’t want to listen to some concocted story. I want answers! Why did you say I was going to meet you at the train depot? How did you know my name?”
She reached into her pocket, withdrew a folded letter and held it out to him.
He glanced at the writing, frowned and looked back up at her. “How did you get my letter to Millie?”
“She gave it to me.”
“And why would she do that?”
“Millie is...was...my maid. I am in trouble and—”
“You’re not with child!” The words exploded from him.
“Certainly not!” She lifted her chin, glared up into his eyes. “And I will thank you not to impugn my character in such a cavalier fashion, sir!”
He stared at her, scowled and nodded. “All right. I apologize for again leaping to a conclusion. But I have troubles of my own, Miss Winterman, and—”
“I know of your trouble, Mr. Stevenson. But, if you will pardon my honesty, it does not excuse your rude treatment of me.”
He took a swallow of coffee, studied her over the top of his cup. “Spunky, aren’t you? And that, Miss Winterman, is an observation, not a baseless conclusion.”
Heat flooded her cold cheeks. She put the vanquished chill from her face into her voice. “I suppose I can be—when the situation warrants it.” She took a sip of the coffee, fought not to shudder at the strong, bitter taste and put her cup down.
His mouth lifted into a crooked grin. A charming grin. She stared, transfixed by the transformation it brought to his face.
“All right, I deserved that. But let’s get back to your story. I have a problem to solve and I’m running out of time, hence my ‘rude’ behavior.” He lifted his cup to his lips.
“I know of your time constraint, Mr. Stevenson.” She turned slightly to warm her other side. “That’s why I came here to marry you.”
Coffee spewed from his mouth, shot by her in a violent spray. He grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket with his free hand and wiped his mouth and chin, swiped it over his vest and suit coat. “You came to marry me?” He stopped swiping at the coffee and looked at her. “What sort of trouble are you in? And what happened to Millie Rourk? Where is she? Did I get coffee on you?”
“No, it missed me.” She took a deep breath and plunged into her explanation. “My father is a wealthy man and I am his only child. He wants what is best for me—for my future. To that end, he has given his blessing to a man who wishes to marry me. The man is wealthy, and to all appearances an honorable gentleman. I cannot abide the man’s presence. There is something about him...” She shuddered, took another breath, thankful there was no need to say more. “I refused the man’s proposal. My father ordered me to accept it that evening.” She turned to the fire, shaken by the memory. “When Millie found me...distraught, I blurted out my fear.”
She turned back, her eyes imploring Garret Stevenson to believe her. “You see, my father had threatened to throw me out of the house without a penny of support from him until I came to my senses and agreed to the marriage. I had no money...save a few coins of my allowance, and no place to go. I have a cousin, but he stands to inherit all that my father possesses unless I acquiesce. That’s when Millie said perhaps she could help me.”
He stiffened, stared at her.
“Millie told me she had answered a posting for a woman who would be willing to enter into an in-name-only marriage with a young man in Wyoming Territory in exchange for a comfortable home and living. She said there was to be no...intimacy involved in the relationship.” Warmth returned to her cheeks. “She told me time was pressing, that the man had to be married by a certain date or lose his business, and so the man had sent her money and a ticket to make the journey. But Thomas—our butler—had proposed to Millie in the meantime, and she had decided to marry him and stay in New York.”
He sucked in air, shoved his fingers through his hair. “So, as a resolution to your problem, you came to Whisper Creek to marry me in her stead.”
“Yes.” He looked furious. And she didn’t blame him. A tremble shot through her. Garret Stevenson wanted nothing to do with her. What would she do now? Her mind raced, but there was only one answer. She needed time to make him agree to accept her offer.
She squared her shoulders and rubbed her palms down the sides of her long skirt. “Please forgive me, Mr. Stevenson. I did not mean to...to take advantage of your precarious position. I was desperate and not thinking clearly. I certainly do not expect you to enter into a sham marriage with me when it was Millie to whom you made the offer.” She took a breath. “I will wire my father to send me funds to repay you for the ticket and money I used to make the journey. And to pay you for a room if you will be so kind as to allow me to stay here in your hotel until the money arrives and I can purchase a ticket home.” Please, Lord, let him agree. And, meantime, help me to convince him to—
“I’m afraid not, Miss Winterman.”
“But—”
“When you used the ticket and the money I sent, you bound yourself to fulfill my proposal for an in-name-only marriage. The details of the agreement are in this letter that was in your possession.”
What was he saying? “But, Mr. Stevenson, that letter was written to Millie. You expected her to—”
“Come and marry me. That is true. But she chose to betray my trust.” He set down his cup. “Let me make my position perfectly clear, Miss Winterman. I—do—not—want—to—be—married. But if I am not married by midnight tomorrow, I will lose this hotel and all that I have invested in it to the town’s founder.” His gaze fastened on hers, held it captive. “The marriage I proposed to Millie Rourk was an in-name-only one with no intimacy involved because I do not care who I marry. What I care about is this hotel. That is why I chose Millie Rourk out of the many respondents to my postings. As a maid, she would know how to cook and clean.”
Her stomach sank. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Stevenson.”
“You won’t, Miss Winterman. I’m not going to lose all I possess because you have changed your mind about obeying your father’s wishes and returning to marry this man you said you detest.” He stepped to the shelf by the door, lifted his coat off the peg and shrugged into it. “The only man you are going to marry, Miss Winterman, is me. And you are going to do so right now. You are sufficiently warmed to walk to the church. It’s not far. We will discuss the details of our arrangement when we return.” He put his hat on his head, lifted her coat off its peg and held it out to her. “Shall we go?”
She could stay! The strength garnered from her fear of being forced to return home drained away. She made her wobbling legs move, walked over to him and turned her back. His hand brushed against her neck as he helped her into her coat. She jerked away. The spot spread warmth into her back and shoulder. He waited patiently while she fastened the coat and pulled on her gloves, then he extended her hat and opened the door.
“There’s one thing more.”
What else could there be? And what did it matter? Emory would not find her here. She was safe from his threats. She lifted her muff from its peg and looked up at him.
“John Ferndale knows I was...am...reluctant to marry. Therefore, it’s important that he believes this marriage is a normal, lasting one. And, as small as this town is, that means that whenever we are in public we will behave like loving newlyweds. In private, there will be no personal contact, as we have discussed. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I hope you can put on a good act, because right now you look scared to death.”
She lifted her chin. “It is acceptable, even expected, for brides to look a little frightened on their wedding day, Mr. Stevenson. I will play my part well.”
“You’d better let me do all the talking until we have a chance to work out a story about our courtship.” He ushered her through the hotel lobby to the outside door. The wind howled, rattling the windowpanes. He frowned, tugged his hat more firmly on his head. “I’m sorry to make you go out in this weather, but if you’re to stay here, our wedding can’t be delayed until tomorrow. There’s no chaperone.”
She stiffened, fixed her gaze on him. “There’s no need for one.”
“True. But that knowledge is ours alone. To everyone else, we are a loving bride and groom. You’d best leave that muff here so you can hold on to me.” He pulled the door open.
Snow blew into the room, plastered against their coats. She staggered backward. He slipped his arm around her and steadied her, stepped to her side. His body blocked the main force of the wind. She tossed her muff onto a nearby chair, grabbed hold of his arm and walked with him into the storm.
* * *
“We’re almost there.”
Virginia kept her head ducked low and braved a glance around Garret. Faint spots of light glowed dimly ahead. A gust of wind swept swirling snow toward them. She jerked her head back behind the protection of Garret Stevenson’s broad shoulders and tightened her grip on the gloved hand he held out behind him.
“The snow’s drifted across the walk. Stay in my tracks.”
His pace slowed. His booted feet swept side to side with each step, creating a path for her. She added his thoughtfulness to the few facts she had learned about this man she was about to marry, and hurried her own steps to stay close. Her head butted his back. “Oh!”
“Sorry.” He turned and looked down at her. “I should have warned you I was stopping. Hold on to the railing while I clear a path up the steps.”
He stepped forward and the wind hit her, whipped her long skirts to the side and drove her against the railing. “Oof!” She grabbed for a handhold, fought to stand. Hands grasped her arm, pulled her upright. Garret’s strong arms slipped around her waist and beneath her knees, lifted her. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he carried her up the steps and across the stoop. The buffeting wind stopped. She blinked to clear her vision, looked at a red, snow-spattered door and blinked again as it was opened slightly.
“I thought I heard footsteps.” A slender man in a black suit pulled the door wide. Garret stepped into the church, and the man closed the door behind him.
“You’re supposed to carry your bride over your threshold, Garret.”
Heat flowed into her cheeks at the man’s smile. Bride. Her stomach churned.
“In this weather, we’re fortunate to have made it here at all. It’s blowing up a blizzard out there!” Garret lowered her until her feet touched the floor, stood behind her with his hands resting on her shoulders. “Pastor Karl, may I present my bride, Virginia Winterman. Virginia dearest, this is Pastor Karl.”
Dearest. She made note of the endearment, straightened and drew in a breath. She coughed and took another. Snow fell from the fur brim of her hat and melted on her cheek.
“A pleasure, Miss Winterman. Welcome to Whisper Creek. I promise this is not our typical weather. At least I hope it isn’t. None of us have been here long enough to know.” The pastor smiled, dipped his head in a small bow.
She shivered, tried to keep her teeth from chattering, and to return his friendly smile. “Th-thank you...”
“Hold still.” Garret brushed the snow from her hat onto his gloved hand and dropped it onto the rug they stood on, removed his gloves, slid his hands beneath the long curls dangling down the back of her head onto her shoulders, and shook them. His action kept the snow from melting on her neck and sliding down her back. Cold as it was outside, his hands were still warm. She resisted the urge to lean back against them.
“You and your bride must be freezing, Garret. Come stand by the stove and warm yourselves. Ivy will be along in a minute. She went to the house to check on the children.”
They followed him to the stove. The wind howled. The windowpanes on the side of the church rattled.
A door slammed somewhere in the recesses of the back of the church. Quick footsteps sounded. A short woman hurried into the sanctuary, ducked out from under a heavy wool blanket thrown over her head and shoulders, and gave it a brisk shake. Snow flew every direction. “Konrad, I don’t know if they—oh. You’re here.” The woman tossed the blanket over a pew and hurried toward them. “I wasn’t sure you could make it through the storm, Mr. Stevenson. This weather is the worst I’ve ever seen. The parsonage blocks the wind from the path or I’d never have made it back. I wouldn’t have tried if I weren’t needed...” The woman stopped beside the pastor, held her hands out to the stove and smiled.
“Miss Winterman, this is my wife. Ivy will be your witness. Ivy, Miss Winterman.”
She looked down into Mrs. Karl’s warm, blue eyes and some of the tension in her shoulders eased.
“Not for long.” Garret’s deep voice flowed over her. “I’m sorry to rush this, Pastor Karl, but it sounds as if the storm is getting worse. And Virginia is so slight, she had a hard time staying on her feet on the way here. I’d like to get back to the hotel.”
“Yes, of course. You’re right, Garret. I’ll get right to the ceremony. Step up beside your bride.” The pastor looked at his wife and smiled. “We’ll dispense with the song, Ivy.” He cleared his throat. “And I’ll just get to the important part. Oh, did you bring a ring, Garret?”
“No.” He looked down at her. “I’m sorry, dearest, I didn’t know the correct size. I’ll send for a ring after the storm passes.”
She stared up at him, taken aback by the look in his eyes, the warmth in his voice. Garret Stevenson was a good actor. Or a practiced lothario. The thought was discomforting. So was the silence. Her answer was expected. What would she say if this wedding were real? She pulled in a breath, spoke softly. “I don’t need a ring, dearest. It’s your love that is important.”
“Well said, Miss Winterman.” The pastor smiled at her, then shifted his gaze to her groom. “Garret Stevenson, wilt thou have this woman for thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s holy ordinance—”
She stared at the pastor, listened to his words. This ceremony was real. Garret Stevenson would be her husband!
“—forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
“I will.”
She glanced up at Garret. How could he say that so calmly and surely? This was real.
“Virginia Winterman, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband—”
She jerked her gaze back to the man in front of her. He was a pastor...this was his church...she was making a vow before God! Her breath froze in her lungs. A tremble started in her knees, spread through her. How could she do this? If she said yes, she would be married to Garret Stevenson. Her chance for love and happiness would be over. But she had given him her word. If she didn’t keep it, he would lose all he possessed. And she would go home to a forced marriage to Emory Gladen.
“—love, honor and keep him, in sickness—”
God knew she had given Garret Stevenson her word! And God honored those who kept their word. He that sweareth to his own hurt, and changeth not.
“—and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
Changeth not... She had to keep her word. She buried her shaking hands in the folds of her damp coat and lifted her chin. “I will.”
“Garret, you may kiss your bride.”
No! Garret’s hands clasped her upper arms, turned her toward him. Panic surged. He lowered his head. She closed her eyes. His lips were hot, soft, gentle on hers, and then they were gone. She opened her eyes, stared down at the floor and resisted the urge to press her fingers to her mouth.
Mrs. Karl stepped into view, held her hand out. “Congratulations, Garret. You have a beautiful bride. I wish you every happiness.” The woman leaned forward, gave her a brief hug. “And for you, my dear.” The woman stepped back. “I made a cake to celebrate your wedding. It’s at the parsonage...”
“How kind of you.” She smiled at the pastor’s wife, then looked up at Garret to take her cue from him.
“Thank you, Mrs. Karl, but I think we’d better get home. I’ll need to borrow a lantern, Pastor.”
“Of course. There’s one on the shelf by the front door for just such a purpose. No hurry about returning it. You can bring it back on Sunday.”
Pastor Karl walked with them to the door, placed a hand on each of them. “May the Lord bless you both with ever increasing love, happiness and healthy children.”
Guilt rose, settled in her heart. She had kept her word, but all the same, she would be living a lie. There would be no such blessing from the Lord for her. Or for Garret Stevenson. Not now. Not even God could bless a pretend, in-name-only marriage.
Chapter Two (#ucb528068-b455-5a02-8f0e-f55c811532dc)
Garret set the oil lamp on the shelf by his hat, slapped the snow from his leather gloves and shoved them in his coat pockets. “If I may, before you take off your coat...” He lifted her dangling curls and once again shook the snow off them. “No sense in letting this snow melt and wet your gown...”
“Th-thank you.” Lord, please let him think my stuttering is from the cold, not nerves.
He nodded, helped her from her coat and hung it on a peg. “Give me your hat and gloves. I’ll take care of them. You go warm yourself by the fire.”
“All right.” She handed them over to him and hurried toward the warmth of the blazing logs as fast as her trembling legs would carry her.
There’s no chaperone...
The words he’d spoken earlier had echoed through her mind all the way back from the church. Theirs was to be an in-name-only marriage. Why would he even mention needing a chaperone? She lifted her hand, touched her cold fingertips to her mouth. The kiss had surprised her. She’d thought he’d make some excuse. But at least it hadn’t been cruel. A shudder shook her.
“There must be at least twelve to fifteen inches of snow out there, and it’s still coming. There’s no telling how deep it will be before morning.”
She pounced on the subject. If she kept him talking about the weather, she could delay any discussion about their sleeping arrangements. Please, Lord... “You sound worried.”
“I’m a little concerned.” He sat on a chair by the door and tugged off his boots, put them on the small rag rug under the shelf. “I’m wondering if this is normal for this area. If it is, it could be a problem.”
“I don’t understand.”
“If it’s this deep here in the valley, I can’t imagine how much snow there must be up in the high elevations. It might be enough to shut down the trains. And that means no guests for the hotel or dining room. And no supplies coming through. No coal...”
“Oh.” She turned to warm her back at the fire. “I didn’t realize how dependent Whisper Creek is on the railroad.”
“It’s completely so.” He shoved his fingers through his hair and came to stand beside her on the hearth. “Mr. Ferndale has declared there will be no ranches in this valley. And he owns all of the land. The problem is, until there are some farms and ranches in the area, we have no source for food other than what is shipped in. If we get snowbound, that could be a real problem. Especially if I had a hotel full of guests to be fed.”
“What can you do about that possibility?”
“Not much. Order in enough food supplies to fill the icehouse and storage pantry in case of emergency. But even that wouldn’t last long if the hotel was full of people.”
She lifted her hems enough to allow the heat of the fire to reach her shoes. The loops over the buttons were too stiff with the cold to unfasten. “It sounds as if you need to buy a ranch.”
“Spoken like the daughter of a wealthy man.”
Her cheeks warmed. “I’m sorry. I’m not accustomed to discussing business problems. Father believes women need to be protected from such things.”
“No need to apologize. It’s a good idea. If things go as well as I hope with the hotel, I might just do it. There have been rumors of some cowboys from Texas buying land for a ranch in the next valley. They may not be adverse to an investor.” He lifted his foot and wiggled his stocking-clad toes close to the fire. “Ah, that feels good.” He repeated it with his other foot. “Sit down and I’ll take off your boots, so you can warm your feet.”
“No!”
His eyebrows shot skyward.
She swallowed hard. “That is...no thank you. My feet are fine.”
“Miss—er—Virginia, if this arrangement we have entered into is to work, we’re going to need some rules. The first is honesty.” His gaze fastened on hers. “I told you earlier I did not care who I married, that what I care about is saving my hotel. Let me explain further. I do not care to have any personal relationship with any woman, now or ever. You have no reason to fear me. There was no motive other than normal politeness in my offering to remove your boots. I’d do the same for a sister. Now, sit down and let me remove your boots. You might as well be comfortable while we discuss the rules for our arrangement.”
His voice was polite, businesslike and a touch bitter. She had misjudged him. “Very well.” She moved to one of the chairs, sat, arranged her long skirts and straightened her leg.
He went down on one knee, propped her foot on his other knee, pushed her hem above the fur trim at the top of her boot and rubbed the heel of his hand quickly up and down over the buttons. Warmth from the friction loosened the loops. Obviously, he had done this before. He unfastened the buttons and pulled her boot off, set it aside and cupped her cold, stinging foot in his hands. She could have purred, it felt so good.
“Your feet are fine, huh? Your toes feel like ice.” He rubbed her foot a minute, then lowered it to the floor and lifted her other foot to his knee.
“What is your sister’s name, Garret?”
He chuckled, slipped her skirt hem over the top of her boot. “I don’t have a sister.”
She jerked her foot back. “You said honesty was the first rule of our arrangement!”
“I was honest. I said I would do the same for a sister—not that I had a sister.” He grabbed her foot by the boot heel and put it back on his knee. “That is something we should know about one another. We might be asked questions.” All trace of warmth left his face and voice. “I have no family. And, if I remember correctly, you said you are an only child—with a father, a cousin and an unwelcome, determined suitor.”
“Yes.” She tamped down the urge to ask what had happened to his family.
“Well, you don’t have to be concerned about the suitor any longer.” He released her foot, rose and held his hands out to the fire.
Her breath came easier. “And you don’t have to be concerned about losing your hotel.” She stepped onto the hearth, let the warmth of the stones seep into her cold feet. “It seems we both owe a debt of thanks to Millie.”
“To Millie?” He snorted. “I think not.”
She stared at him, shocked by the anger in his voice. “But Millie saved your hotel for you.”
“No, you saved my hotel by coming to marry me. Millie decided to stay in New York and marry your butler. She would have let me lose everything in spite of her promise. But then betrayal comes easily to women.” He strode across the room from the hearth to the short hallway and picked up her two valises he had set there. “We will continue our discussion about our arrangement in the morning. It’s getting late, and I’ve got fires to tend and work to do. I’ll show you to your room.”
She looked at his taut face, nodded and picked up her boots.
“This way.”
They entered the hall, the hems of her long skirts whispering against the polished wood floor. She took a quick inventory. There were four doors, no windows. Three oil lamp sconces lit the area, two of them on either side of a tall, double-door cupboard. One would have given dim but sufficient light for the space. Garret Stevenson did not skimp with his comforts. That was good to know.
“The room on the left is my office.”
She glanced at the closed door and followed him to another a few steps down the hall on the right.
“This first room is my bedroom.” His socks brushed against an oval rug that covered the floor from his bedroom door to the end of the hallway. “The door straight ahead at the end of the hall leads to the dressing room. We will share that.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “The dressing room has hot and cold running water at the washbasin and the bathing tub. And a modern flush-down commode. And, of course, a heating stove. I think you will find everything you need in the cupboard.” He took a couple more steps and opened the second door in the wall on the right, then walked into the dimly lit room. “This will be your bedroom.”
A separate room. Thank You, Lord! She stopped in the splash of light from the hall sconce and waited for him to leave.
He set her valises down on the floor at the end of the bed, turned up the wick on the oil lamp on the nightstand and moved to a small, cast-iron heating stove. “I use coal in the stoves. You’ll find it in here.” He opened a red painted box with a slanted top. “It probably needs some now. I started the fire before I went to the station to meet Millie.” He opened a door on the stove, scooped coal on top of the burning embers, closed the door and tugged the handle down again.
She watched him carefully, memorizing his actions. She’d never tended to a fire in her life, but it didn’t look too difficult.
“You’ll want to turn the draft down a bit more when that coal catches fire. It should last you all night on a slow burn.”
The draft? Her breath caught. How much was “a bit”?
He started toward the door, and she stepped back.
His face tightened. He moved close, looked down at her. She stiffened, judged the distance to the bedroom door and wondered if she could run through, slam and lock it before he reached it.
“You can put down your boots, Virginia. There’s no need for you to run.”
He reached out and took them from her hand. Her heart lurched.
“I don’t know what your intended betrothed was like, but I am a man of my word. And I will tell you once again, you have nothing to fear from me. I married because I was forced to do so. Women are fickle and untrustworthy.”
Her chin jutted. “And men are cruel liars!”
His eyes narrowed at her response. “So we are agreed. We are not interested in any romantic relationship. Our agreement is a business arrangement for our mutual benefit, not a marriage. Is that clear?”
She studied his face, tried to read what was in his dark blue eyes and found nothing to cause her to doubt him. “Yes. But it may take me a little time to get over being...nervous.”
A frown drew his eyebrows down. “In the meantime, don’t act this way in public. In public, we are in love with each other. No one will believe that if they see you backing away every time I come near you.” He glanced down at her boots in his hand. “I’ll put these in the sitting room with your coat and hat.” He strode down the hall and disappeared.
She listened to the door to the hotel lobby open and close, then turned and hurried into the bedroom she was to have for her own. A chill chased through her. She stepped onto the Aubusson rug that covered most of the polished wood floor, grabbed the smaller valise and lifted it onto the bed nestled in the far corner. She would get her nightclothes, wash up in the dressing room, then lock herself in this bedroom before Garret Stevenson returned. Not that a lock would keep him out if he were determined to get in. He was a strong man. He’d lifted her as if she were a bag of feathers.
She pulled on her fur-lined slippers and looked around. A wardrobe stood on the hall wall, with a dressing table beside it. It was in a good position, but would be of no use. She could never move that large a piece of furniture. A dresser and rocker sat against the long wall near the entrance. That was better. She could shove the dresser in front of the door and wedge it against the wardrobe if needed. The bed, small nightstand and heating stove, aligned as they were against the rear, outside wall, would be of no help.
The wind howled and rattled the small panes in the window beside the bed. The pendulum on a wall clock hanging over the dresser ticked off the minutes. She snatched her nightclothes from the bag. Heat radiated from the stove.
You’ll want to turn the draft down a bit more when that coal catches fire.
She dropped her garments onto the red-and-cream woven coverlet on the bed, stepped over to the stove and bent to examine it. Where was the draft? The pipe crackled. She looked up, spotted a handle on the side. That must be it. She turned the handle, leaned down and opened the door where Garret had put in the coal to check the fire.
“Oh! Oh...” She jerked back, coughing and blinking her stinging eyes, and waved her hands to dispel the smoke that puffed out into the room.
“Close that door!”
She whirled toward Garret, spun back and grabbed for the handle, touched the door instead. “Ow!” She shoved her fingertips into her mouth, blinked her watering eyes.
Strong hands grasped her upper arms and lifted her aside. She wiped her eyes, watched Garret close the stove door, then reach up to the pipe and turn the handle. “Why did you close the damper? Don’t you know—” He stopped, turned and peered down at her through slitted eyes.
She pressed back against the wall.
“You don’t know.” He stared at her. “Have you ever tended a fire?”
“Not in a stove.” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin to hide her trembling. “I have added wood to the hearth...on occasion.”
A sound, something like a muffled grunt, came from him. “It’s a good thing I came back.” He turned to the stove.
She wiped her eyes, edged toward the door.
“This is the damper.” He grabbed the handle on the pipe and twisted his wrist. “This is open. Leave it that way.”
She froze in place when he glanced at her.
“This is the firebox door...where you add the coal or wood. This is the draft. When it’s open wide the fire burns hot—too hot to be safe if no one is watching it. Adjust it about halfway or below so the fire burns constantly but safely. Turn it lower to keep the fire burning slowly all night. Don’t close it all the way or the fire will go out.” He glanced her way again. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.” She took a breath. “I do not touch the damper, I add coal and adjust the burn there.” She pointed to the fire box, then quickly hid her shaking hand in her long skirt.
He nodded, studied her a moment, then strode toward the hall, stopped and looked over his shoulder at her. “I returned because I forgot to tell you the linens for your bed are in the cupboard in the hall. Good evening.”
He was angry. Was it because she didn’t know how to use the stove? Or because of her reaction to him? The last thing she wanted was to make him angry. Emory Gladen had been charming and treated her well—until she had refused him. And then when she had obeyed her father and agreed to Emory’s suit, the meanness she’d sensed in him had begun to show in subtle ways. He had demanded all her attention at social functions, become angry and cruel if she spoke to another man, even her oldest friends. And when her father had given Emory his blessing to ask for her hand, his subtle cruelties had become worse. And she was made to look foolish by his charming explanations.
And now she was married to Garret Stevenson. How did she know he wouldn’t be the same?
She locked the door, sagged against it and listened to his footsteps fade away.
* * *
A fine situation he’d gotten himself into! Garret added coal to the heating stove, turned down the draft for a slow burn, stomped out of guest bedroom number one, and entered bedroom number two. He never should have signed that contract! But the lure of free land and free lumber to build with that John Ferndale had offered had reeled him in. He’d saved enough in costs to add a third floor to the hotel and purchase the furnishings. And he’d been certain he could find some way around the marriage clause.
Ha! He wasn’t as clever as he thought. He’d delayed opening the hotel until his money started running low, hoping he’d find a way. But Ferndale had insisted he fulfill the contract to the letter. The man didn’t care that he was reluctant to marry. He had started counting the days!
Thirty days to marry or turn his hotel and all its furnishings over to Ferndale. The memory of the posting of a cowboy for a mail-order bride in the New York Sun had saved him from that financial trap. He’d sent out his own postings to the New York City, Philadelphia and Albany newspapers to find a woman who would be interested in a business arrangement instead of a marriage. In two weeks he’d found his answer—Millie Rourk. She had seemed perfect. The maid had agreed to his in-name-only conditions for the marriage, and to cook and clean for his guests for a fair wage. It was perfect! And what had the maid done? Betrayed him. Just as his mother had. Just as Robert’s wife had betrayed him.
Well, Virginia Winterman would not have that chance. She’d not find any opportunity to go sneaking off and leave him behind to try to find a way to save all he’d worked for. He’d see to that. He had worked and scraped and apprenticed himself to businessmen to get ahead since he was abandoned at ten years old. And he wouldn’t lose all he had gained because of a woman!
He added the coal, adjusted the draft on the heating stove and strode the short distance to the public dressing room. The last train had gone through an hour ago. There would be no guests tonight. But it was too cold to shut down the water heater and the stove. He heaped coal into the fireboxes, adjusted the drafts and went back to the lobby. Now he was married to a dishonest impostor! A woman who didn’t even know how to tend a fire!
I have added wood to the hearth...on occasion.
He let out a snort and sat on his heels on the hearth to bank the fire. Not only was his bride ignorant of tending a fire, she was so slight she could never carry the buckets of ashes that would have to be taken outside every day when the hotel had guests. He could blow her over with one good strong puff from his lungs. He would have to hire a Chinese laborer from the railroad work crews to handle the heavy work. If they weren’t all off searching for gold.
He stilled, staring at the burning embers he’d gathered into a pile. Virginia was a plucky one, though. She’d gone out into the storm without complaint. And she was pretty, in a pale, scared, taut-faced sort of way. Did she know how her bright blue eyes reflected her emotions? They flashed with anger, darkened with fear, sparkled with interest and warmed with friendliness. And her long curls, so soft and silky even when they were covered with snow... His fingers twitched on the fire rake handle. Keep your mind on your business, Stevenson!
He frowned and hung the rake on its hook, lifted down the shovel and scooped ashes over the embers. He was a man. How was he supposed to forget the feel of her hair, or her lips? He should have made some sort of excuse to avoid that kiss. It would take some doing to forget how her soft lips had trembled beneath his. Five years...he had to stay married and live with her in Whisper Creek for five years before his hotel was safe. He never should have signed that contract!
The wind moaned outside. He rose, closed the damper to a narrow slit for the night and walked to the front windows. Splotches of light from the oil lamps on the porch roof glowed on the snow swirling at the caprice of the wind. But the storm was easing. Perhaps some of the passengers on tomorrow’s trains would decide to stay over. That is, if the trains could get through the snow in the mountains.
He stared at the outer edge of the porch, watched the snowflakes falling through the sweeps of golden light. There must be close to twenty inches of snow by now, and the fall had to have been heavier at the higher elevations. And there was that big curve through the narrow gap in the mountains just before the trains entered the valley. If that filled in—no. The trains would plow through the snow with those big blades on the front of the engine he’d heard called “cow catchers.”
He raked his fingers through his hair and went to snuff the wicks on the oil lamps of the chandelier over the lobby desk. Guests or not, tomorrow would be a busy day. He had a lot of shoveling to do to clear the porch and steps and walkway. Shoveling...
He looked back out the windows toward the railroad station. Who would clear the road so supplies or brave passengers still riding the trains could reach the stores and businesses? His lips curved in a wry smile. Given the limited population of Whisper Creek, he was fairly sure he knew the answer to that question. At least Virginia could prepare the rooms and tend to any guests while he was working outside. Maybe.
Could the woman cook? He’d gotten by with the few guests he’d had thus far by fixing ham, eggs and coffee for breakfast, and beef stew for dinner and supper. The fresh-baked bread he bought from Ivy Karl was the saving grace of his meals.
He started for his office to make out an order for more supplies.
* * *
Virginia clasped her toilette items in her hand and pressed her ear to the door. All was silent. She lifted the latch, eased the door open and ran the few steps from the dressing room to her bedroom door, her heart pounding. The lock clicking into place calmed her. She hurried to the dressing table, set her things down and sank onto the matching bench. Garret had said the dressing room had every comfort, and he was right. Oh how she wished to have a long, hot soak in that big tub. But she didn’t dare chance it.
Coward. She turned from her image in the mirror, reached up and pulled out the combs at the crown of her head. Her long curls tumbled to their full length halfway down her back. She ran her fingers into her hair at the roots, shook it loose and picked up her brush. The howling of the wind had stopped. She crossed to the window by the head of the bed, leaned over the nightstand and cupped her hands against one of the small glass panes. It was too dark to see if the snow had stopped. Not that it mattered. She had run from Emory Gladen and his veiled threats, had run as far as she could go.
You’re mine now, Virginia. You have no choice. Your father has given his blessing to our marriage and will disown you if you defy him. I look forward to our union, my dear.
She shuddered, scrubbed at her mouth. Emory Gladen’s kiss had bruised her lips, made her sick. And the hurtful pressure of his hands gripping her, holding her tight against him...she stared out into the darkness. Was he searching for her? He’d warned her he’d never let her go.
Well, you don’t have to be concerned about the suitor any longer.
She closed her eyes, thought about Garret’s words. What he said was true. She was safe, even if Emory found her. She was married. Emory was out of her life forever. But Garret...
Her breath caught. So far, Garret had been polite and thoughtful, in an impersonal way. Except for his kiss. That was troubling. Why hadn’t he made an excuse to avoid it?
She shoved the disquieting thought aside and brushed her hair. What would happen tomorrow? When should she rise? She was accustomed to being awakened by Millie bringing her a cup of tea, then laying out a gown for her that would suit her activity for the day. An image of Garret carrying two cups of coffee into the sitting room flashed before her. Did he even have tea? Of course he did. This was a hotel.
Her hand paused midbrush. She’d forgotten that. Yet she needn’t concern herself about tomorrow morning. Garret’s hotel maid would start work early. She would order her breakfast then. They served lovely breakfasts at the Astor House, not that Garret’s hotel compared to the luxurious Astor House. Why, this room was—not part of the hotel. These were his private rooms. Well, no matter. She would manage in the morning and then explain her likes and dislikes to his hotel maid over breakfast.
She went to the dressing table, put her brush down and tied her hair back at her nape with a ribbon that matched her velvet dressing gown. Exhaustion from the stress of the day hit her. She rubbed her tired eyes, snatched up the clothes she’d tossed onto the bed, and looked around. She would need to wear her brown wool gown again tomorrow. The dresses in the valise would be too wrinkled. They needed the maid’s attention before she could wear them.
She carried her dress and petticoats to the wardrobe, opened the doors and hung them inside. Her valises she shoved against the wall. She pushed down on the bed, smiled at its softness, removed her dressing gown and pulled back the coverlet on the bed and stared. Where were the linens and blankets?
She frowned, grabbed her dressing gown and swirled it back around her shoulders. Where would she find a maid to make up her bed? Dare she go looking for one? She stared at the bare mattress, then glanced at the door. She had no choice.
She slid back the lock and opened the door a few inches to look out. Light from two of the sconces glowed on either side of the large, double-door cupboard. Garret’s words popped into her head.
I forgot to tell you the linens for your bed are in the cupboard in the hall.
Why—she caught her breath. Surely he didn’t mean for her to make her own bed! She couldn’t do that. She fastened the buttons on her dressing gown, listened to the silence a moment, then stepped out of her bedroom. The hem of her velvet gown whispered against the floor. She hurried to the end of the short hall and looked out. The sitting room was empty. She stared at the open door beside the fireplace, tiptoed over and looked into the adjoining room. It was dark on her left, but she made out the form of a table with chairs. A dining room?
She edged forward and peeked around the shelves on her right. Dim light from two oil lamps over a large, heavy table gleamed on pots and pans, dishes, a fireplace with metal doors in the stone, a huge cooking stove, and cupboards and furniture she could not identify. There was another door on the far wall.
She crept between the fireplace and the table, slipped by a large cupboard, opened the door and looked into the next room. It was too dark to see anything but what looked like a server on her right and tables and chairs. The hotel dining room? She frowned and retraced her steps. Garret and his staff must have retired for the evening.
She opened the cupboard in the hall, stared at the shelves piled with bed linens. A quilt with red stars caught her eye. She grabbed it and two pillowcases, carried them to her bedroom and dropped them onto the bed. Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away, shook out the pillowcases and stuffed her pillows in them. She folded the large quilt in half, wrapped herself in it and lay down, wishing for Millie.
The wind sighed at the windows. She turned onto her side and dimmed the lamp. Tears welled, then seeped from beneath her lashes and ran down her cheeks. She was frightened and helpless and all alone. No one but Millie even knew where she was.
I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.
Peace stole through her. The tension in her body eased. She slipped her hand out of her quilt cocoon, wiped the tears from her face and looked at the dull light reflected on the plaster ceiling overhead. Forgive me, Lord. I don’t mean to sound distrusting or ungrateful. I know You are always with me. It’s only that I’m afraid. Please grant me courage, and let tomorrow be a better day.
Chapter Three (#ucb528068-b455-5a02-8f0e-f55c811532dc)
Garret popped the last bite of his buttered bread in his mouth, shrugged into his work jacket and squinted through the dim light to make out the face of the pendulum clock in the corner. A little less than two hours until the first train. He frowned, pulled on his hat and gloves, grabbed the lantern off the shelf and hurried through the hotel lobby to the front door. It inched outward and stopped. The snow fell through the narrow crack into a small pile. He lowered his shoulder and shoved the door against the snow until he could slip through the opening, then grabbed the lantern and pushed his way out. He brushed the pile of snow back out onto the porch and closed the door.
Light from the oil lamps that had burned all night flickered. Gray puffs of hot breath formed small clouds in front of his face and hovered there. Not a breath of wind stirred. That was good. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with blowing and drifting snow. The cold nipped at his face and neck. He cast a thankful look at the copse of pines at the end of the building that had acted as a windbreak and kept the snow from billowing and piling in deep swells in front of the hotel. He tugged his collar up, grabbed the shovel he kept handy by the door and cleared a path across the porch to the steps. It was the work of a few minutes to shovel his way down them and clear his short walkway to the road.
“Morning, Garret!”
The hail carried sharp and clear on the still, cold air. He straightened, swiped his jacket sleeve across his forehead and looked over a high drift between his hotel and Latherop’s General Store. Blake Latherop stood beside a lantern, his legs splayed and his hands folded on the handle of a shovel standing upright in the deep snow.
“Morning, Blake. You figuring on shoveling a path to the depot?”
The store owner nodded, tugged at his gloves and lifted his shovel. “There’s no choice. I have to get the mail. And I’m expecting supplies for the store.”
“I’ll help. There may be some passengers who will want to stay over. That is if the trains are running.” He frowned, glanced toward the surrounding mountains. “I was wondering if they might get blocked by drifts in some of those high passes.”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
“Would you gentlemen like some help?”
He looked beyond Blake to the dark form trudging up the road from the parsonage, a lantern swinging from one hand, a shovel leaning like a weapon against one narrow shoulder.
“Good morning, Pastor. Blake and I were about to start clearing a path to the station.” He tugged his hat closer over his ears, then grabbed his shovel. “How about if I go first and scoop off the top ten or so inches, then you scoop off another shovelful, Blake, and you can clean and even the path, Pastor. That sound all right?”
“Lead on.” Blake grabbed his lantern and shovel and trudged through the snow to join him. “Let me know when you get tired, Garret, and we’ll switch places. We ought to make it all the way to the station in good time doing that.”
“Fair enough.” He whacked the snow off to the side ahead of him with the flat of his shovel and set the lantern on the firm surface, then scooped up a shovelful of snow and tossed it aside. Blake did the same. They fell into a rhythm, their heavy breathing and the swish of the shovels against the snow the only sound.
“If we’re going to...have snow like this...” Blake’s huffs and puffs came floating over his shoulder in small gray billows “...I’m going to...have Mitch make me a...snowplow. One I can hitch behind my horse to...clear the road.”
He glanced over his shoulder and grinned at his neighbor. “Smart man.” He scooped up more snow and cast it aside. “You’ll be using your horse, Blake...so I’ll pay for the snowplow. You plowing the road will...benefit the hotel, as well. That suit you?”
“Sounds...fair enough.”
“And a whole...lot easier!”
“Well spoken, Pastor!” Garret chuckled, drove his shovel into the snow and straightened to catch his breath. Blake followed suit.
“I have...my moments.”
Like last night, when you performed my wedding? He watched Konrad Karl smooth out the path they’d shoveled, then turned and looked ahead. It was still too dark to see the depot, and there was no sign of a road to guide him, only flat white snow in every direction. He took a deep breath, pushed his shovel into the white powder and hoped he was on the right path.
* * *
Virginia bolted upright, startled by a whistle that sliced through the stillness and quivered on the morning air. “Oh!” She scrambled out of bed and grabbed for her dressing gown, her heart pounding. The train. No. She had reached her destination last night and—she was married!
Her knees trembled. She sank down onto the edge of the bed and looked around the strange room, casting back to yesterday and trying to order her thoughts. There was a snowstorm...
An image of Garret Stevenson standing strong and solid in swirling, blowing snow flashed into her head, followed by one of him kneeling in front of her and removing her boots. She shivered, fastened her dressing gown and looked at the small heating stove. The sleepy fuzziness in her head began to clear. He had taught her how to tend a fire. Yes.
She glanced at the stovepipe. She wasn’t to touch that handle. She bent to open the small door on the front of the stove, remembered the smoke that had puffed out into the room and took a step back. No smoke. She glanced at the pulsing red coals, scooped coal from the box and piled it on top of the hot embers. Now she had to adjust the draft to burn hotter for the day...no more than halfway...she had done it! Her lips curved into a smile.
She stepped into her slippers and gathered her toilette items. If she remembered correctly, the dressing room was a short distance down the hall. She opened the door and peeked out. The way was clear. She ran on tiptoe, eased the dressing room door closed and slid the bolt, then hurried to perform her morning ablutions so she could get back to her bedroom before anyone came. She didn’t want to miss Garret’s maid.
There! Virginia turned before the long mirror fastened to one of the doors on the wardrobe. Her dress looked quite acceptable. She tugged the hem of the bodice into place at her narrow waist, shook out the long skirt, then checked to be sure the back of the high collar was in place. Memory stirred and her hands stilled.
Garret had slid his hands beneath her long curls and shook them. His spread hands had kept the snow from melting on her neck and sliding down her back. Her husband was a thoughtful man. So far.
Her face tightened. He was no stranger to ladies, for certain. Not given the practiced way he had removed her boots. The memory came bearing the sound of his laughter. It was infectious. She’d have laughed with him if she hadn’t been so frightened. And she’d been even more so a few moments later when she’d mentioned Millie. He’d been so angry. Had accused Millie of betrayal. And not only Millie.
Had Garret suffered the unfaithfulness of a woman? Would he be cruel? She shivered and rubbed her upper arms, where Emory Gladen had squeezed so hard she’d had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. Her face paled. Her eyes darkened with fear. He always had a charming reason for his “excesses;” as he called them—he loved her so much he forgot himself, he didn’t know his own strength...
She whirled from the mirror, rushed to the bedroom door and hurried into the hall. She would breakfast early today. Garret’s maid would be in the kitchen. Maids began their work early.
The sitting room was still dark, but for the flickering light from the fire. Outside the windows on the back wall, the sky was beginning to turn gray. She started across the sitting room, stopped when a log collapsed, sending sparks rising up the chimney. The fire needed wood. She moved to the wood cradle, lifted a small log, placed it on the fire, added another and poked them into place. The embers shot out tongues of flame and licked at the new fuel. The muted sound of stomping feet came from the front of the building. She turned toward the door.
“Good morning.” Garret came into the room, tossed his hat and leather gloves onto the shelf and shrugged out of his jacket.
“You’ve been outside already?”
He nodded, rubbed his hands together briskly, then sat in the chair. “For a couple of hours.”
“Whatever for?”
He tugged at one of his boots. “I had to shovel a path to the station in case the passengers want to come to town.”
“You! Where is your help?”
He tossed his boot onto the small rag rug, rubbed his foot and looked up at her. “Blake Latherop—he owns the general store next door—and Pastor Karl helped me.”
She stared. Last night he’d looked like a businessman who might be welcome in her father’s club. Today, in a coarse-woven blue cotton shirt with a narrow band for a collar and a placket with buttons—one missing—he looked like a laborer. If a handsome one. “I meant your hired help.”
He pulled off his other boot and stood. His brown twill pants were damp from midcalf to his knees. “Whisper Creek is a town in the making, Virginia. There is the general store, my hotel, an apothecary shop and soon-to-be doctor’s office, the church and a sawmill so far.” He came to join her on the hearth, held his hands out to the fire. “I suppose you can add in the railroad station and the laundry a Chinese family has out in the woods, though they’re not rightly part of the town. The point is, the owners run their businesses. There’s no one in town to hire. Mitch Todd—the sawmill owner and town builder—lures his construction workers from the railroad crews passing through.” He grinned, obviously amused at Mr. Todd’s ingenuity.
Uneasiness spread through her, made her stomach flop. There’s no one to hire.
“Fire feels good. Is there coffee?”
“I don’t—” The unease turned to full-blown apprehension as understanding dawned. She took a breath and shook her head. “I thought you had a maid.”
Anger swept over his face like a cloud and settled in his dark blue eyes. “Millie Rourk was to cook and clean for a wage, in addition to a good home and living.” He blew out a breath, shoved his fingers through his hair and fixed his gaze on her. “It’s getting late and I haven’t shown you around the hotel yet. I’ll make coffee when we come back. Have you breakfasted?”
“No. But I can wait until—”
“Follow me.”
He headed for the kitchen. She looked down at the poker she’d been gripping, put it back in its place and trailed after him. Guilt tugged at her. He was right; Millie would have been the perfect wife for him. She on the other hand—
“Have a seat.”
He motioned to the table and chairs along the back wall she’d noticed last night, pulled out an end chair and held it for her. He’d turned up the oil lamps hanging above the massive table in the center of the kitchen. The light gleamed in the polished wood of the bare table in front of her. She glanced up at the window—also bare.
“Here we are.” He set two small plates, napkins and flatware on the table, left and returned quickly with two glasses of water and a towel-covered basket. A small crock dangled by its bail from his little finger. “I’m sorry there’s not time to have a real breakfast, but this is delicious bread. Ivy Karl bakes it, and she’s kind enough to sell me some.” He handed her the basket, then sat in the chair at the other end of the table.
She unfolded the towel, and a mouthwatering aroma of freshly sliced bread rose. She placed one of the slices on her plate, handed him the basket and picked up her knife to dip into the butter in the crock he’d opened. The first bite of bread was better than the smell. She took another bite.
“Be careful of the water. It’s from the waterfall and icy cold.”
“There’s a waterfall?” She took a tentative sip from her glass and shivered.
“On the mountain out back.” He took another bite of his bread and nodded toward the window. “That’s why John Ferndale located the town here in this valley. If you like, I’ll take you to see it one day when the weather warms.” He took another bite of his bread and glanced at her plate.
He was in a hurry. She applied herself to finishing her slice, wished she had time for another. “I’m ready for the tour of the hotel.”
“Time is getting short. We’ll leave these dishes here.” He rose and came to pull out her chair. “I’ll show you what you need to see for today. The rest can wait until later tonight or tomorrow. We’ll go through the kitchen. This dining table is for the help—when I have some.” His lips curved in a wry grin that tugged her own lips into a responsive smile, even while her stomach sank. She had ruined Garret Stevenson’s plans.
“This room is huge.”
“It will need to be when the hotel is full. There are twenty-six rooms. Add in mates and children, and that’s a lot of people to be fed.”
It was indeed.
“And then, of course, there will be those who come only to dine. Passengers first, but residents, too, as Whisper Creek grows.”
He would need to hire a cook. And meantime...her stomach tensed. He ushered her to the door she’d peeked through last night, and they entered a large dining room. She caught her breath at the beauty of the Hepplewhite servers, tables and chairs. A corner cupboard, painted a darker gray than the dove-gray plastered walls, stood on the outside wall on her left. A long banquet table and evenly spaced small tables filled the room. Extra chairs sat in the corners. Red-and-white patterned china and a pewter chandelier and sconces added bright touches that caught the eye. But it was the paneled fireplace wall that held her gaze. The workmanship quality was equal to that in her father’s library. “It’s a beautiful room, Garret.”
Pleasure flashed across his face. “I studied some of the best hotels and restaurants before I left New York. I want people to be so comfortable in my hotel they don’t want to leave.” He pushed open one of the doors flanking the fireplace and stepped back.
She entered the hotel lobby and looked around to orient herself. In a cozy corner on her right was a game table and bookshelves. On her left was the fireplace with two padded chairs facing it. Beyond that was the hotel entrance. An aura of welcome and comfort impressed itself upon her.
She moved ahead to stand by the long paneled desk, her hems whispering across the polished wood floor.
“Are you familiar with the procedure for staying at a hotel?”
“I know one must register and pay. I’ve never done so.”
He gave her a measuring look. “Your maid registered for you, while you were escorted to your room by the concierge.”
She treated his statement as a question. “Yes.”
His face went taut. “This is where the guests sign their name and address. Like this...” He opened a leather register resting beside a bell and a pewter pen and ink holder, and turned it so she could see.
She glanced at the few names entered and nodded.
“The fee is one dollar and a half per night. When they pay they are assigned a room, their money is placed in the till on the shelf under the counter, and they are given the key to their room. The keys are there.” He pointed behind the desk to numbered cubbyholes holding keys. “Duplicate keys are in my office—through that door under the stairs.”
“Your office also has a door from the hall in your private quarters.”
“Yes. It’s convenient to be able to enter or exit from either side. Now...any additional charges for the guest are noted beside their name in the ledger, and a note specifying the charge is placed in their box. Also, any messages they may receive during their stay are placed in their boxes. This—” he turned a small leather folder her way “—contains all of the other services offered by the hotel along with their costs.” His lips lifted into that wry smile that was so contagious it pulled the corners of her own mouth upward. “You’ll note there are few at the moment.”
She glanced at the list of services, her mind playing with an idea. Perhaps she could act as a hostess. She was skilled at that. She had performed that service for her father often.
Hotel
Meals served in your room: 5 cents
Checking daily for telegrams or posts: 1 cent
Maid service—bed made, rooms swept or dusted: 2 cents per service
Fresh towel: 3 cents
Dining Room
Breakfast served at six-thirty
Dinner served from twelve o’clock until three o’clock
Supper served from six o’clock until eight o’clock
Meals: 50 cents
Extra dessert: 5 cents
“I’ll show you the upstairs rooms later. That way...” He motioned her toward the stairs, which turned and ran a short distance to an arch in the opposite wall.
Her breath caught. Her fingers twitched. She stopped and stared. Close to the front corner of the room stood an upright Steinway piano. A padded settee and several chairs were clustered around the instrument.
“Is something wrong?”
“What? Oh, no. It’s only...do you play the piano?”
“Not so anyone would want to hear.” His eyebrow lifted, his gaze fastened on hers. “Do you play?”
She tipped her head and answered him in kind. “Well enough that people like to listen.”
He chuckled, a low masculine rumble that made her smile. “Good. You’ll be able to entertain our guests.”
At last, something she could do to repay him for her escape from Emory Gladen. The cost of the ticket and the money she had used weighed heavily on her. The tension across her shoulders lessened.
“This hallway leads to the guests’ dressing room—” he gestured toward the door at the end of the hall on their right “—and two guest bedrooms. These are the rooms I want ready in case any passengers decide it’s too dangerous to travel farther and choose to stay overnight.” He opened the doors. “I tended the fires earlier. You’ve only to make up the beds and set out the towels in the dressing room. You’ll find the linens in the cupboard in the hall. I’ve got to finish shoveling. Oh, and when you finish the rooms, you’ll find beef stew in the refrigerator to be heated for dinner.”
She stared after him, wanting to tell him she didn’t know how to make a bed or cook. But the thought of the anger that shadowed his face and eyes whenever he mentioned Millie held her silent. What if he annulled their strange marriage? She had nowhere to go. And she was indebted to him for the ticket and money she had used.
Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away and squared her shoulders. She wasn’t helpless. Surely she could make a bed. She would worry about the cooking later.
She opened the cupboard in the hall, stared at the shelves piled with sheets and blankets and pillowcases. She closed her eyes and thought about her bed at home, then filled her arms with the items she needed and carried them to bedroom number one. She dropped them onto the seat of a chair and faced the bed. What did Millie do?
Tears welled again. So did her anger. One thing was for certain—Millie didn’t cry. Was her maid more capable than she? Of course not! It was only a matter of applying oneself. She blinked the tears away, pulled the coverlet off the bed and tossed it over the chair back. First she needed a sheet for the guest to lie on. She pulled one from the pile, laid it on the bed and unfolded it. It was too big. She folded the extra length out of her way at the bottom, but that did not work on the sides; they simply fell down. She let them hang, and unfolded the second sheet on top of the first and repeated the process.
It looked quite good.
She smoothed out every crease and wrinkle, unfolded and placed two blankets on top of the sheet. A smile curved her lips. This wasn’t so difficult. She stuffed the pillow into the case, remembered Millie pummeling hers, and punched and fluffed it. The blue-and-white coverlet finished her job.
She stood back and examined her work. There was not a wrinkle showing anywhere. She let out a long, relieved sigh and hurried to the cupboard in the hall to get the linens for bedroom number two.
* * *
Garret stomped the snow from his boots, wiped them on the rag rug and hurried across the lobby. Finally, he was through shoveling for possible guests. With all the narrow connecting paths, the town looked like a rabbit warren. But at least people could get around. He opened the door to his private quarters and froze. Smoke! He bolted for the kitchen.
“Oh...oh...” Virginia stood in front of the stove waving a towel through the air. Smoke billowed and curled from a large pot sitting on the front burner plate. The smell of burned stew mingled with the stringent odor.
He leaped forward, snatched the towel from her hands and lifted the pan off the hot surface.
“Oh!” She whirled around, bumped into him and rebounded toward the stove.
“Careful!” He grabbed her with his free hand, pulled her against him and backed toward the sink, bringing her with him. He set the pan in the sink and turned on the tap. Cold water rushed out and covered the burned stew. The pot hissed. The smoke stopped. He looked down into her watering eyes. Tears? Or stinging smoke? “What happened?”
“I—I don’t know.” She placed her hands against his chest and pushed away. “I—I put wood in the stove, then found the refrigerator and the stew in it.”
She found the refrigerator?
“I put the stew in a pan and was heating it as you asked. I stirred it with a big spoon the way I’ve seen Martha do, but it started bubbling and splashing out of the pan.” Her eyes watered more.
Tears. He held back a frown and waited for her to finish her explanation. “Some landed on my hand and I went to wash it off and put lotion on it. When I came back the stew was burning and smoking, and I couldn’t make it stop.” She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t know which was more pathetic, the way she looked or her story. “Who is Martha?” He had a sinking feeling he knew the answer before she spoke.
“Our cook.”
“And Millie helped her in the kitchen.”
“Yes. Garret—”
He shook his head, set his jaw and looked at the scorched mess in the pot. There went the possibility of stew for today’s dinner or supper for any guests...or them. “We’ll talk later. First I’ll...” He lifted his head, looked toward the sitting room. “There’s the bell. I have a guest.” He looked down at his rough clothes and scowled. “The way I’m dressed, it would be best if you register him and show him to his room to make certain everything is satisfactory. Can you do that?” She seemed capable of that much.
She straightened, brushed back a curl that had fallen free to dangle in front of her ear. “Yes.”
“All right then. I’ll tend to the fireplace, to stay close in case you need my help.” He snatched up the towel he’d dropped and handed it to her. “Wipe your cheeks and eyes.” The bell rang again. He waved her forward and hurried through the sitting room after her, hoping he wasn’t making another mistake in trusting her to handle the guest. He eyed her golden-brown curls falling from her crown to her shoulders, the way her expensive gown fitted her slender form, and the graceful way she moved even when she hurried. She certainly looked the part of a successful businessman’s wife. But he needed help, and there was no one to hire. Maybe she could learn.
He opened the door and Virginia swept through it, her long skirts floating across the floor. She smiled as she moved behind the desk. His pulse skipped. He’d never seen her look so composed, so capable, so... beautiful.
“May I help you, madam?”
Madam. He’d assumed the guest was a man. He stepped into the lobby, glanced toward the woman standing in front of the desk. The woman looked his way and stared. Great. He probably had soot from the pan on his face. And his clothes! He sure didn’t look like a successful hotel owner.
“Madam?” Virginia’s soft voice called the woman’s attention back to her.
“Yes, I’m sorry, I—” The woman covered her mouth with her gloved hand, coughed. “I’d like a room, please.”
He strode to the fireplace and squatted to add wood to the fire and scrape at the ashes. He’d clean up as soon as he’d shoveled the snow from the back porch.
“Would you like a room here on the first floor, madam? It’s very convenient to the sitting area and the dining room. But if you would prefer a room upstairs, that can be arranged, also.”
What was Virginia doing? He’d told her to assign the two down—
“The downstairs room sounds convenient.” The woman coughed again, cleared her throat. “I’ll take it.”
“Wonderful.” Virginia smiled and turned the register around. “Sign your name and write your address here, please.”
“I don’t have an address at the moment. I’ve been traveling.”
Traveling? The woman didn’t look that prosperous. Her cloak and hat were worn. So was the old carpetbag sitting on the floor at her feet. Of course, he didn’t look like a hotel owner in the clothes he had on.
“No matter. Just write ‘traveling.’”
He sneaked a look over his shoulder at Virginia. She was doing a good job handling the registration. He glanced back at the woman, noted the awkward angle of her hand while she signed in.
“And how long will you be staying with us, Mrs. Fuller?”
“I don’t know. It depends...on the weather. At least two nights.”
“That will be three dollars, please.”
The woman ducked her head, pulled the reticule from her wrist. There was the dull clunk of coins hitting against one another.
“Here you are.”
“And here is your key. If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you to your room, Mrs. Fuller. I’ve put you in room number two. I think you’ll find it quite comfortable.”
The woman bent and reached down.
He stood, shook his head, gestured at the bag, then pointed to himself.
Virginia gave a small nod of understanding. “Leave your bag, Mrs. Fuller. It will be brought to your room.”
He waited until she stepped out from behind the counter and led the woman to the short hallway off the lobby, then moved to the desk and picked up the woman’s bag.
“The sign says the Stevenson Hotel. Is that the proprietor’s name? I always think it’s nice when people call their businesses by their name.”
The woman’s quiet voice floated out of the hall. He stepped to the edge of the arched opening and waited for them to enter bedroom number two.
“Yes, it is. My husband is Mr. Stevenson.”
Husband. His heart jolted. He’d never wanted that word applied to himself.
“Here we are. This is your room, and that is the dressing room. You will share it with the occupant of room number one, if I rent it out tonight.”
Good! Virginia had thought to tell the guest about the dressing room. He hurried forward, stepped into the bedroom doorway. “Madam’s bag.” He set the patched carpetbag on the floor and backed out.
“What a lovely room.”
He paused to listen, pleased by the woman’s approval.
“I’m looking forward to sleeping in a bed that doesn’t rock back and forth beneath me.”
The bed springs squeaked.
“I’m sure you’ll find it quite comfortable. I’ll—I’ll send someone by later to tend the fire.”
It was the first time Virginia had hesitated. His fault. He should have told her—
“No need, my dear. I see there’s a coal box. And I’ve been tending fires all of my life. But I’m afraid there is a problem with the bed. It’s...undone.”
Undone! He’d told her—
“I’m so sorry. Let me fix it for—”
The door closed, shutting off Virginia’s voice. Fix it! What—? He stared at the knob, clenched and unclenched his hands, then spun on his heel. He stalked to his office, strode straight through it to the door that led to the hall by their bedrooms, and yanked it open. Three long strides took him to her bedroom door. He opened it, stared at the quilt in a pile on the bare mattress. The woman couldn’t even make a bed!
He drew a deep breath, clamped his lips closed on the words scorching his tongue and strode back down the short hall. Going back to the guest’s room would only make things worse. And he hadn’t time. The woman would expect dinner to be served and, thanks to his bride, the stew he’d prepared was an inedible burned lump! He’d have to apologize to the woman, go to her room and make her bed while she was eating her midday meal. If he could even feed her! He was no cook.
He stomped through the sitting room into the kitchen, grabbed the ruined panful of burned stew out of the sink and threw it out the back door with all his fury propelling it. He watched it arc into the air, then stared at the dark hole in the snow where it landed.
If only he could get rid of his bride as easily! He wanted no part of her! Even if she was beautiful. If it weren’t for that contract...
He left the door open to get rid of the smell and headed for the pantry. He had to find something to feed his hotel guest. It would have to be cold food. He had no time to make more stew.
And his bride would be of no help. That was certain. He’d be better off with a cookbook!
Chapter Four (#ucb528068-b455-5a02-8f0e-f55c811532dc)
Please don’t let her leave on the next train out of town, Lord! Virginia turned from the door she’d hastily closed and faced the guest. “I’m sorry your bed isn’t properly made, Mrs. Fuller. I’m afraid I—” she took a breath and threw herself on the woman’s mercy “—I’m to blame. We are only just married and Garret doesn’t know that I can’t make beds or...anything.” She straightened under the woman’s stare. “But I will learn.”
Mrs. Fuller nodded, placed her fisted hands on the mattress and pushed up from the bed. “There’s no maid?”
She shook her head, hurried to the side of the bed and pulled off the covers and sheets. “Whisper Creek is only coming into being. Garret says there is no one in town to hire.”
“I see...”
She glanced from Mrs. Fuller’s back to her reflection in the mirror. The thin, lined face was pensive, and one hand fiddled with the cuff of a glove. Was the woman trying to decide if she would stay or go back to the depot and wait for the next train? Her stomach knotted. If Mrs. Fuller left, Garret Stevenson would likely pack her and her belongings off to the station, as well. She yanked a sheet from the pile of linens she’d tossed on a chair and spread it on the bed, but could think of nothing to do with the extra length except fold it out of the way at the bottom as she’d done before. Her situation was hopeless. She couldn’t do this work! Tears welled.
Mrs. Fuller’s long skirts rustled and her boot heels clicked against the floor.
Her stomach sank. The woman was leaving. She blinked away her tears and squared her shoulders.
“Not that way, dear. Like this...”
She stared, rendered speechless as Mrs. Fuller stepped to the other side of the bed, took hold of the top edge of the sheet and tugged. The fabric unfolded.
“Now center the sheet so there is extra length all around—at the top and bottom and sides.”
She swallowed back a fresh spate of tears at the woman’s kindness, grabbed hold of the sheet and copied Mrs. Fuller’s actions. “But what do I do with all of this extra fabric?”
“Have you ever wrapped a present?”
“Yes, of course. But...” She stared at the bed, then looked up at the woman standing across from her. “You’re saying I should wrap the mattress?”
The blue eyes fastened on her warmed. “Exactly. Let me show you.”
She could have hugged the woman. “How very kind of you.”
“Not at all, my dear. I’m happy to help. First, you tuck the extra length of sheet at the top between the mattress and the one beneath it that rests on the ropes.” Mrs. Fuller slid her arm under the top mattress, lifted it, then used her other arm to sweep the extra linen between that mattress and the one beneath it. She copied the older woman’s actions on her side of the bed.
“Good! Now, we go to the bottom of the bed, pull the sheet nice and tight, then tuck it under as we did at the top. And then we’ll do the same on the sides.” Mrs. Fuller edged along between the bed and the wall smoothing the sheet with one hand and tucking it under the mattress with the other.
She glanced over at the wrinkle-free linen on Mrs. Fuller’s side of the bed, frowned down at her side. “What did you do at the corners? Mine are all puckered.”
“I folded them—like you do on a present.” The older woman came to her side and demonstrated.
“Oh. I see.” She fixed the other corner, slid her palm over the perfectly smooth sheet and smiled. “And I do the top sheet and blankets the same way?”
“Yes, except you tuck all of the extra length under at the bottom.”
She nodded and spread the other sheet over the bed. Making it even with the edge of the mattress at the top, she tucked the extra length under at the foot of the bed. Satisfaction surged when Mrs. Fuller nodded and smiled. She reached for a blanket.
The older woman removed her hat and cloak and placed them in the wardrobe. “Whisper Creek must be a very small town if there is no one to hire for a maid.”
“Yes. I only arrived last night, but Garret said there is a general store, an apothecary shop, a church and—” she finished tucking the blanket in and straightened “—and something else...oh yes, a sawmill. And a laundry in the woods at the edge of town.”
“Well, that’s helpful. There are a lot of linens to be washed for a hotel of this size.”
She shook the coverlet out over the bed, then stopped and stared at Mrs. Fuller. “I hadn’t thought of that.” Thank You, Lord, for the laundry.
The older woman smoothed back the dark, graying hair at her temples, tugged at her faded dress. “It’s getting close to midday. What time is dinner served?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to ask Garret.” Her cheeks heated. Mrs. Fuller must think her a complete dolt. “As I said, I only arrived in Whisper Creek last night. We were married shortly after my arrival.”

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