A Bride for Andrew

by Cat Cahill

  What happened to his wife. What could that mean? Perhaps they weren’t speaking of Andrew at all . . . yet they’d looked right at Ivy as they spoke and Andrew had been a widower, so who else could it be?

  Ivy’s heart still hadn’t slowed to normal by the time they reached the door. Andrew held it open for her and the children, and for the first time that day, gave her a smile. It seemed as if something had lightened inside of him at the same time a heavy feeling had settled inside Ivy.

  “Would you like to see something new?” Andrew asked Oliver and Sarah once they were all in the wagon again.

  “Yes!” they both shouted as Ivy raised her eyebrows at him. It was as if he were an entirely different man from the one who drove them to services this morning. His face was cheerful instead of stoically set, and even his eyes seemed to have brightened a shade or two.

  “Then sit down and I’ll show you.” His eyes met Ivy’s, the deep blue twinkling with . . . what? A happy surprise, Ivy hoped. But that woman’s words ricocheted in her head. Was he keeping some sort of secret from her? She wanted so badly to trust him, to have the true marriage she’d always dreamed of, but how could she if he was hiding something from her?

  He clucked to the mules, and the wagon jolted into motion. Ivy noticed every pair of eyes that looked their way as Andrew drove the mules toward the south. She had to acknowledge that she was in the strangest situation. This was not a normal marriage. She barely knew her husband, and he barely knew her. Yet, in the quiet moments at night on the train, she’d had fanciful dreams—that they’d lock eyes the moment they met and know they were always meant for each other. But in the light of day, that’s all it was—a dream. The reality was that she was bound to someone she didn’t know, in the great hope they’d develop some sort of affection for each other. He made her insides dance when he looked at her, but she knew hardly anything about him.

  How had Maggie done it? And married to an outlaw, of all things? Ivy gazed at Andrew from the corner of her eye. No, he was most definitely not a train robber or a road agent. She supposed she could breathe more easily than Maggie, knowing the county sheriff wouldn’t suddenly come knocking on their door.

  But there was something else. Something weighty he carried inside, like the clouds hanging over the Sangre de Cristos in the mornings. It must have something to do with the looks they’d gotten in town. Something to do with his first wife.

  Ivy shivered and Andrew glanced at her.

  “Oliver, could you pass up your aunt’s coat?” he asked over his shoulder.

  Oliver dutifully handed the coat to Ivy. She took it, despite the fact she wasn’t cold at all.

  She was nervous.

  Chapter Six

  The children enjoyed the creek that sat to the west of town as much as Andrew thought they might. They ran and laughed and tossed leaves and small stones into the quickly moving water. He did his best to ensure they didn’t dirty their nice clothing—too much.

  Ivy sat under a stand of aspen and watched them. She smiled at Sarah’s antics and expressed amazement at Oliver’s finds, and occasionally, Andrew felt her eyes on him. After a successful excursion into town, in which they’d only received stares that he could easily write off as curiosity, he felt as if he’d thrown off a large pack full of creek stones.

  He’d tried more than once to address the gossip he’d feared she would hear in town, and yet he hadn’t summoned the courage before they left. He barely heard a word of the sermon because he worried so much about the things people might say in Ivy’s presence. He berated himself more than once for lacking the courage to tell her first. But when they left the church with nary a word about Mary’s death, Andrew had never been so thankful.

  That only meant he had to find the guts to tell her himself. This luck wouldn’t continue. It was inevitable she’d hear something.

  But he’d bought himself a few days, at least, and for that he was ready to enjoy a nice hour or so by Silver Creek, which ran along the foot of the mountains. Only when the children began to complain of being hungry did he herd them back to the wagon.

  The ride home was much noisier than the one into town that morning, thanks to Oliver and Sarah’s chatter. Oliver asked him a million questions about the mules, the chickens, the cow, and the crops that were already in the ground. Sarah wanted to know when she could ride the mules and why he didn’t clean his house better.

  Ivy bit her lip at that last question, but Andrew laughed out loud. It felt strange and rusty, as if he hadn’t laughed in a long time. He supposed he hadn’t. After all, he hadn’t had anything to laugh about in a while.

  “Aunty Ivy spent two days cleaning your house,” Sarah went on. “She said she’d never seen a stove so dirty. And she wouldn’t let me use the blacking. I liked it, though. It looked like fun. And then we had to find places for our clothes. We have to keep our underthings in the trunk though, because Aunty Ivy said it would be unseemly to hang them on hooks.”

  The laughter nearly brought tears to his eyes. “That’s quite fascinating, Miss Sarah,” he said, still chuckling. “Your Aunt Ivy told me you had plenty of room for your clothing.”

  Ivy’s face was bright red, and she covered her mouth with her hand. “It . . . well . . . I . . .”

  Her embarrassment delighted him to no end. “The stove looked very clean,” he said to give Ivy a moment to compose herself. He’d need to put together something in which to keep their clothing. A small wardrobe, perhaps.

  It wasn’t long before they were home. Oliver wanted to help unhitch and turn out the mules, and Andrew was glad to teach him. It wouldn’t be long before the boy would be able to do it himself. Lost in thought about how much more he could get done on this homestead with help, an hour had passed when Sarah came out to fetch them for a late Sunday dinner.

  “Next time I’ll put something on before we leave,” Ivy said as she placed a platter of cold ham, a bowl of beans, and another plate of buttered bread on the table.

  Andrew’s stomach rumbled as he took in the food. “This looks good enough to me,” he said. Her lips lifted into a smile, which set his insides to dancing. He’d better eat before he lost control of his senses altogether.

  The food was excellent, and he spent the rest of the afternoon showing the children how to feed the animals and doing various chores. He worked faster and more efficiently than usual, finishing just as the sun set instead of two hours later. And when he hung up the shovel in the barn, he realized why.

  He wanted to be back inside the house. With Ivy.

  What was wrong with him? Andrew strode to the well that sat among the cottonwoods behind the house. Throwing off his hat, he drew up a bucket of water and splashed his face and hair with it. The cold spring water dripped into his eyes, clearing his mind. Mary was the love of his life. It was his fault she was no longer here. The very least he owed her was a faithful heart. He’d already allowed himself too much leeway today, from noticing how the green in Ivy’s dress set off the green in her eyes to finding too much joy in her embarrassment.

  This was an arrangement that benefited the both of them, and that was all. Nothing else.

  He entered the house through the rear door. Inside the kitchen, he found a lamp and matches, and a plate of leftover ham and bread waiting for him. Starving, he ate it without even lighting the lamp or sitting at the table.

  As the last rays of sunlight slid from view through the window, he finally lit the lamp and went in search of Ivy and the children. He found Ivy in the parlor, a piece of tan-colored cloth stretched across her lap and a bright, warm fire lighting the room.

  “Where are the children?” he asked. He’d hoped to tell them that he’d wake them early to feed the animals, but they were nowhere to be seen.

  “Asleep,” she said, drawing her eyes up from her sewing to look at him. “They were falling off before it even grew dark.” She set her work aside and stood, her lilac scent wafting past him as she made her way to the bedroom door. She pushed
the door open just wide enough for him to lift the lamp and see inside. Sure enough, both children were fast asleep in the big bed, taking up so much space that Andrew wondered where Ivy might sleep later.

  He drew back quickly. This was exactly the sort of thing he shouldn’t be thinking about. It didn’t matter where Ivy slept, so long as it wasn’t with him.

  “I meant to thank you for taking us to services,” she said, closing the door. “And to the creek. The children wore themselves out, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m glad they enjoyed it,” he said as he stepped far around her. “I ought to turn in myself. Morning comes early here.”

  She frowned slightly as her eyes searched his face, and a different sort of guilt settled in his chest. Part of the reason he wanted a wife was to ease the loneliness in the evenings, to have someone to converse with, to discuss plans for the house or the planting. And here he was, going to sleep far earlier than normal each night to avoid just that. But how could he keep distance between them when she watched him with those pretty eyes? When her laugh sounded like the babbling of the creek? Was his heart so ready to betray the only woman he’d ever loved?

  No, it was better he went on to sleep and forfeited the conversation. At least for now. Perhaps when he grew more used to her presence, he’d be better able to push aside those feelings and talk like a normal man without wanting to fling away everything he’d promised Mary.

  “Andrew?” Ivy said his name hesitantly, as if she still weren’t used to using it yet.

  “Yes?” He paused by the kitchen door.

  She twisted her hands together as if she were nervous. “I . . . Well, I heard some things. After services. And I’m hoping you might be able to ease my mind.”

  That heavy weight sat on Andrew’s shoulders again. He’d been wrong. She’d already heard the gossip. He drew in a deep breath. He had to speak of this at some point. Now was just as good a time as any. At least he’d get it over with. “What did you hear?”

  “It was about your wife. Your first wife, I mean. I presume, anyhow, since we haven’t spoken much on that subject yet.” Ivy dropped her hands and paused.

  “Mary was my only wife,” he said, and when she furrowed her brow, he corrected himself. “Before you.”

  She nodded quickly, then continued. “Two women kept looking toward me, as if I confused them in some way. They never introduced themselves—in fact no one introduced themselves, which is odd. But they were speaking about Mary and something that had happened to her.”

  “That’s all?”

  She nodded again, chewing on her lip.

  He shifted the lamp to his other hand, trying to come up with words. It hurt to even think of speaking about it. “There are some—many, in fact—in Crest Stone who believe it my fault that Mary died.”

  He could see Ivy swallow. She clenched her hands together and her eyes widened some. It took a moment for Andrew to recognize it. She was frightened.

  Of him.

  Something tight clenched about his heart. She believed it. Of course she would—she’d heard no alternative explanation. And he couldn’t give her one, because even now, a year and a half later, he was inclined to agree with them. Some nights, when the dark enveloped the house and coyotes called across the valley, he knew he was to blame.

  Perhaps it was better that she feared him some, as much as the thought of it ripped his last shred of hope in half. It would make her keep her distance.

  “Was it?” she finally asked, in a small voice laced with quiet bravery.

  He looked at her, this petite woman who was the physical opposite of Mary in every way, and yet shared the same unfathomable amount of courage. Courage so bold, she’d throw everything she’d known to the wind to live here. With him. Look at what that had gotten Mary.

  “Why did you agree to this arrangement?” he asked, the question bursting forth from the recesses of his mind. If he pressed her, she couldn’t ask him for answers to questions he didn’t want to think about. “Why would you come to a place like this, to live with me, and bring two innocent children along with you? Did it occur to you that you could be marrying into a terrible situation?” He hurled the questions like flaming cannonballs across the few feet of space between them.

  Ivy pressed her hands to her stomach and took a step back. It was hard to tell in the lamplight, but it appeared that wetness brightened the corners of her eyes. “I told you in my letter,” she said, that useless courage underlining her words. “Circumstances for my family changed and we had to leave.”

  That wasn’t the entire story. Andrew knew it in his bones.

  “Fine,” he said as evenly as possible. “We both need each other, for reasons that are our own. I’ll provide you and the children a safe place to live, and you help me keep the place up. It’s a convenient arrangement for all involved. Now, I bid you good night.”

  As he turned and left her, a shadow standing in the parlor with the fire flickering behind her, he forced his splintered heart to nail itself back together. It wouldn’t stay mended if he kept letting Ivy pry at it. And now, with any hope, she wouldn’t.

  He extinguished the lamp and lay looking at the ceiling, listening to Ivy moving about the parlor. She must wish she’d never come here. Perhaps he’d pushed too far. He didn’t want her to leave, but he didn’t want her too close either.

  Well, he was in no danger of the latter happening now. He could live alone in his head with his memories of Mary. Always faithful, and never able to put anyone else in the same danger again.

  Chapter Seven

  It was late morning when Ivy spotted the wagon in the distance. She paused in sweeping off the front porch as a broad smile overtook her face. It had been three days since Andrew had essentially told her she’d been foolish for answering his advertisement. Three days since he hadn’t answered her question about whether he was responsible for Mary’s death. She’d barely slept at all that night, instead praying over and over for guidance. She’d been on the verge of packing up the children and leaving, but hadn’t. She had no more money, they had nowhere else to go since home was out of the question, and, well . . . she liked this place. Even if Andrew had made it clear he didn’t much care for her, he said he’d keep them safe.

  If she could trust him.

  “Aunty Ivy!” Oliver shouted from the barn door. “Someone’s coming!” He ran toward her and she sent him to fetch his sister.

  As the wagon grew closer, Ivy could make out two figures, a man and a woman. Maggie had sent word two days prior that she would come for a visit. Andrew had gone into town an hour or so ago, taking Ivy’s response to send north to the Trentons’ ranch before he had the mules reshod. But that was just like Maggie—she did as she pleased and didn’t much care for what others thought of her actions.

  The man—Maggie’s husband, Ivy assumed—pulled the wagon to a halt in front of the house just as Oliver returned with Sarah. Maggie handed a bundle to her husband before scrambling down from the wagon and running toward Ivy. Ivy threw her arms around her friend.

  “I can’t believe you’re here!” Maggie said. She pulled back, looked Ivy up and down, and then hugged her again.

  “It’s been so long,” Ivy said, taking Maggie’s hands in hers as her friend stepped back. “Oliver and Sarah, this is my friend Mrs. Trenton.”

  Oliver dipped into a little bow that made Maggie giggle while Sarah clutched her doll to her chest and stared past Maggie to where Mr. Trenton was walking toward her. It only took a few seconds for Ivy to figure out what Sarah was so entranced with.

  Maggie dropped Ivy’s hands to take the baby from her husband. The sweet, rosy-cheeked girl blinked at them all with round blue eyes. Ivy thought her heart might melt right there in the flattened grass as Maggie touched the baby’s forehead with her lips, whispering words of comfort. “Oh, Maggie, she is precious. I should have known you’d already had her.”

  “It’s I who should apologize. I haven’t had a spare moment to write since before
her birth. But I did receive and read each of your letters.” She turned the baby to face Ivy and the children. “This is Anabel.”

  The child was too small to do much but look at them and make cooing sounds, but she did reward them with a smile. Maggie beamed at little Anabel.

  Ivy laid a hand on her friend’s arm. “I’ve never seen you so happy.”

  “I know I’m not as fascinating as a baby,” Mr. Trenton said, his hat in his hand, “but I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Chisholm. Maggie speaks about you frequently.”

  The dark-haired man cut an imposing figure next to Ivy’s friend and their tiny baby, but his smile radiated warmth. “I’m glad to finally meet you. Maggie wrote to me about you,” Ivy said.

  “I hope it was only good things.” He grinned.

  “Only the best,” Maggie said, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “Starting with how we first met.”

  Mr. Trenton winced. “I’ll take that as my cue to leave. I should only be a couple of hours in town. I’ll fetch you when I’m finished.”

  He leaned down to kiss his wife—until Sarah tugged at Ivy’s sleeve and said, “They’re kissing!” Oliver made a face.

  Mr. Trenton straightened, laughing.

  After he drove off, Ivy settled Maggie in the parlor. Sarah and Oliver played on the floor with the baby as Ivy fetched lemonade for them all. Ivy caught up on Maggie’s life at the Trentons’ ranch, Aspen Ridge, and Ivy filled her friend in on the latest news from home.

  When the baby grew fussy, and Oliver and Sarah escaped outside to play, Maggie fixed Ivy with a look that Ivy knew well.

  “You haven’t said much about your husband at all,” Maggie said as she bounced baby Anabel. “Why is that?”

  Ivy sighed and set about gathering the children’s empty lemonade glasses. Maggie laid a hand on her arm and tilted her head. “Are you in trouble? Do you need to come stay with us? You can, you know. Both you and the children.”

  Ivy sat back on the settee, leaving the glasses. “It isn’t that. Andrew is kind enough. He isn’t cruel. He’s . . . well, distant, I suppose.”