by Stacy Henrie
Pain flashed in her eyes, and like a flower closing its petals at night she seemed to curl in on herself. “I was married, but…”
Emotion strangled her voice. He felt her pain, knew it had to be fresh, recent. This same pain marred the faces of a dozen widows he knew. The loss of a husband explained so very much. Her willingness to uproot herself and move nearly two thousand miles. Leave her practice, associations, friends, and family to start somewhere new.
She hadn’t touched the remainder of her supper, so he pushed the plate aside and offered his hand. For a moment, he thought she’d refuse to take it. But she slipped her hand into his.
He squeezed her cool fingers, hoping to convey compassion and honesty. He truly didn’t care she’d been someone else’s first. He just wanted her to be his from now on. “It doesn’t matter. It’s all right that you have, that you were…”
Where had the words gone?
He’d never had trouble consoling widows in the past, never found it hard to speak of death or loss. But now, it had become personal. He wanted to know more, to ask how much time had transpired, but couldn’t. Maybe one day, once the pain of her loss had lessened.
He brought their joined hands to his mouth and kissed her knuckles.
With marriage, issue generally followed. He deserved to know if she had offspring, if said little ones would be joining them. “Children?”
“No.”
“Forgive me for asking,” he murmured, leaning closer. He braced himself with an elbow on his knee. “I want children. You’re able, as far as you know?”
“Y-Yes.” She’d leaned toward him too. Her cheekbones had taken on a tint of pink, and her pupils slowly encroached upon blue irises. Evident signs of attraction, just as his certainly were to her.
He didn’t care if she knew he wanted her. Might be better if he said so, outright.
“I don’t mind admitting I’m attracted to you, Miss Fairchild. Marriage to you won’t be a burden.”
A strangled croak of laughter slipped past her lips.
“That didn’t come out right, did it?” He grinned, couldn’t help it. Her attention settled on his mouth and his pulse accelerated. He couldn’t wait to kiss her.
“No.”
“This interview requires only one more focus.” As far as he was concerned, Naomi Fairchild had turned out to be more than he’d needed and wanted. He’d marry her this very second. But he wanted to kiss her. Right now.
“Oh?”
He stood, drew her by the hands to stand with him. He brushed thumbs over her cheeks, all the while holding her gaze. Heat flared in her eyes, lamplight reflecting in the perfect blue of Lake Michigan on a calm summer day in Chicago. “I want a real marriage, full disclosure, honesty.”
Did she understand? He searched her expression for evidence of agreement.
“You?” he asked when he couldn’t be sure of her feelings on the subject.
“Yes. I want all that.”
He knew so little of the circumstances of her husband’s death, how long ago she’d buried him, but he knew one thing for sure— she’d welcome his kiss.
He drew her close and reveled in her little shivers.
“I intend to kiss you, Naomi. If you want to say no, now is the time.”
Chapter Seven
Oh, how she wanted his kiss.
But he seemed in no hurry. His gaze traveled from one cheekbone along the line of her jaw to her mouth. He lingered but made no further advancement.
As if savoring the anticipation.
Warm, effervescent excitement made her feel more alive than she’d been for two long years. Had she ever experienced this magnitude of attraction?
She’d met Doc Joe mere hours earlier. Immediate appeal had grown into appreciation, which had become genuine attraction.
The nickname would no longer do. Not if they’d whisper promises to one another in the form of a first kiss. Kisses meant something, at least to her.
She swallowed, attempting to moisten her mouth. “Doc Joe?”
“Hmmm?” His eyelids had lowered, his expression one of unmistakable male interest. Dipping his head, he drew near.
“What is your name? Your full name, if you don’t mind.”
Honest pleasure echoed in his chuckle. “Madam, my name is Joseph Henry Chandler.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Chandler.” He stood near enough now that the warmth of his much larger body, the brush of his trouser leg against her sturdy navy blue skirt, and the tantalizing friction of his thumb along her jaw had her tingling from crown to toe.
“Call me Joe.”
“If you insist.”
“I do.” He inched nearer. His pupils dilated.
She’d arrived in Evanston without a glimmer of confidence in herself as a woman, and Joe’s genuine attraction to her had nearly restored it. She could kiss him, for that gift alone. “When do you intend to kiss me, exactly?”
“In a moment.”
“Why the delay?” She chuckled.
“It’s the final step in the interview. It should be allowed a position of honor on the agenda.”
“You believe one kiss will complete this interview?”
“Undoubtedly. It will lend certain scientific proof.” He skimmed the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone.
“Proof?”
“Proof of mutual compatibility. Interest. Passion.”
Nerves tingled in the wake of his touch. Delicious.
“I see.”
“Understand, I want spark in my marriage. It’s time for children, family, permanence. I want it all.”
Her stomach quivered with the most delicious sensation.
“I must determine if you are as perfect a fit as you appear.”
But she wasn’t perfect. No good at kissing, either. She’d failed to please her husband. Her romance with Ernie had been lukewarm at best, and they’d both known she was the source of the problem.
But Ernie and Joe were two very different men.
By evidence evaluated with her own senses, he was undoubtedly attracted to her, far more than Ernie may have ever been. And she was far more attracted to Joe than she’d ever been to Ernie.
Suddenly, she had to know. “Did you kiss other applicants and find them lacking?”
He chuckled again. This man, so easily amused, drew her. She found her hands cupping his elbows. In a bold move of empowered woman, she slid her hands to his narrow waist. Lean, strong, and healthy.
Sharing the marriage bed with this handsome fellow would be glorious.
“So, how ’bout it?” He nuzzled his nose across the hollow of her throat.
“I asked you a question, Joseph. I asked how many applicants you kissed and then sent away.”
He eased back, allowing her a glimpse of his broad, appealing smile. “Not one. Twice in the past two years I carried on a correspondence with midwives who said they’d travel to Evanston, but both failed to actually make an appearance in town.”
“Ah.” To many, this railroad town on the Wyoming Territory border would seem too far away. For her, not far enough.
“I’ll never know why. I wrote once more after each lady’s arrival date came and went, but never heard a word.”
“I’m sorry.” But she wasn’t. The other women’s choices had brought her to Joe.
He shrugged as if past experiences were irrelevant. “Consider yourself warned, Miss Fairchild. I intend to kiss you.”
“So you said.”
“Consider it my final warning.”
“I’m quite forewarned.” She chuckled. “I believe the moment may be passing us by.”
He laughed and, still smiling, lowered his mouth to hers with such tenderness and barely-there pressure, her heart rate spiked.
He lingered. Glorious.
His simple choice to take his time, to dally, swept through her. Had Ernie ever once taken more than a perfunctory second? Already, Joe’s kiss far surpassed all she’d ever known.
G
radually, he increased the weight of his lips upon hers, the drugging friction lighting up her body. A frisson of electric intensity coiled in her belly and seemed to radiate to all four extremities.
He slid one hand into her hair and brought her closer with the curve of an arm about her waist. He pulled her flush against his solid body.
So tall. So broad. So much better than—
He broke their kiss, leaving her floating. Dazed. Dizzy.
She wanted more. She wanted him. For keeps.
But he wouldn’t want her, not if word of her alleged guilt eventually reached Evanston. Would anyone listen before exacting vigilante justice and hanging her? Or turned her over to the authorities for return to New York?
Why would he trust her word in light of her accusers’ inflammatory statements?
Why would he defend her?
But that wasn’t all. In that moment, captivated by Joseph’s warm hazel eyes, she realized the awful truth. Dr. Krenn and Ernie had stripped her bare, destroyed her reputation, stolen her career, pilfered her inheritance, gambled with the hospital Grandfather had founded.
They’d left her with nothing but the one thing Ernie hadn’t been able to steal.
Her heart.
She’d never loved Ernie. She could see that now.
One kiss with Joseph Chandler, and her heart was in serious danger for the first time.
This man had the potential to hurt her, far more than Ernie ever could.
How could she risk trusting her faulty decision-making ability, or another husband— even the unusual likes of Doc Joe Chandler?
He tucked her up tight against him, hugging her close. “You pass.”
He rocked her back and forth, and she fought to hold on to tears that threatened. Happiness warred with terror. The dark side nearly won.
She heard him swallow, as if he needed a moment to catch his breath. He eased back and pressed another firm kiss to her mouth. “Allow me to propose in person. Naomi Fairchild, will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”
Tears filled her eyes.
Joe mistook the emotion as happiness, for he swept the tears away with his thumbs, kissed both cheeks.
The risks were tremendous. But she wanted to stay. She wanted the life he offered. Maybe, maybe her past would never catch up with her, and she could build a life of peace and happiness in this little city on the far side of nowhere.
Maybe Joe would never break her heart. Maybe she could hold back her heart and prevent herself from falling completely for him.
Maybe, just maybe, she dared take the leap.
The alternative was safer, but offered very little as compensation. No life at all.
Warmth lit Joe’s remarkable hazel eyes from within. Emotion filled his eyes with tears she doubted he’d allow to escape. Such hope. Hope and anticipation and desire.
Desire for her.
Just once in her life, she wanted to know what a good marriage was like. However long it lasted. “Yes.”
He whooped with joy, picked her up, and spun her in a circle, crowing with happiness. Her laughter mingled with his.
Three more spins and he finally allowed her toes to touch the floor. He stole another quick kiss.
Grabbing her hand, he put out the lamp and tugged her toward the door. “Let’s go. The minister’s waiting on us, marriage license in hand.”
“Now?” He didn’t want to sleep on the decision?
“Yes, now.”
“I have travel dust on my skirt and a blood splatter on my sleeve.” But the legal attachment of his name— Mrs. Chandler— would be a shield. She wanted his protection. Who would ever find her?
“You’re gorgeous. You can bathe when we go home after the ceremony.”
A swell of emotion made her esophagus constrict. “You want me, as I am?”
“Yes. One thousand times, yes.”
Chapter Eight
Naomi stood with Joe in the minister’s parlor, the preacher’s wife and grown daughter ready to serve as witnesses. Joe laced his fingers with hers, as if he wished to hold on to her.
Endearingly sweet.
In a matter of sixty seconds or less, she’d be Mrs. Joseph Chandler. Dr. Naomi Chandler, MD, had a lovely ring to it.
The handsome, genuine smile on Joe’s face was so real. It shamed any citified curvature of the lips on her former husband’s face.
You honestly think this is a good idea? Ernest’s criticism. Again. You’ve not thought this through, Naomi. You never think things through. He’ll find out you murdered Mayor Brown.
I did not. I’m innocent.
She wrestled Ernie’s pompous voice into submission and realized Mr. Drescher, the minister, had asked her a question. “Pardon me, Pastor. Do repeat that, please?”
Drescher glanced at Joe, his expression hinting at confusion. His eyeglasses reflected lamplight as he held her gaze. “I asked, Miss Fairchild— Doctor Fairchild— do you solemnly swear you are free to be joined in marriage?”
A twist of sharp panic cut through her even as adrenaline flooded her system. She’d thought she was prepared for this, had convinced herself over the many days of train travel, after struggling to decide what to do and ultimately sending a telegram to Doc Joe.
She’d already determined her answer would be yes. Absolutely. She was completely free to marry.
Her heart rate accelerated, chugging faster than a cross-country locomotive on the flat expanse of prairie.
She’d always been a poor liar.
She sucked in breath. She’d give herself away if she didn’t control her breathing.
Honesty had always been on her side. A trait she’d prided herself on throughout her training.
Joe cupped her elbow. His warm touch through her sleeve anchored her, steadied her.
Almost against her will, she turned to him. He’d see the truth in her eyes, words she couldn’t bring herself to say. Her breathing rasped too loud.
Concern marred Joe’s expression. “Naomi?”
She fought to moisten her dry mouth. Nodded, because she didn’t trust herself to speak.
Joe slipped a strong, broad arm about her shoulders. With him she felt safe. Sheltered. Protected.
She trembled against him. He’d feel her quaking— he’d know.
These precious, long-awaited sensations and affection would disappear.
How many times could he forgive her half-truths, fibs, and outright lies before he turned on her?
Longing, deep and poignant, opened an old ache inside her. She wanted so badly for things to be right with Joseph Chandler. He represented everything she’d wished for the first time around and still wanted. Marriage to him had the potential to become a splendid partnership in every way.
Joe addressed the minister. “Helmut, she’s a widow.” His warm, soothing grip on her deltoid muscle spoke volumes. He honestly believed her free, available, and stepped in to say so, assuming she was still so deep in mourning over her recent loss she couldn’t speak of it.
She ought to nod and sign the paper declaring her sworn statement of her single status. She had no doubt Ernie had already married his pregnant mistress. His uncle, the judge, would have pushed through the paperwork, freeing his favorite nephew to marry the love of his life. If Ernie was free, so was she.
If only she had proof the divorce was finalized. Proof would erase her agony and ensure her union with Joe would be valid.
She nodded with as much confidence as she could scrape together.
“Very well.” Drescher nudged his spectacles into place. He signed a line on a form labeled Marriage License. It already bore Joseph’s signature and a date— the same day he’d wired his reply to her first telegram.
His certainty, intention, solidity— it all added to his appeal. How could she resist falling for him?
To live a lie, cross her fingers, and hope he’d understand seemed foolish.
Joe kept his arm snug about her. Her shoulder pressed against his solid ribcage.
She really ought to tell him about her circumstances. Lies and secret purposes had been the cause of death in her first marriage.
No way could she allow him to continue with his misunderstanding.
“Joe?” Adrenaline spiked. She breathed deeply, fighting for control. She’d never lost consciousness, not once in her life. She refused to entertain the thought of fainting now. “May we have a word in private?”
Chapter Nine
Disappointment, sharp and bitter, swamped Joe as he shut the Dreschers’ back door. He held Naomi’s hand securely and headed for a garden bench twenty yards from the house. Her stark pain had cut him to the quick.
Whatever she had to say, he didn’t want the minister overhearing.
The cooling night air swirled around them, and the buzz of crickets would have been soothing in any other circumstance.
He’d seen Naomi’s expression, felt her trembling against his side.
The preacher’s question as to her freedom to join in marriage had doused her happiness, sure as a candle’s flame pinched into a whisper of smoke.
Diagnosis: intense love for her deceased husband and inadequate time to grieve.
Now that the moment arrived, she couldn’t go through with marrying again. No matter she’d thought herself ready upon leaving New England.
Or perhaps not ready, but otherwise desperate.
Desperate for protection? Financial support? To separate herself from everything that reminded her of a lost love?
He seated her on the bench, lowered himself into place at her side, and immediately put his arm about her shoulders. He linked his hands, the better to cradle her in the circle of his arms.
The last rays of daylight had faded beyond the mountains, leaving them in shadows, with only distant light from nearby houses. A mere sliver of moon hung in the sky. He couldn’t read her features, so he might as well hold her while he could.
How would he let her go when she said the words, admitted she couldn’t marry him?
He wanted to fight for her, beg her to stay, offer to allow her whatever time she needed to grieve her lost husband. He’d set her up at the hotel, pay for her lodging, and court her slowly. Most important of all, he’d wait.