A Stranger's Wife

by Maggie Osborne

  It was too fine a morning to give herself a headache by worrying about Miriam. Today she would have her first real view of the city in daylight, and she planned to enjoy the sights.

  Sliding close to the window, she peered out at a sky as blue as summer lupines. Winter lawns emerged from melting snow, and she couldn’t lean too close to the window, as the horses kicked up slush and clods of mud.

  In daylight she had a clear view of the mountains rimming the western horizon and could orient herself. Thus it surprised her when Morely drove south on Fourteenth Street, then turned east then south again on Broadway past the construction on the new state capitol building and away from the city.

  Here the ground was gently rolling, blanketed by fields of melting snow. Traffic thinned and within twenty minutes they were well into the country and had the muddy road to themselves.

  Where on earth was Morely taking her? Here and there Lily spotted farmhouses, and in the distance a collection of small houses that her Aunt Edna would have referred to as shanties. Surely none of the ladies who had called on Friday lived in such ramshackle homes. But that appeared to be the direction Morely was heading.

  Less than a mile from the shanties, the carriage halted and Lily waited wide-eyed to see what would happen next.

  Morely opened the door and extended his hand. Hesitantly, she took it and stepped to the ground, lifting her skirts away from the mud.

  “I’ll return in an hour, ma’am,” Morely said, touching two fingers to his cap.

  Speechless, she watched him drive away.

  Shading her eyes from the winter sun, she slowly looked around. Morely had left her in the middle of the country without another soul in sight.

  This lonely site was one of Miriam’s usual Monday visits?

  Chapter 13

  Lily could see for miles in either direction. No traffic moved along the road other than Morely heading back toward the city. After the shock of being abandoned in the middle of nowhere diminished, Lily took stock of her situation.

  Rescue was unlikely; she was stuck here for the next hour. Thankfully, she had dressed warmly, but she suspected she would begin to feel the cold before Morely returned for her. Unhappily contemplating the muddy road, she considered walking to keep her circulation flowing, but the prospect of ruining her boots and hems was distinctly unappealing.

  Same time, same place.

  The message popped into her mind. Straightening, she took another slow look at her surroundings. Morely had brought Miriam to this same place on Mondays.

  If Lily had correctly deduced that the message in Miriam’s pocket was to Miriam and not from her, then Miriam must have come to this place on a regular basis to meet M when M sent a message that he was available.

  Therefore, Morely knew part of Miriam’s secret. He knew the time and the place. Further, Morely must not have told Quinn, she decided, or Quinn would have put a stop to this part of the “usual Monday visits.”

  Interested now, she examined her surroundings, focusing on a thicket of winter-bare willows meandering along a curving line that led north toward Denver. The thick line of willows and occasional cottonwoods suggested a creek.

  Lifting her hem away from the mud, she approached the willows and discovered a graveled path and a weathered sign identifying the City Ditch that supplied Denver’s residential water systems.

  On Mondays Miriam paid a call on the City Ditch?

  Intrigued, Lily examined the gravel path. As most of the snow had melted, she couldn’t tell if others had recently come this way. But she doubted a tryst was scheduled for today, anyway. Nevertheless, she was here, and paths were meant to be followed. She chose north and set off through the bare-branched willows. At least the path was not muddy.

  Before she’d gone too far, she realized the area would be lovely in summer. The sound of water running in the ditch was pleasant, the path well maintained. Here and there she spotted remnants of wildflowers that would rejuvenate in the spring. The willows would leaf out then, and the shrubs were tall enough that a woman her size would be concealed from the sight of anyone traveling along the road. Even now, Lily doubted a traveler would notice her. The branches were bare but thick, and she wore a dark grey cloak almost the same color as the exposed trunks and branches of the willows.

  If Miriam had walked this path in summer, she would have appeared to vanish minutes after Morely helped her alight from the carriage. It occurred to Lily that Miriam Westin was adept at disappearing.

  Eventually she discovered a bench seat placed beneath a large overhanging cottonwood and sat down to catch her breath. This was the same time, and the same place where Miriam had met M. Lily felt certain of it.

  So much for her theory of M as a starving artist and Miriam sitting for a new portrait. A woman did not meet a man in a secluded place of concealment to discuss innocent matters.

  Frowning and resisting the obvious conclusion, she watched a boy rolling a hoop along the path, coming toward her.

  “Mrs. Ollie!” Catching the hoop, he ran forward with a broad smile. “Did you bring peppermints today?”

  He was eight or nine years old, wearing mended knickers and a jacket with patches sewn over the elbows. The bill of his cap had begun to fray. But he was clean, and his clothing, though patched and mended, was made of warm wool. He leaned on the iron arm of the bench and gazed at her from blue eyes brimming with expectation.

  This boy believed he knew her. But . . . Mrs. Ollie?

  “Not peppermints,” Lily said, remembering the mints in her purse. “Something else.” Opening the drawstrings, she pushed aside her handkerchief and comb, found two mints and gave them to the boy, waiting to see what would happen next.

  He popped both into his mouth then sat down beside her. “I ain’t seen you since spring. I thought maybe you died.”

  Did he know about the fire then? “As you can see, I didn’t,” Lily said carefully, feeling her way. She wanted to ask his name, but of course she couldn’t.

  “You said you’d bring the baby next time and let me see.”

  She looked down at her gloved hands. “I would have kept my promise, but . . . the baby died.” Her mind raced over a dozen questions. Had this boy seen Miriam pregnant? Or had he met her after Susan’s birth, and she’d mentioned having an infant?

  “Oh.” He leaned forward and examined the rim of his hoop, not knowing what to say. Lily didn’t either. “Mr. Ollie said you was sick. Is that why you sound different?”

  “I was very ill for a long time.” A dozen questions whirled through her mind, and it frustrated her that she didn’t know how to ask them without revealing that she wasn’t who he thought she was. “You’ve seen Mr. Ollie, then,” she said finally, watching his face.

  “Not in a long time.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  The boy shrugged. “I only seen him once since that time you was crying.” He slid a sideways look at her as if it still troubled him to remember her tears. “He was in awful shape. You know, after he got the stuffing whacked outta him.”

  Lily cleared her throat and bit her lips against the questions begging to be asked. “He looked awful,” she repeated, her expression encouraging him to elaborate.

  “His arm was in the sling, and his face was all smashed up. Pa got beat that bad once, down at Slawson’s tavern. Ma thought sure as Sunday he was going to die. Did Mr. Ollie die?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Ollie said the man who done it to him would pay and pay good. Did he get him back?”

  “You’ll have to ask him about that.” Smiling at the freckles fading across his nose, she tried to think how to request a description of Mr. Ollie. When she couldn’t conceive of a way to explain such a question, she decided a description wouldn’t have helped anyway.

  “When will he come?” The boy peered down the path.

  “Mr. Ollie won’t be here today. Shouldn’t you be in school?”

  He grinned. “If Ma knew I’d cut, she’
d tan my hide. You smell good.” Turning red, he looked down at his boots, then jumped to his feet. “Well. I gotta go.”

  She wanted him to stay, wanted to ply him with questions. “It was nice to see you again.”

  “I wish you wasn’t so sad all the time. And I’m sorry your baby died,” he said solemnly. “You ain’t gonna cry, are you?”

  “Not today.”

  “That’s because Mr. Ollie ain’t here. I’m glad Mr. Ollie got beat up because he makes you cry.” His face turned fiery red, and he ran down the path, spinning his hoop in front of him.

  Lily watched until the path curved and the boy was swallowed by the willows, then she closed her eyes. Miriam had met a man here. The boy believed the man was her husband and he’d made her cry.

  Although the possibility of a lover had occurred to Lily, she simply had not believed it could be true. The shock of discovering “Mr. and Mrs. Ollie” stunned her.

  Had Quinn suspected that Miriam’s affections had turned elsewhere? She remembered him telling her how often he had heard “not tonight” in Miriam’s bedroom. A sigh dropped her shoulders. She hoped he had never learned of Mr. Ollie.

  But Helene Van Heusen knew. Helene, whose husband was Quinn’s political enemy. A chill skittered down her back.

  “Good Lord.”

  By using Helene as a go-between, Miriam and Mr. Ollie had taken a terrible risk. If Helene ever mentioned to her husband that Quinn Westin’s wife was seeing another man, Lily knew as certainly as she knew anything that Helene’s husband would use the information to create a scandal guaranteed to destroy Quinn’s political future. It’s what Paul would have done if the situation were reversed.

  There was no doubt in her mind that Helene had shared the information with her husband, none at all. But Lily had learned enough about political strategy to understand that timing was critical. The Van Heusens would await the perfect, most damaging moment, probably near the election, to use Miriam’s affair to ruin Quinn.

  Lily raised a hand to her forehead. “Oh Miriam, whatever were you thinking?” Not only had Miriam betrayed her husband, but she had placed everything he cared about in jeopardy.

  Had she hated her husband that much? Or had she been swept into a passion so overwhelming that she couldn’t see the devastating consequences?

  Lily’s head snapped up, and she blinked at the pebbles along the path. Was it possible that Miriam had eloped with her lover? Could that be the explanation for her disappearance?

  Lily was feverishly considering that possibility when Morely returned for her. But no. There was a new message from M via Helene. Miriam had not eloped.

  Later, as Mrs. Alderson poured tea, Lily wondered if Quinn knew about M. As he didn’t know about the recent contact, could he believe that Miriam had eloped with her lover? That would explain why he wasn’t searching for his wife better than any of the reasons he had given her. While the Misses Peppers chatted about fashion and parties, Lily considered the possibility that M and Mr. Ollie were different men. Could Miriam have had two lovers?

  That thought left her reeling, and she could hardly focus as she examined bolts of material at Frederick’s Fabric Shop. No, Miriam absolutely could not have had two lovers. M and Mr. Ollie were the same person. But one thing was very clear. Miriam Westin had led a dangerous secret life.

  And there were people who knew bits and pieces of Miriam’s secret. Morely knew. Helene knew. The boy on the path knew. Any one of them could have exposed her, ruined her reputation, destroyed her marriage, and ended her husband’s political career.

  Now Lily knew.

  The question she returned to again and again was: Had Quinn known? Had he discovered that his wife was involved in an affair with the explosive potential to cause a scandal that would destroy his dreams?

  Icy fingers ran down her spine as she remembered Quinn saying that nothing would stand in his way, not Miriam and not her.

  Someone had beaten Mr. Ollie so violently that the boy beside the ditch had asked if Mr. Ollie had died.

  Miriam had conveniently disappeared at about the same time as Quinn’s candidacy swung into full forward progress.

  Lily didn’t like the direction of her thoughts, but couldn’t alter the progression.

  Coincidence or not, the Miriam problem, as Paul would have phrased it, had been solved when Miriam vanished. At that point, the liaison with M ended. And without Miriam, an explosive scandal deflated to salacious gossip if her affair became known.

  But the political powers had insisted on a married candidate who could be sold to the voters as a family man, and thus a new Miriam problem surfaced. At least until Paul had found Lily in a prison laundry yard.

  Distracted, Lily handed Cranston her cloak and dropped her hat and gloves on the hall table.

  “Hot tea is waiting in the family parlor, madam.”

  “What? Oh, yes. Thank you.”

  Lily didn’t like the troubling denouement her thoughts tumbled toward. Quinn was a civilized, good man. She should be ashamed of herself for allowing her imagination to run away with her like this.

  Still, if Quinn had learned of Miriam’s indiscretion, it didn’t seem too far-fetched to imagine him beating Mr. Ollie to a pulp, then ordering Miriam out of his house and his life. If the end had come that way, it seemed enormously cruel even in these circumstances to cast a woman into the street without her clothing, her rings, her personal belongings. Yet Miriam had left everything behind.

  She backed up her imagination and visualized another ending in which Quinn set aside injured pride long enough to provide Miriam a home and an income in some faraway place.

  Long hours of speculation had given Lily a raging headache, and she swore she would not think about this anymore today. Entering the family parlor, she walked toward the waiting tea cart with a sigh of gratitude. Her own thoughts had chilled her.

  She hadn’t taken three steps when the door clicked shut behind her and a hand closed over her wrist.

  Quinn spun her to face him, and she stumbled as he pulled her forward. In one fluid motion, he caught and leaned her against the wall. Heart pounding, eyes wide, Lily looked into his face and saw desire blazing like embers deep within his gray eyes. Her stomach tightened, and her knees went weak.

  Stepping forward, he pressed against her and she gasped when she felt the hard evidence of his arousal even through her skirts. Leaning, he spoke near her ear, warm breath bathing her cheek.

  “I think of you every minute. Today I saw you in every woman, heard your voice a dozen times.”

  The scent and heat of him radiated against her, enveloped her, and drew her, making her part of him. Rocking her hips up to his, she raised a trembling hand and stroked the beginning roughness of new whiskers along his jaw. His skin was firm and warm and electrifying. A tremor of intense longing thrilled through her body, and Lily thought she would faint.

  Pinning her to the wall with his body, he ran his hands up her arms, along the arch of her throat, then tilted her mouth to his. When he kissed her, his lips were dry and hot, and he tasted of tea and smoke and earth and air and a hard male spice taste that she could not identify.

  All thought swirled out of her mind, replaced by waves of physical sensation as he moved against her, slowly, deliberately, his mouth, his body, his hands.

  There was something wildly erotic in her helplessness and inability to move. Pinioned between the wall and the solid, hard press of his body, she could only submit to deep kisses that ravaged and plundered and left her breathless and gasping, her heart racing to beat against the fires raging inside her skin.

  When he released her, they were both shaken and trembling, and struggling for breath. He trailed his fingertips down her cheek and let his hand ride the turbulent swell of her breast.

  “You asked if I saw Miriam or you,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I want you to believe I see you. That’s why I want you out of mourning, to have your own clothing and your own scent.” Leaning, he caught her lowe
r lip between his teeth, then kissed her deeply, crushing her against him so tightly that she felt the beat of his heart thudding hard against her own. “When in the hell will your new wardrobe be ready?”

  “In about three weeks,” she whispered. He touched her, and her bones dissolved. He kissed her, and an earthquake began in the pit of her stomach and rocked through her body. Dampness spread on her palms and between her legs, and she quivered in readiness for him. Never had she felt such hunger for a man.

  “Three weeks.” A groan issued from deep in his throat, and he dropped his forehead against hers. “Christ!”

  The door opened and Daisy took a step into the room, humming under her breath. When she saw them pressed against the wall, she sucked in a breath and turned a dark shade of scarlet. Her hands flew to her lips. “Oh! I’m sorry. I was just going to . . .” she gestured toward the fire burning in the grate. “I’ll just . . .” Backing out of the parlor, she started to say something else, then firmly closed the door.

  “In ten minutes everyone in this house will know I cornered you and was kissing you.”

  Lily laughed and lifted shaking hands to straighten her hair. “Is that so terrible?”

  “You’d think a man could enjoy a little privacy in his own house.” Taking her by the hand, he led her to the settee. “Three weeks. I suppose a new wardrobe takes time.” He patted his jacket and the pockets of his waistcoat the way he did when he was searching for a cigar. “Do you mind if I . . . ?”

  She shook her head. “Your cigar case is always in your inside jacket pocket.” His habits were becoming known to her, knowledge she held close to her heart.

  “Tea?”

  “Thank you, no. I’ve changed my mind.” Her chill had fled the instant he touched her. “I’ve had enough tea today to float a raft. How did your day go?”

  As he talked about a speech he’d made to a civic group and about drafting another speech he would deliver next week, Lily’s expression sobered and her headache returned. She did indeed know a great deal about Quinn’s political convictions. Exactly as Miriam had.