Chapter Nine
Audrey leaned toward the mirror and peered closely at her hair. No trace of flour remained. She closed her mind to the memory of Blake’s fingers against her face, secured her brushed hair into a loose figure eight at the nape of her neck, then pinned her hat in place and stepped back to examine her appearance. A quick tug on the bolero jacket of her gray wool dress and she was ready.
She strolled into the kitchen, grabbed the plate of cinnamon rolls she had waiting and hurried down the stairs. Light streamed into the storage room through the open door. Wheels rolled over wood planks on the loading dock. Blake, his shirt straining across his shoulders, backed through the doorway dragging a handcart laden with various-size crates. The muscles in his forearms below his rolled-up sleeves corded against his effort and the cart bumped over the sill.
“What is all of that?”
He placed the toe of his boot against the wheel and eased the cart erect. “Supplies for the store that came in on the train.” He unrolled his sleeves, turned to face her. “I’m glad you’re still here. I forgot to tell you not to leave until I returned from the station.”
“I was waiting for the cinnamon rolls to finish baking.”
“Is that what you have there?”
She followed his gaze to the covered plate she held. “Yes. I’m taking them to the Ferndales as a thank-you for their hospitality.”
“That’s a good idea...” He came to stand in front of her and lifted the towel. “A very good idea. They look delicious. And that smell makes my mouth water.” He took a deep sniff, gave her a hopeful look. “Are there any left?”
Gratification shot through her. Linda may surpass her in appearance and coquettish behavior, but not at baking or housekeeping—though Blake would never know. The thought brought a spasm of guilt. Shame on her for taking pleasure in besting her sister—even if she would never say it aloud. “There are plenty. I left some on a covered plate on the table for Mr. Stevenson, should he come again before I return.”
“If I share them with him.”
She looked up. He grinned. Her stomach started that foolish fluttering again. She headed for the front door. “Your rolls are in the dish on the cupboard. I’ll return before the next train is due.”
“Wait until I get my jacket. I’ll walk with you.”
“But, you’re working—”
“It can wait. I don’t want you to come to harm.”
“Harm?” She paused, watched him close the door to the loading dock. “You said I was safe from the Indians as long as I stayed in the town.”
“It’s not the Indians I’m concerned about.” He lifted his jacket off a nail driven in a board by the door and shrugged into it. “I don’t want you coming upon a rattlesnake unaware.”
“A rattlesnake!” She stiffened, staring at him through the dimmed light. “There are rattlesnakes on the path?”
“Could be. They like the water and the rocky outcroppings at the bottom of the mountains. And they hunt rodents and such in the deep grass.” He came back to her side. “Ready?”
“Yes...” She wrinkled her nose. “But I’m nowhere near as eager to walk to the Ferndales’ as I was a moment ago.”
He chuckled and walked with her to the front of the store, hung the Closed sign on the door and escorted her across the porch and down the steps. “You really don’t have to worry. Most of the time the snakes slither out of your way. And, if one should strike at you, your long skirts will protect you—unless you happen to step over one.”
She halted, stared at the long path through the tall grasses. “Why didn’t you tell me about the snakes on Sunday?” She gave him an assessing look. “You’re only teasing me!”
He shook his head. “Not about rattlesnakes. There was no need to tell you about them on Sunday because I was with you. But you need to know about them. I don’t want you to come to harm.”
That was the second time he’d said that. She looked down, smoothed a wrinkle from the towel covering the plate and reminded herself that it meant nothing beyond his general concern for anyone. He was simply a nice man—a very nice man. She needed to stop looking for signs that Blake...approved of her. And she needed to stifle her growing pleasure in his presence. It made no difference one way or the other, beyond the fact that it made her situation more tenable.
“I’ll carry those.” He took the plate of rolls then bent his left elbow in invitation.
She slipped her hand through and rested it on his arm, remembered the muscles beneath her fingers cording in strength when he’d tugged the loaded cart over the threshold. The soft thud of a horse’s hoofs sounded on the station road behind them.
“Morning, Blake...”
“Morning, Mitch. May I present my bride?” Blake looked down at her. “Dearest, this is Mr. Mitchel Todd. He’s the man who has built this town—including my store.”
The man dipped his head her direction and smiled. “Your husband is too modest, Mrs. Latherop. He did more than a little of the work on the store and your home himself. And, may I say, I now understand his eagerness to get the work finished.”
No, that was for Linda, Mr. Todd. Her growing ease evaporated like the mist over the pond in the morning sunshine. “You’re too kind, Mr. Todd. And a man of talent. Blake’s store and the living quarters are much nicer than I expected to find here in the wilds of Wyoming.” Please, Lord, let him stop talking about Blake’s eagerness to marry Linda. His face blurred. She looked down and smoothed the front of her gown, blinked the tears away.
He chuckled. “I imagine you expected to find one-room log cabins and soddys.”
“Something like that. They certainly do not tell us back East that there are towns like Whisper Creek to be found in the newly opened territory.” She forced a smile to her lips and looked toward the wagon bed loaded with sawn boards. “I see you are working on another project.”
“Several. But this wood is for the apothecary’s house. He wants it finished so he can live here and oversee the finishing of the inside of the store himself. He needs special-made counters and tables and such.”
“And a special-made house as well. Have you ever built an octagonal house before, Mr. Todd?”
“No, that’s the first. It’s been interesting.” The man looked that direction then drew his gaze back to Blake. “If you’re headed for the Ferndales’, you’re welcome to ride. You can fill this order when you return.” He handed a slip of paper down to Blake, then slapped his hand to the seat beside him. “It’s not a buggy, but it will keep your wife’s dress out of the dirt.”
“Thank you for the offer, Mitch, but—”
“If it’s no trouble, Mr. Todd...” Blake will be free of me for a little while. She blinked her vision clear and looked up at Blake. “I will be safe on the wagon, and you can fill Mr. Todd’s order and then go back to your work.”
He studied her for a moment, then nodded. “If that’s what you want, Audrey. Take the rolls.” He handed them to her, and, before she knew what he was about, grasped her waist and lifted her to the seat. “I’ll come for you in an hour. Don’t walk that path by yourself.” He lifted a hand to Mitchel Todd, placed it briefly over hers, then climbed the steps to the store.
She settled the plate of rolls on her lap and gazed out over the valley to the encircling mountains, trying to ignore the quiver in her stomach from the touch of his hand.
* * *
“What a lovely surprise!” Mrs. Ferndale stepped back and pulled the door wide. “Come in, my dear Mrs. Latherop, come in!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Ferndale.” She stepped into the entrance and held out the plate. “I—that is, Mr. Latherop and I wanted to express our gratitude for your kind hospitality on Sunday. These rolls are a small thank-you.”
“Why, what a thoughtful gesture. Thank you, my dear. I’m sure Jo
hn and I will enjoy them. They smell wonderful!”
“I hope I haven’t come at an inconvenient time.”
“Inconvenient? My dear, you have no idea of what a blessing your call is to me.” The older woman reached out and squeezed her hand. “I have been so lonely for our daughters, and for my women friends back home. But I’m forgetting my manners. Come along, we’ll visit in the turret room.”
She followed in Mrs. Ferndale’s wake, stepped through an archway and stopped. “Oh, how lovely...” Sunshine streamed in through six small-paned, floral-draped windows that circled the round room. Outside two of the windows, the crystal clear water of Whisper Creek flowed by, magnifying the room’s brightness. A chair and a needlepoint easel sat in front of one of the windows, a basket of colorful yarns ready-to-hand on the deep windowsill. And in the room’s center, a small round piecrust-edged table and two hoop-back Windsor chairs sat on a round oriental rug.
“Come in, dear. We’ll have tea.” The older woman pulled a cord hanging by the archway, then led the way to the table. “I’ve been thinking about you since we heard your story—about how you and Mr. Latherop fell in love through your letters to each other.”
The letters. Her stomach sank. The letters she’d exchanged with Blake were the last thing she wanted to talk about. It had been a mistake to come here. “Not entirely, Mrs. Ferndale. Blake and I were friends before he came to Whisper Creek.” She smiled and walked over to study the unfinished needlepoint—towering pines, a creek flowing through tall grasses—a faithful depiction of the scene outside the window. “You do lovely work.” Please let her accept the change of subject, Lord. If I make a mistake...
There was a soft pad of footsteps and the Ferndales’ Chinese manservant appeared.
She grasped the opportunity to rehearse the story Blake had prepared to explain their sudden marriage.
“Missus, call?”
“Yes. Please take these rolls to the kitchen and then bring us some tea, Hung Wah.”
Footsteps padded against the floor, faded away. She braced herself to answer any questions.
“I’m going to send the needlepoint to our daughter Jeanne in Philadelphia.” Mrs. Ferndale sighed and came to stand beside her. “I miss our daughters. It’s so wonderful to have a woman to talk to again! John has tried to keep me from being lonely, but he has his work overseeing the birth of the town, and, in truth, he’s a very poor substitute for a woman. Now, as I was saying...”
“Please forgive me for interrupting, Mrs. Ferndale, but—”
“Call me Dora, dear—the way my friends back home did.”
Mrs. Ferndale smiled, but there was sadness in her eyes. How long had she been the only woman in Whisper Creek? A pang of sympathy swept through her for the woman. “It will be my pleasure, Dora.” She smiled and turned back to the table. “As I said earlier, I came to visit you today because I wanted to thank you. But I had a second purpose for coming—venison. Blake has a roast in his refrigerator, and I don’t want it to spoil, but I know nothing about cooking game.” She gave a helpless little shrug. “I thought, perhaps, you could help me?”
“Oh, of course, my dear!” Dora Ferndale beamed. “The secret to tasty venison is to soak it in a mixture of vinegar and water and spices...black peppercorns and such...before roasting it. I place mine in a crock, pour the liquid over it and put it in the refrigerator to soak. The night before you’re going to cook it is best.”
“So I should set it to soak in vinegar water tonight and roast it tomorrow?”
“That would be best, but even a few hours will help to take away the ‘gamy’ taste.”
“How much vinegar should I use?”
“A good robust splash or two, depending on the amount of water it takes to cover the roast. And I find apple cider vinegar to be the best for the purpose. Oh, here’s our tea. Just set it on the table, Hung Wah. I’ll pour.”
“What a lovely view of the creek.” She walked to a window, peered out at the water flowing swiftly by at the base of the towering pines behind the Ferndales’ house. There was no part of the waterfall visible. She thought of the view from the porch over the loading dock, the muted sound of the waterfall.
“The tea is poured, dear. Do you care for cream or honey? Perhaps a cookie?”
She went to her chair, stirred cream into her tea.
The older woman slid the plate of cookies toward her. “As I was saying earlier... I’ve been thinking of your story about the letters.”
Her stomach knotted. She stared down at her cup, forced to listen. She couldn’t interrupt a second time.
“My grandmother had a similar story. It seems my grandfather had come to America, found employment on a farm, and, after a few years, became the manager of the owner’s various properties.”
She looked up, intrigued by the story in spite of her apprehension.
Dora Ferndale stirred two spoonsful of sugar into her cup, placed the spoon on her saucer and reached for a cookie. “But Grandfather was lonely. He wrote home to his favorite sister asking her to come to America and tend house for him. But his sister was to be married. She told her best friend about her brother’s plight, and the friend wrote him out of sympathy. He was drawn to her warmth and concern, and wrote back, offering marriage to his sister’s friend. She took the next ship to America.”
She watched Dora break off a bite of cookie and pop it into her mouth, wanting to hear the end of the story despite the tightening in her chest at the mention of a sister. “Obviously, they married...”
“They did. And they lived happily together until the Lord called them home.”
“That’s a lovely story.” And it has nothing to do with Blake’s and my situation. She took a sip of her tea to ease the tightness.
“Yes, and your story made me remember it, because both started with a letter.” Dora took a sip of tea, put her cup down and smiled. “My mother—she was the only daughter out of their five living children—used to tell me how Grandfather would look at Grandmother, shake his head and murmur, What if Grace—that was his sister—had never shown her my letter? God works in mysterious ways.” Dora fastened her gaze on hers. “I’ve always found it odd that Grandfather never considered that perhaps he, too, was walking in God’s mysterious ways when he wrote the letter.”
* * *
Blake slid his ledger on the shelf, grabbed his pricing book and looked over at Audrey. She’d been unusually quiet since he’d called for her after her visit with Dora Ferndale. Of course, they’d been busy in the store caring for the customers from the late morning train since her return. She was probably tired, though she hadn’t mentioned it. She’d just started straightening the rows and stacks of canned goods that had been set askew, her movements quick and efficient.
He tried to imagine Linda working at his side in the store, building the life they’d—he’d—dreamed of together. But he couldn’t place her there. Had she ever shared his dream for their future of a life together raising children and enjoying the fruits of their labor? Or had she simply been toying with his affections...laughing at his devotion? No, that wasn’t possible—her letters were too caring.
His stomach knotted. His grip tightened on the pricing book. He tossed it onto the counter and walked over to his grocery section. “I’ll straighten the shelves, Audrey. You’ve been working hard. Why don’t you rest before the next train comes?”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “I’m not tired.”
He looked beyond her to the shelves. “You’ve changed things around.”
She snagged her lower lip with her teeth, glanced from him to the shelf and lowered her hands to her sides. “I’m sorry. I’m not that familiar yet with—”
“Why did you place the canned meats there?”
She rubbed her hands down the front of her apron. “I don’t know. I guess when I star
ted straightening the shelves I simply put the meat so it would be first when you come to the grocery section. That’s the way a woman plans a meal. We start with the meat and then decide which vegetables and fruits and baked goods we will serve with it. I just did it without thought. But I certainly have no business rearranging your shelves. I’ll put them back. Where did you have the meat? After the vegetables?” She turned and reached for the cans.
He caught hold of her wrist. “Leave them this way. What you said makes sense—not that there are many women planning meals in Whisper Creek at present. But there will be. And men buy more meat than vegetables. I hadn’t considered that in the placement.”
“Very well. If you’re certain.”
The words were soft, breathless. She gave a little tug of her arm and looked up. The gold flecks in her hazel eyes shone through her long, dark brown lashes; a faint rose blush colored her cheekbones. Her pulse raced beneath his fingers. His heart lurched.
He jerked his gaze from Audrey, let go of her wrist and stepped back. “You have an aptitude for this business, Audrey. If you would like—you’re in no way obligated, as it is I who owe you—I will show you the pricing book and how to enter purchases in the ledger. That way, you can take care of customers if I am busy elsewhere.” Which might be an excellent idea judging from his fickle, physical reaction to her beauty and appeal. “I want to paint the store.”
A smile trembled onto her lips. “I’ll be happy to help in any way I can, Blake. It’s why I came.” She drew her shoulders back, lifted her chin and started for the counter. “Shall we begin? I have a lot to learn before the next train arrives.”
Chapter Ten
“In this ledger I have listed every item for sale in the store.”
Audrey stared at the large black leather book on the counter and wished she could think of an excuse to move away. Blake was so close that when he lowered his head over the book, she could smell a faint trace of the Swiss Violet shaving cream he used. She’d never known violets could smell so...manly.
His Substitute Wife Page 12