His Substitute Wife

by Dorothy Clark

  “—is the price per shipping container. The second column is the price per item or pound or ounce. That’s the way I do it. If you keep this book open beside the till box you will know how much to charge the customer. Though with your keen mind you will soon have the cost of things memorized.”

  “I’ll do my best.” She took a deep breath she immediately regretted and stared down at the book. With your keen mind... She’d rather he thought she was beautiful...like Linda. As if that could ever be. She held back a sigh, wishing she had not gone to visit Mrs. Ferndale. The woman’s story about her grandfather and grandmother meeting by letter had put foolish, romantic thoughts in her head. Now, every time she looked at Blake she wondered What if? And that was pure foolishness.

  “And this is my sales ledger.” He pulled another large black leather book off the shelf beneath the counter and opened it. “As you can see, I write every purchase in it—that way I know when I’m about to run out of the item and I order more.”

  “I understand. I’ll be careful to record every sale.” She tugged at her jacket and used the movement as an excuse to edge a short distance away from him.

  “Is something wrong, Audrey?”

  “What?” She glanced up, shook her head. “No. I’m just a little...distracted. I was thinking of...dinner.” Sort of. “I want to start it before the next train arrives.” She tucked a curl beneath her hat. “I had thought to have the venison roast, but Mrs. Ferndale said it would be better to soak it and have it tomorrow. So...” Stop babbling! She looked down at the ledger. Smoked ham... “Do you like ham?”

  “Yes. Listen, Audrey, if there is not time enough, or if you’ve decided it’s too much work and have changed your mind about helping in the store—”

  “Not at all. I want to help. I enjoy working in the store. It’s only...” She focused her scattered thoughts to come up with an excuse. She couldn’t tell him the truth. “I can’t reach the hams. Or the other items hanging from the ceiling.” She tipped her head and looked up. “Is there a ladder in the back room?”

  “Not for you to use. It’s not safe with your long skirts.”

  “Then how shall I help the customer who wants a ham?”

  “I’ll hang them from a shelf in the back room where you can reach them.”

  “And the saws and other tools?”

  “Have the man who wants to buy one take it down.”

  “But—”

  “Must you always argue? No ladder!” He scowled, walked to the hams and lifted one down. “Is there anything else?”

  The words were growled. Why was he so out of sorts all of a sudden? “Some cloves...and a can of pineapple chunks.” She went to get the pineapple, came back and reached for the ham.

  “I’ll carry that. It’s heavy. You take the cloves.”

  His tone of voice dared her to disagree. She picked up the small folded paper package and led the way to the stairs, climbed to the top and crossed the hall into the kitchen. He followed her to the worktable and plunked down the ham. “I think we need to set some rules.”

  “Rules? About what?” She set down the can of pineapple, placed the package of cloves on top of it and looked up at him. “If it’s the ladder—”

  “Our marriage.”

  “Our marriage?” She gaped up at him, trying to follow the leap in subject.

  “Yes. It may be in-name-only, but I am still your husband, Audrey.” His eyes darkened, captured hers. “It is my job to provide for you, to protect you and keep you safe. I would appreciate it if, from now on, you would act like my wife and let me do my job—especially in front of others.”

  Where had that accusation come from? “In front of others? Who—”

  “Mitch.”

  “Mr. Todd?”

  “Don’t sound so shocked.” He scowled, braced his hands on the worktable and leaned toward her. “I told you I would escort you to the Ferndale house, but you overrode my wishes and accepted Mitch Todd’s offer of a ride.”

  “Because I thought you would like to be rid of me for a while!”

  “Be rid of you?”

  “Yes.” She lifted her chin, cleared a lump from her throat and spoke out the truth. “I know how you feel about me being here in Linda’s place.”

  He straightened, shoved his hands in his pockets. “Linda has no place here.”

  “That’s not true, Blake. She’s everywhere. She’s in the kitchen when we eat...in the sitting room when we relax... She’s behind all of our careful conversations...” Tears welled. She fisted her hands and blinked them away. She had no right to cry over a situation she had caused.

  “That was true, Audrey. It’s not true now. Not for me.” His voice, deep and quiet, banished her tears. She looked up at him, saw something she couldn’t identify in his eyes. “I can’t imagine Linda in this kitchen—not now. Not after—” He sucked in a breath, turned away from her and lifted the towel to pick up a cinnamon roll. “I’ll need this for strength while I’m painting the store.”

  She grabbed the apron off its hook and tied it on, joined him in the change of topic. “Have you selected a color?”

  “White.” He leaned against the cupboard, his eyes dark, inscrutable, and took a bite of the roll.

  Her heart sank. Why didn’t he leave? She needed to be alone to think—to try to make sense of what he had said. Perhaps if she started preparing the vegetables. She gathered potatoes, carrots and a rutabaga and carried them to the table.

  “You don’t approve of my choice?”

  “I didn’t say that.” She went to the sink, filled a bowl with water. Please make him leave, Lord.

  “You didn’t have to. Your silence spoke for you.” He popped the last of the roll in his mouth, lifted the towel and picked up another one.

  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll spoil your dinner?” It came out on a bit of a huff. She wanted him to go, not stand there eating rolls.

  “Not the way you cook. So what is wrong with white?”

  She was too confused by what he had said to take pleasure in his compliment of her cooking. “Nothing at all. White is fine.” He looked at her. She caught her breath, took a paring knife from the drawer. “It’s your store, Blake. The color you choose to paint it is none of my business.”

  “I asked you, Audrey. That makes it your business. Besides, I’ve learned to trust your instincts. Now, what color would you suggest?”

  She took a firm grip on the knife and began scraping a carrot. “Very well, if you insist. I would paint the store the mustard-gold color of an autumn leaf and trim it with other autumn colors...perhaps dark pine green and rusty red. Those colors would make the store stand out against the gray stone of the mountains behind it. And they would draw the eyes of the passengers on the trains.”

  “That sounds much better than white.” He finished the second roll, licked the end of his thumb and forefinger and started for the kitchen door. “If you need me, I’ll be on the loading dock mixing paint.” He stopped in the doorway, glanced back at her. “Dark pine green for the fascia and soffit?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “The boards that run around the building under the roof eaves.”

  “Oh. Yes, dark pine green.”

  She listened to his footsteps fade away on the stairs, her throat constricted, her chest tight.

  I can’t imagine Linda in this kitchen—not now. Not after—

  She blinked away a rush of tears and began cutting the rind from the rutabaga. Blake was too polite and kind to say so, but what he had started to say was clear. Her presence there had ruined his dream. Not that she hadn’t known that. But, for some reason, it hurt terribly to hear him say it.

  * * *

  It looked too bright to him. More like a leaf than a pine needle. Blake checked again to be sure he’d added the
right amount of pigments to the bucket of linseed oil, then mixed in the turpentine. Maybe it looked different after it was painted on the wood. He’d soon know.

  He brushed his hand over the bristles on the round brush to be sure they were free of dust then jammed the handle in his pants pocket. The bucket swung from his hand when he scaled the ladder. The thought of Audrey climbing one in a long skirt made him sick. It would be so easy for her to step on her hems and fall. The woman had no sense!

  The hook he yanked from his pocket thunked against the handle when he suspended the bucket from a rung. Another stir with the stick and the paint was ready. He dabbed the brush in it and swept the bristles across the fascia board and soffit where the roof peaked. It looked even lighter green. Maybe the second coat would look darker. He painted as far as he could reach, climbed down, moved the ladder to his right and started up again, jerking himself from rung to rung with his free hand. Audrey was stubborn—even if she did support her viewpoint with good sense. He had a perfect right to be angry. He was her husband and—No, he wasn’t. Not for real, anyway. He was a sham husband in a sham marriage!

  He clenched his jaw, stretched out his arm and swept the brush along the fascia far to the right. The ladder slid. He threw his weight forward and grabbed the edge of the roof, closed his eye when the brush collided with the side of his face. A drip hit his cheek and slid down. Botheration! He dare not open his eye. He used his legs and feet to square the ladder against the house, let go of the roof edge then grabbed the bucket and climbed down.

  He snatched up a rag, then thought better of wiping at the paint for fear of making the damage worse. He covered the bucket with a board, stomped across the porch and through the storage room to the stairs. “Audrey...” No answer. “Audrey...” Hurried footsteps approached the stairs.

  “Do you need something, Blake?”

  “I need your help—quick! Grab a couple of towels and come down to the loading dock right away!”

  She spun out of sight. He heard her running to the bathroom, turned and went back outside. He sloshed a rag in a bucket of water and scrubbed linseed oil soap on it.

  The door burst open. Audrey rushed toward him, stopped and stared. Her lips twitched.

  “It’s not funny!”

  She shook her head and pushed the towels she clutched against her mouth, her hazel eyes sparkling up at him. Muffled laughter escaped the towels.

  He glared...grinned...tasted paint and closed his mouth.

  She tossed the towels over her shoulder and took the rag from his hand. “Close your other eye, Blake, and whatever you do, keep both of your eyes closed. There is paint in your eyebrow and on your lashes that must be cleaned away and then they have to be washed. Don’t open either of them again until I tell you it’s all right to do so. Now, I need you to sit down on the railing so I can reach your face.”

  Her hand folded around his, guided it backward until it touched wood. He resisted the urge to wrap his fingers around the warm softness of her hand, grasped the railing and sat.

  “I’m going to start cleaning away the paint from around your eye. Tip your head back...” Her fingers touched his forehead, gave a gentle push. “I don’t know if the soap will sting...”

  “Doesn’t matter. Just do it.”

  “It will take a while because I only want to dampen the cloth. If it’s saturated the soapy water might seep into your eye.”

  The rag touched his eyelid, moved downward, brushed against his eyelashes and onto his cheek. Her touch was gentle, deft. He sat perfectly still as she repeated the procedure again and again, trying to ignore the warmth from her hand holding his face, the brush of her arm against his shoulder. He clenched his hands on the railing to keep from reaching for her, pulling her close, telling himself it was only natural to think of doing such a thing under the circumstances. The temptation to open his eyes and look at her leaning over him with her face so close to his was unbearable.

  He pulled up a vision of Linda and concentrated on the memory of her silky blond curls against his cheek, her lips yielding willingly to his. It didn’t work. The memory had no strength against the touch of Audrey’s hand. He frowned.

  “Don’t move!”

  Her breath, warm and sweet, touched his face, took his breath captive. He dug his fingernails into the underside of the wood railing and commanded his lungs to work. This growing attraction to Audrey was simply rebound emotion. And she deserved better.

  “I’ve got the paint off of your eye, but I need to wash the residue and linseed oil soap away. You stay here and keep your eyes closed while I get some clean warm water. I’ll be right back.”

  Her hand lifted off his face. He listened to her footsteps running across the loading dock and into the storage room. He sat on the railing, the sun warm on his back, the coolness of the shadow under the roof on his face. They couldn’t go on this way. Audrey should have her chance at finding true love and happiness. He had to think of some way of saving his investment in the store. He’d read over that contract again tonight.

  “I’m back.”

  A pan clunked against wood. A washrag was squeezed out. The English garden fragrance of Pears’ soap reached him...grew stronger.

  “I’m going to wash your face now. Remember, don’t open your eyes until I tell you.”

  A warm soapy rag touched his face, but it was the softness of her hand urging his chin up that sent an answering ripple of warmth through him. He held his breath...endured the sweetness. There was nothing sweet in Linda’s touch; it had been more...enticing. He focused on the thought. Held to it as Audrey rinsed off the soap and patted his face with a towel.

  “Turn your face to the sun so I can see if I got all of the paint off of your eyelashes.” Her fingertips pressed against the left side of his face. He shifted his weight to the right, bumped against the firm softness of her...remembered her standing between him and the mountain on the ledge and gritted his teeth.

  “I think it’s all right. Dear Blessed Lord, please let Blake’s eye be all right.” There was a quick intake of breath. “All right...open your eyes. But be ready to shut them again if—”

  He looked up. The gold flecks glowed through the sheen of tears in her eyes. “I opened them while you were praying. They’re fine, Audrey. A bit blurry, but that’s going away already. Thank you for your help.”

  She nodded, spun away from him and grabbed the rag and linseed oil soap. “There’s still paint in your hair and on your ear...”

  He rose, reached around her and took the rag from her. “That soap is harsh for your hands. I’ll manage now.”

  “Very well.” She reached for the pan and Pears’ soap.

  He clasped her wrist, shook his head. “I’ll bring them in when I finish here.”

  “Of course.” She started for the storage room, stopped in the doorway and glanced over her shoulder. “I forgot to mention, I like the green color.”

  He might have believed her smile, if her voice hadn’t trembled.

  * * *

  Audrey tied her long, still damp hair with a ribbon at the nape of her neck, fastened the buttons that divided the embroidered panel on the front of her dressing gown and stepped into her slippers. She had hoped a hot bath would relax her enough to sleep, but the story Mrs. Ferndale had told of her grandmother and grandfather meeting through letters haunted her. She felt so guilty for writing to Blake in Linda’s name. But now she wasn’t sure what to think.

  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.

  Was it possible that something similar had happened with her?

  The muted whisper of the waterfall called to her, but she turned her back on the door to the porch and went to look out the window facing the hotel. She didn’t want to look at the waterfall
tonight—didn’t want to remember her trip there with Blake. Not that she could ever forget. But for now the emotions the memory stirred were too new. Or were they?

  A disturbing thought. She frowned and wrapped her arms about herself. She’d been drawn to Blake’s honesty and sincerity when he was courting Linda. But now his quiet strength and quick flashes of humor, the way he tried to protect her from harm, his voice, his eyes all stole her breath and made her stomach flutter. Was she falling in love with him? Had she been a little in love with him while he was courting her sister?

  Guilt swept over her. Her stomach churned. Was that the real reason she had acquiesced when Linda told her to answer Blake’s letters as her? Had she thought of her plan to save Blake’s store because it was an acceptable way to come West and be with him?

  She lifted her gaze to the stars glittering in the night sky, her thoughts swirling, her heart aching. Had she been blind to the truth all of this time? Or was it all a part of God’s mysterious ways?

  Chapter Eleven

  “Whoa...” The horse stomped her front hoofs, and the squeak of the wagon stopped. “Morning, Mrs. Latherop, Blake. The store’s looking good.”

  Audrey turned from examining the display of new laces and trims she had arranged in the window. Mitchel Todd was stepping down from his wagon, a piece of paper in his hand. “Good morning, Mr. Todd. I agree with you. Blake is doing a wonderful job with the painting.” She smiled and gestured toward his hand. “It looks as if you have a list of things you need.”

  “Some nails and such.”

  “I’ll be right with you, Mitch.” Blake glanced over his shoulder. “A couple more boards and I’ll have this section of wall painted. I wanted to have it finished before the next train arrives and the customers start coming.”

  The carpenter tossed the reins over the hitching rail and climbed the steps. “No need for you to stop your work. I just need some nails right now. You need to get that spot of paint off your face before it dries.” Mitch chuckled and reached for the door. “I’ll get the nails and leave the list on the counter. You can set the stuff out on the loading dock, and I’ll stop by and pick it up this afternoon.”