His Substitute Wife

by Dorothy Clark

  He splayed his legs, let go of the railing and rubbed his hands together to get rid of the indentations across his palms. He was concerned for his father, but, the truth was, this trip east couldn’t have come at a better time. It would give him a chance to come to grips with Linda’s desertion, and the separation would put an end to his rebound attraction to Audrey. And it would give him time to figure out a workable plan to recoup his investment in the store. When he returned he would have a talk with Mitch Todd. It had been months since Mitch had opened his business and Mitch was still unmarried. He hated to pry into the man’s private affairs, but he needed to find an answer to his dilemma.

  He looked down at the railroad ties flashing by beneath the train and listened to the clack of the wheels against the rails carrying him farther and farther from his store. Odd that he wasn’t at all concerned about it. But it was safe in Audrey’s care. She had an aptitude for the business, a real talent for doing the right thing to bring in customers and increase sales—like baking biscuits. A smile tugged at his mouth, died aborning. All those soldiers...

  His stomach knotted. He blew out a breath and stared down the rails ahead, let the thought that had been nagging at him form. Now that he had held Audrey close and tasted of the sweetness of her lips, how was he to forget?

  * * *

  Audrey swept the porch, dusted the windowsills and front door and wiped down the storefront windowpanes. She tried to stay focused on her tasks, but her gaze kept turning to the train station, her pulse racing at the memory of Blake’s kiss. It hadn’t meant anything. Blake had kissed her because Asa Marsh was watching them and it was expected. She’d told herself that a dozen times, but her heart just didn’t listen.

  She went inside, hung the Closed sign on the door and swept the floor. She had straightened and dusted the shelves to stay busy in between the rush of customers from the trains. Her work was done.

  The crate of tissue-paper flowers waited on the shelf. She carried them to the counter, took out a few of each flower in the different colors—white or tan, yellow and pink. A white crockery milk pitcher made a perfect holder. She chose a pink rose and a white carnation, carried them to the front window and placed them on the bolt of green fabric, letting the stems hang off of the edge of the material.

  She worked with slow deliberation, the stems of the flowers tapping against the pitcher as she put them in place. The quiet settled, a heavy pressure on her chest. She finished the arrangement, placed the pitcher on the counter by the till where the colorful flowers would draw the eye of the customers and looked around. There was nothing more to do.

  The sound of her footsteps followed her into the storage room. She took off the apron she wore for sweeping, hung it on a nail by the door and walked to the stairs. The pressure in her chest grew with every step she climbed.

  I’d forgotten how optimistic you are...

  Not now. Not in this situation. She stood in the hall at the top of the stairs in the dim light of the oil lamp sconce and faced the truth. His kiss had erased all doubt. She was in love with Blake—always had been. It was not some mysterious act of God that had brought her to Whisper Creek—it was her budding love for him. That budding love had made the possibility of his losing his store unacceptable to her. Her guilt over deceiving him by answering his letters in Linda’s name was an obfuscation of what was hidden in her heart.

  The heart is deceitful above all things...

  “Your word is true, Lord.” She swallowed back a rush of tears, walked by the kitchen sickened by the thought of food and prepared for bed. Blake must never know the truth. She couldn’t bear his pity. She had come to Whisper Creek to stand in for Linda as Blake’s bride and save his store, and that is what she would do.

  She settled the thought in her mind, pulled on her dressing gown and stepped out onto the porch. It had been painful when John had broken his promise to her and wed another, but it was nothing compared to the unbearable ache in her heart now.

  A rising wind blotted out the whisper of the distant waterfall. Storm clouds blocked all light. But the agony of baring her heart and facing her love for Blake was too raw for sleep. She stepped back inside, wrapped the blanket at the foot of the bed around her shoulders and went back out onto the porch to wait for the rain.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Have you anything for nausea?”

  Audrey noted the last sale in the ledger, put down her pen and looked at the woman across the counter. Her face was pale with a clammy sheen on her forehead. And she kept swallowing.

  “One moment!” She grabbed a cup from the display of dishes on the shelf behind her, ran to the storage room, splashed in some of the vinegar she used for cleaning the windows and filled the cup with water. “Here, sit down on this keg and sip this. It’s a remedy my mother always gave us when we were ill. I’m certain it will help. Apple cider vinegar is very effective at calming a queasy stomach. Now, you rest here. I have to take care of the other customers.”

  “Thank you, you’re very kind.” The woman swallowed hard, took a sip of the vinegar water and closed her eyes.

  Please don’t let her faint, Lord. She hurried back to the counter and smiled at a family waiting to pay for their purchases. She noted the items in the ledger, placed them in two bags and accepted payment. A soldier stepped forward, set his items on the counter. She glanced at the woman, drew her gaze back and looked from the items grouped on the counter to the soldier waiting to pay. “Will that be all, sir?”

  “Unless you have some of the biscuits I’ve heard about for sale. I didn’t see any.”

  “I’m sorry. There are no biscuits today.”

  The train whistle blasted its warning of pending departure. The few remaining customers drifted out of the door. She tallied the soldier’s purchases, snagged her lower lip with her teeth and glanced up at him. Another quick look at the woman made up her mind. “Sir, the woman seated on the keg over there is ill. Will you be so kind as to escort her back to the train?”

  The soldier shot a look the direction she indicated, glanced back at her and nodded. “I’ll be happy to help, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, sir. If you’ll wait here...”

  She hurried to the woman, touched her shoulder. “Miss, the train is about to leave. The soldier at the counter has offered to escort you back to the station.”

  “How kind of him...” The woman’s lips trembled into a smile. “Thank you for your help. I am feeling a bit better. I’d like some of the cider vinegar, please. Will this be enough?” She drew a coin from her purse and handed it to her, tried to stand and sank back down. She blotted her forehead with a lace-edged handkerchief.

  Boots thudded against the floor. The soldier reached down and took hold of the woman’s arm with his gloved hand. “You just lean on me, ma’am.”

  Audrey gave him a grateful smile and hurried to the shelf for the vinegar. She slid it into a bag along with the woman’s change and carried it and the soldier’s bag of purchases to the door. “I hope you feel better soon.” She smiled at the woman and handed the bags to the soldier after he helped the woman down the porch steps. “Thank you, sir. May the Lord bless you for your kindness.”

  She stood watching the soldier half carry the woman up the station road, then turned and went inside. She hoped the vinegar would help the sick woman; it was all she knew to do. She straightened the baskets of notions on the dry goods table that had been sifted through, smoothed a wrinkle from the top bolt of fabric. It would be good when the apothecary came to town. He would likely have some remedy for the nausea that struck some of the passengers on the trains, and she could send them next door to him. If she were still here. Tears clogged her throat, stung her eyes.

  The bell on the door jingled. She drew a steadying breath and blinked the tears from her eyes.

  “Mrs. Latherop?”

 
The name brought the tears welling again. She brushed them away with her fingertips, pasted a smile on her face and turned. A short matronly woman with dark blond hair and friendly blue eyes stood by the door holding baking dishes. Three young children clustered in front of her. The oldest, a dark-haired boy with blue-gray eyes, grinned, showing a gap where a front tooth was missing. Except for the missing tooth he was the image of Pastor Karl.

  Her lips curved in answer to his infectious grin. “And who might you be?”

  “I’m Eddie. Are you the lady that made them cookies?”

  “Edward! Mind your manners.” The woman placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and smiled up at her. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Latherop. I’m afraid Eddie has become a little bold without his father to restrain him these past few months. I’m Mrs. Karl—” her smile warmed “—Ivy, if it would please you. And this is Minna—” her free hand touched the head of a young girl who looked like a sober edition of her mother, then moved on to rest on a little towhead “—and this is Nixie.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you all.” She smiled down at the children. “Welcome to Whisper Creek, Edward...and Minna...and Nixie.” Bright blue eyes gazed up at her a moment before the toddler turned and buried her face in her mother’s skirt. Adorable. She lifted her gaze to the mother. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Karl—Ivy. Welcome to Whisper Creek.” She cleared her throat, steered away from shaky ground. “May I help you?”

  “I came to thank you for your kindness in providing our dinner last night.” Ivy Karl’s smile was as warm as a hearth fire. “It was a true blessing not to have to cook when we arrived so late. And with so little by way of provisions in the house.” The woman’s laugh was as infectious as her son’s grin. “That’s the other reason I’m here. My Konrad thinks meals simply appear on the table.” She reached into the top baking dish and pulled out small pieces of paper. “I have lists.”

  To her surprise, Mrs. Karl handed the pieces of paper to Eddie and Minna. The children looked up at her. “The grocery section is over there.” The children hurried off, their lists clutched in their hands.

  “Your shepherd’s pie was delicious, Mrs. Latherop. But then, everything was. It’s delightful to eat someone else’s cooking.”

  “Thank you, and please call me Audrey.” She stretched out her hands. “Let me take those dishes.”

  Ivy Karl nodded and urged her toddler forward into the depths of the store. “I know it is customary to return dishes full, but Konrad told me your husband has been called out of town due to his father’s illness. I thought I would wait until his return to send over a meal.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, Mrs. Karl. But it’s not necessary.” She set the dishes on the counter and smoothed a curl off of her forehead. “I don’t know when Mr. Latherop will return.” Or how long I will be here. She smiled at the boy and changed the subject. “Gracious, that is quite a load you’re carrying, Eddie. Let me help you.”

  * * *

  The doctor held out little hope. Blake sat beside the bed, waiting...praying. He wasn’t ready to let go of his father. He wanted him to come to Whisper Creek and see the store and home he had built with the small inheritance he’d received from his mother.

  His father blinked, coughed and opened his eyes.

  “Do you need something, Dad?” He leaned forward and covered his father’s hand resting on top of the covers.

  “Besides a...new...body?”

  He pushed down the fear and smiled. “Yes, besides that.”

  “Water.”

  “Let me help you.” He grabbed the glass and slid his arm beneath his father’s shoulders, trying not to notice how bony they were.

  “Thank...you.”

  He nodded, set the glass back on the nightstand. “I’m eager for you to come to Whisper Creek, Dad. I want you to see the country. It’s rugged, but beautiful.”

  “Tell me...about...your wife...”

  He took a breath, looked into his father’s eyes. He’d never lied to his father. And thanks to Audrey’s plan he wouldn’t have to now. “You’ll like her, Dad.” He thought about Audrey, let the images and memories he’d been holding at bay since leaving Whisper Creek flood his mind. A smile tugged at his lips. “She reads Major Jack Downing’s adventures.”

  “Ah... I do...like her.” His father chuckled, a shadow of what his laugh used to be, but the first laugh he’d heard from him since he’d come home. “Pretty?”

  “She’s beautiful. She’s neat and trim, slender but...womanly. She comes up to my shoulder and has this red-gold hair that curls around her face. It smells like roses. And she has hazel-colored eyes with gold flecks that talk to you. They sparkle when she’s happy or amused and turn dark when she’s upset or angry. And freckles—five of them right across the bridge of her nose. But they’re so pale you can only see them when she blushes.”

  “Mother blushed.” His father gave him one of those looks that men share. “Blushes are...danger...ous...”

  “Yes. She has this innocence that—well, it’s...appealing.”

  “Appealing, hmm.” His father’s smile almost turned into a grin. “Good...cook?”

  “The best since Mom. And she’s smart and stubborn and caring.” He stopped, looked down at his father’s hand gripping his. He lifted his gaze to his father’s face, saw peace in his eyes.

  “Glad you’re...happy, son. It’s...in your...eyes.” His father smiled and closed his eyes. “I’ll...tell... Mother. She’ll be...glad...” There was a soft sigh. His father’s hand fell away.

  “Dad? Dad!” His throat constricted. He tried for a breath, managed a small one against the tightness in his chest and took his father’s limp hand in his strong ones. “Goodbye, Dad. Tell Mother—” he swallowed hard, blinked tears from his eyes “—tell her I miss her.”

  * * *

  What was that thumping? Audrey dropped her dusting rag on the counter and hurried to the storage room. A quick look out of the back window answered her question. Garret Stevenson stood in the rutted road lifting kegs and crates from Blake’s cart onto the plank floor of the dock. She pulled open the door, shivered at the rush of cool air. “Good evening, Mr. Stevenson. What is all this?”

  “Supplies Blake ordered for the store.” He heaved a large keg onto the dock, dragged his sleeve across his forehead and peered up at her through the fading light of day. “I signed the consignment sheet and brought them along. I figured that was all right since I’ll probably be buying most of them.”

  “Oh.” Her stomach flopped. She hadn’t thought about supplies coming in on the trains. “I’m sure Blake will be grateful.”

  “Well, gratitude is always nice, but—” his teeth flashed white against the growing darkness “—I’d prefer more of those cinnamon rolls. After Blake gets back, of course. Which reminds me...” He dug in his pocket, held up a folded piece of paper. “Mr. Marsh gave me this telegram to give to you. It came in while I was signing for the supplies.”

  Her breath caught. She leaned down and took hold of the paper, her fingers tingling to open it. “Thank you, Mr. Stevenson.”

  He nodded, grabbed hold of a crate and added it to the growing pile on the dock. “Night’s closing in, and Blake will shoot me with that pistol of his if I let you walk around alone in the dark. I’ll be pleased to escort you to the station if there’s a reply.”

  “That’s very kind of you. I’ll go in to the light and read this in case...” She hurried inside to the oil lamp hanging on its hook by the stairs. The paper crackled in her eager fingers.

  THE WESTERN UNION TELEGRAPH COMPANY

  Dated, New York City 29 Aug. 1868

  Received at Whisper Creek, Wyoming

  To Mrs. Blake Latherop

  Father passed late afternoon. Must stay and settle estate. Know store is in capable hands. Will send word of date
of my return.

  Regards, Blake

  She read the message a second time hoping for some hint that Blake missed her, then remembered her sense of loss and betrayal when her father had gone home to be with the Lord and chided herself for being selfish. Blake had his grief on top of legal matters to take care of. He had no time to pander to her feelings—even if he knew about them. Still, she wished she were in New York City to comfort him. But would he want her comfort?

  Know store is in capable hands. The words cut deep. She pushed her wishes aside and faced reality. She was of the most help to him right here. He didn’t want her for anything more. Tears welled, but she refused to let them fall. This false marriage was her fault, and the hurt it brought her was hers to bear.

  She squared her shoulders and walked back to the door. “There will be no reply, Mr. Stevenson. I’m to await another telegram. Thank you again for your help.” She forced a smile to her lips. “You shall have your cinnamon rolls when Blake returns.”

  He nodded, grabbed the jacket draped over the handle of the cart and slung it over his shoulder. “It’s getting late. I’ll drop by in the morning to cart these things into the storage room.”

  “At your convenience, Mr. Stevenson.” She watched him disappear into the darkness and returned to the oil lamp, glanced down at the telegram. Mrs. Blake Latherop. In spite of her determination, her vision blurred. It was the first time she’d seen her name written. And it was her name—for now. How had Blake felt when he spoke it to the telegraph operator? Angry? Upset? Resentful? He was too fine a person to ever let her know. But it was certain the message would have been different if Linda were his wife. Imagined words imposed themselves on the telegram. Close store. Come first available train. I need you.

  If only...

  She closed her eyes against the ache.

  A double blast of a train whistle sounded. The last train of the day had pulled into the station. She tucked the telegram in her dress pocket, walked through the store to the front windows and turned up the wick on the oil lamp she’d set on an empty keg she’d found in the storage room. It was unlikely she would have any customers from among the passengers this late at night. They tended to stay in the train after dusk fell. Still, someone might have a need—like that poor sick woman this afternoon. And the light from the lamp could be seen from the station.