by Deeanne Gist
“I’m sorry, Mr. Denton,” she said, gently withdrawing her hand from his. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
CHAPTER
SEVEN
“But you have to marry me.” Joe made a conscious effort to slow his breathing. “I have a contract. Money has changed hands.” He paused. “A great deal of money, Miss Ivey.”
“And I’m afraid you’ve been taken, sir.” Her eyes showed sympathy, but no indecision.
He curled his hands into fists. He was going to kill Mercer. Tear him apart limb by limb. Unless somebody else beat him to it.
He ran his gaze over the empty church. Were the rest of the men in town discovering their brides weren’t brides, or had Mercer swindled only him?
“What about the other women?” he asked. “Had they signed on as brides?”
“Not that I’m aware of, other than Mrs. Wrenne, of course.”
He nodded. “The one who needs a dentist?”
“Yes.”
He set his jaw. Demanding a refund from Mercer probably wouldn’t do any good, but he’d insist on one anyway. Until then, he’d be jiggered if he let Miss Ivey loose. He might have been expecting a bride, but his crew was expecting a cook. He’d not disappoint them.
“Well, our papers may read differently as far as matrimony is concerned,” he said, “but it doesn’t change the fact that I paid your fare and you are contractually obligated to cook for my lumber company.”
“I’m perfectly willing to work off my debt to you, Mr. Denton.”
“All right, then. First, we’ll telegraph Mercer. Then we’ll visit the judge and show him our contracts.”
To A S Mercer STOP Ivey refuses to marry STOP You owe me a bride or 400 dollars STOP Payable immediately or else STOP J Denton STOP
Anna shifted on a delicate chair in the judge’s parlor. A thick wooden side door muffled the voices of Mr. Denton and the judge, though Joe’s swelled several times and had a definite edge to it.
The molded ceiling, huge chandelier, and marble fireplace reminded Anna of the rooms her father had once made wallpaper for—though this one had painted walls, not papered. A rosewood sofa upholstered in maroon and gold damask had its back to a large bay window and would have easily sat four men. Its spiral ends and lion’s-paw feet were intricately carved.
She studied the huge oval portraits of Judge Rountree and his young wife. Would this woman with somber eyes and serious expression become a friend?
She sighed. Probably not. The parlor exuded wealth and status. Her threadbare gown and frayed cape were completely out of place. She picked a piece of lint from her skirt, then folded her hands in her lap.
A door slammed somewhere in the house, followed by the rapid descent of footsteps on the stairs.
“Hurry it up, Two. I wanna catch him before he leaves.”
A slower clump-clump-clump followed. “I’m comin’. I’m comin’.”
“Here. Hold on to my hand.”
The owner of the voice ran back up and the clump-clump-clump increased in pace. She kept her eyes on the entrance to the parlor and didn’t have long to wait.
A brown-haired boy in short pants, hickory shirt, and bright yellow bandana rounded the corner, towing a younger, female version of himself in a cropped-off tent dress. Anna judged them to be perhaps six and four.
The boy pulled up short. “Who’re you?”
“I’m Miss Ivey of Granby, Massachusetts.”
He released his sister’s hand and executed a formal bow. “I’m Sprout Rountree of Seattle. This here is Two.”
Anna frowned. “Excuse me? I didn’t quite catch your sister’s name.”
“Two,” he repeated. “We call her Two.”
The girl thrust her thumb into her mouth.
“Two? As in the number two?”
“Yep.” He sauntered forward, causing a slingshot in his pocket to peek out with each step.
“I see.” She paused. “And what’s her real name?”
“She hasn’t decided yet.”
Anna blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“She hasn’t decided.”
“What do you mean?”
“We get to pick our own names when we’re old enough. So I’m One, she’s Two, my brother’s Three, and the baby’s Four.”
Anna held back her smile, not wanting to encourage the boy in his tales. “I thought your name was Sprout.”
He shrugged. “Oh, that’s just what everybody calls me until I make up my mind.”
“You know, Sprout,” she admonished gently, “I had a brother just like you once, and I happen to know all about little boys. You’ll find you can’t pull the wool over my eyes quite so easily.”
He scowled, wrinkling the freckles on his nose. “I’m not lying, if that’s what you mean.”
The connecting door opened.
“Now, now,” she continued, “no loving parent would ever name his children One, Two, Three, and Four.”
“Sure he would.” He looked to her left. “Wouldn’t he, Pa?”
Anna twisted around, then quickly rose to her feet. A diminutive man, made more so by Denton’s bulk, gave her a scathing glance before turning to the boy.
“Run along, One. And take Two with you.”
The boy immediately acquiesced, leaving a charged silence behind him.
“You have seven weeks to acquire a bride, Joe, and not a day more,” the judge snapped.
“I understand.” Denton stepped forward, grabbed Anna’s elbow none too gently, and thrust her toward the door.
To J Denton STOP Ivey obligated to work off debt STOP Boynton rescinded STOP Bertha Wrenne now yours STOP Contract fulfilled STOP A S Mercer STOP
From the looks of it, Mrs. Wrenne was somewhere in her sixties and appeared to weigh not much more than a sack of flour. Her hand gripped Anna’s arm as she descended the Occidental’s staircase.
Tucking her head, she gave Joe a glimpse of pink scalp beneath sparse gray hair. The hem of her gown was several inches too short, revealing sturdy black shoes and impossibly thin ankles.
She looked almost old enough to be his grandmother. He rubbed his jaw. Did he really love his land enough to marry her?
Sighing, he knew that he did. And wasn’t she exactly what he’d expected from Mercer? It was only after Anna had been dangled before him that he realized how worried he’d been.
But Mrs. Wrenne was who Mercer had now assigned to him, so Mrs. Wrenne it was. He’d be loyal, faithful, and good to her. He’d provide food, clothing, and shelter. He’d do everything a husband should—well, almost everything. He’d decided last year when he signed the contract that unless the woman was—by some miracle—suitable, their marriage would be chaste. He was sure Mrs. Wrenne would be of the same mind.
Anna whispered something to her and the older woman smiled. All gum. He looked away, taking a moment to compose himself.
“Mr. Denton,” Anna said, pulling his attention back to them. “This is my friend, Mrs. Wrenne. I told her you’d asked for an introduction.”
The woman nodded, careful to keep her lips together. Stepping off the last stair into the entry hall, she released Anna’s arm.
He inclined his head. “How do you do, Mrs. Wrenne.”
She smiled, lips tightly sealed.
He glanced at Anna, then back at Mrs. Wrenne. Perhaps he shouldn’t immediately blurt out the contents of Mercer’s telegram. Easing her into it might be a bit more prudent.
“May I interest you in a short stroll through town?” he asked.
Delight touched her eyes and she nodded vigorously. He held out his arm.
Anna trailed behind Mr. Denton and Mrs. Wrenne, feeling very much the fifth wheel. He’d been stiff with anger after leaving the judge’s home, and she hadn’t tried to engage him in conversation. She had sympathy for the predicament he found himself in, but she was also affronted that he expected her to enter into something as serious as marriage at the snap of his fingers.
They’d returned to the t
elegraph office to find Mercer had already sent a reply. Mr. Denton had shown no emotion while reading the missive, nor did he share its contents with her. He’d merely folded it, put it in his pocket, and said, “I need you to introduce me to Mrs. Wrenne.”
They’d come straightaway to the Occidental.
He now tucked Mrs. Wrenne’s hand into his elbow, bending low while speaking to her. He kept up a monologue as if sensing she was too embarrassed to reveal her toothless gums.
“Now, this is our smithy,” he said, whipping a handkerchief from his pocket and offering it to Mrs. Wrenne.
She placed it against her nose and cocked an ear to better hear him.
The thunderous grinding of the sawmill several streets over underscored the clink of the blacksmith’s shop. A blast of heat and the smell of acrid fumes hit Anna full force as they approached the smithy’s wide, open doors. Peeking inside she could make out the silhouette of a large man holding a poker over hot coals.
“Used to be our doctor ran this shop, but he wasn’t very good at it.”
The blacksmith raised a hand in greeting. Denton returned the gesture.
“When young Lewis here passed by and commented on Doc Maynard’s clumsiness, Maynard sold him the business on the spot for ten dollars—lot and all.”
The street held very little traffic. An occasional horse stood tied to a rail, and a wagon pulled by an old mare ambled by. Anna decided most of the men must have left for the lumber camps or whatever other jobs they held.
They passed a mercantile, a boot maker, an attorney’s office, and a tannery. Denton submitted an interesting tidbit about each place and took great care to center his attention on Mrs. Wrenne during the telling.
In response, she blushed, she fluttered, she patted her hair.
“Now, you must keep the tides in mind when at the end of Commercial Street,” he continued. “We had a newcomer once pull up in his canoe just as the tide was going out. He was stuck on a bed of ooze for hours in the sun and rain until the tide returned to release him.”
“And do you get much rain here, Mr. Denton?” Anna asked.
“Yes.” He didn’t turn to her when he answered, just kept walking, then bent close to Mrs. Wrenne. “Now, you may have occasion to see an Indian.”
Bertha’s eyes widened.
Patting her hand, he smiled. “No need to worry. They’re civilized and their language is very simple to learn.”
“So the relations with the Indians are friendly?” Anna asked.
“Yes.” Again he kept his voice clipped and his back to her. “There’s a confectionery across the street, Mrs. Wrenne. May I interest you in a sweet?”
She nodded.
“I’d heard you had a war with the Indians,” Anna persisted. “Did it last long?”
“Lasted one day.” After stepping into the street, he took both of Mrs. Wrenne’s hands, then helped her off the boardwalk. As soon as her feet touched the packed-dirt road, he led her across the road, never once offering assistance to Anna. He didn’t even glance back to see if she followed.
Sighing, she stepped down, resigning herself to silently tag along behind the couple until her employer was ready to leave town. Her refusal of his marriage offer had clearly stung his pride. Well, she couldn’t care less. What concerned her now was his motive for parading Mrs. Wrenne through town.
The mismatched couple disappeared behind a glass door with the words Charles C. Terry, Candies, Fruits & Nuts.
Anna let herself in. The smell of fresh pastry, ripe berries, and ginger soothed her frayed nerves. Jars of marmalades and candied fruits lined the shelves behind a beautiful mahogany counter. The elegant platters and gallery trays decorating its surface held a variety of tempting cakes and tarts.
She judged the man behind the counter to be somewhere in his thirties. He had a head full of dark hair, wide-set eyes, and a ready smile.
“Morning, Joe.” Wiping his hands on his apron, he eyed the two women. “Who do we have here?”
“This is Mrs. Wrenne and Miss Ivey. They came over with Mercer. Ladies, this is Mr. Terry.”
The bell on the door jingled. The blacksmith with soot covering his face and clothes entered the establishment, bringing the smell of his shop with him. He gave a shy smile and nod.
Anna nodded back.
“What captures your fancy, Mrs. Wrenne?” Denton asked, perusing a list of confections painted on a board behind the counter. “The molasses bread pudding is always good. How does that sound?”
She nodded.
“Make that two, Charlie,” Denton said as the baker lifted a lid off a warming pot.
The smell of molasses, vanilla, and cinnamon filled the small shop. Anna’s mouth watered, and she tried to remember the last time she’d had bread pudding. Hoke hadn’t allowed his cooks to sample the desserts. Sugar was at too much of a premium.
Taking the two bowls Mr. Terry offered, Denton turned, caught sight of Anna, and hesitated. “Oh. Would you like something, Miss Ivey?”
Refusing to give him the satisfaction, she didn’t so much as glance at the bowls he held. “I’m fine, thank you. Had a rather large breakfast.”
“Shall we have a seat, then?”
Guiding them to a nearby table, Mr. Denton smiled at Mrs. Wrenne and helped her into a chair. The woman might be old, but she wasn’t dead. Her entire countenance glowed from the attention.
The smithy saw to Anna’s chair, then quickly stumbled back to the counter.
Mr. Denton didn’t seem to notice. After finishing off his dessert in three big bites, he leaned back and gave Mrs. Wrenne a devastating smile. “Do you like it?”
She touched the corner of each lip with her napkin and nodded. The pudding required no chewing—and no teeth.
After she finished, he gave a quick glance at the baker and blacksmith, then scooted forward. “I received word from Mercer that your Mr. Boynton is no longer in the market for a bride.”
Mrs. Wrenne jerked her chin up.
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple jumping in his throat; then he lowered his voice. “So he has assigned you to me.”
Anna stiffened.
He took Mrs. Wrenne’s bent hand into his large, callused ones. “Would you, ma’am, do me the honor of becoming my lawfully wedded wife?”
Mrs. Wrenne’s beady eyes widened beneath the folds of skin above them. “You want to marry me?”
Mr. Terry’s pastry tongs clattered to the floor. The blacksmith whipped his head around.
Anna didn’t know what to do. Every instinct she had screamed at her to interfere. But she knew that her friend wanted nothing so much as a husband, and Mr. Denton certainly needed a wife.
“I would be very honored, ma’am,” he said, his face warming at the sudden quiet in the room.
“Mrs. Wr—”Anna started.
“Yes! I would be happy to be your bride, Mr. Denton.”
After a slight pause, his smile was full, bright, and genuine. Straight white teeth. Deep lines of twin dimples. Hazel eyes sparkling with pleasure.
She answered his smile with a plethora of lines on each side of her mouth and a gaping hole in between.
He stood. “Shall we go find the preacher?”
“Right now?”
“Yes. Let’s not wait another minute.”
Her smile slowly collapsed.
He sank back into his chair. “What’s the matter?”
She cleared her throat, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Would you mind if we waited until I had some teef made?”
He hesitated. “Mrs. Wrenne, I own a logging company and must get back to it today. I’ve been away too long as it is.”
Her eyes watered. “Please?”
He rubbed his jaw. “I really can’t afford to keep coming back and forth to town. I’d rather just go to the preacher now. Today.”
She pursed her lips together in a pout. “Are we habing our foist fight?”
A slow line of red began to creep up his neck.
“I don’t see the harm in waiting, Mr. Denton,” Anna interjected. “After all, it will only take, what, two weeks?”
“More like three,” he ground out, piercing her with his gaze.
“Well, the judge said you had seven weeks. I heard him myself.”
After several seconds of tense silence, he pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Very well. We’ll wait until Dr. Barnard can make . . . what is necessary.” He stood. “But as soon as he’s finished, Mrs. Wrenne, I must insist we have the ceremony.”
She set her napkin on the table. “Tank you.”
Avoiding Anna’s gaze and that of the two men in the confectionery, Mr. Denton assisted Mrs. Wrenne to her feet and escorted her out the door.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
The wagon rolled and swayed, jostling Anna on the seat. Mr. Denton had not said so much as a word to her since leaving the confectionery. He had simply made arrangements with a dentist to have some teeth made for Mrs. Wrenne, walked them back to the Occidental, then propelled Anna out to his wagon.
They’d been on the crude road for almost an hour and he still hadn’t said anything. Perhaps they would make it all the way to his lumber camp in peace and quiet.
“Judge Rountree holds half my property in the palm of his hand.” Denton’s growl broke the silence. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t insult him at all, much less in his own home.”
So much for peace and quiet.
“He named his children One, Two, Three, and Four,” she said. “He deserves to be insulted.”
“That’s not the point. The point is I can’t afford to alienate him and now that you are my responsibility, I can’t have you offending him either.”
“Well, who would have thought someone would do that to his own children? I thought the boy was lying, for heaven’s sake.”
“Well, he wasn’t. O.B. hates his name, and rather than saddling his kids with a name they hate, he decided to let them pick their own.”
“So he calls them One, Two, Three, and Four? That’s his solution to giving them names they won’t hate?”
“They’re temporary.”