The Secret Admirer Romance Collection

by Barratt, Amanda; Beatty, Lorraine; Bull, Molly Noble

  “Hallelujah!” She sang Handel’s Messiah.

  In the meantime, she should turn the tick mattress. Grandmother Novak said that turning mattresses regularly was important.

  The scent of baking apples greeted her as Sarah approached the tent. Sometimes thin walls that allowed smells to penetrate them weren’t so bad after all. Smiling, she stepped inside and turned her attention to the bed.

  Her heart stuttered.

  Lying on the pillow was another letter.

  John smelled apple pie before he heard Sarah call his name. If the order had been reversed, he would have rolled over on his bed and pretended sleep, snoring loudly if she needed extra convincing to go away and leave him alone.

  He’d spent two hours calming his spirit, and the last thing he wanted was another encounter with his irascible neighbor.

  Except, if his nose was correct, she’d brought food. Pie, to be exact, and his stomach didn’t care what he wanted. It wanted that pie.

  He opened the door and his hello died in his throat. Not because of the pie, but because of the alarm on her face—and the cream-colored letter resting on top of the pie.

  “Come in.”

  She stepped inside, and John rushed to clear his table of dirt and bugs that had fallen from the dugout ceiling since the last time he cleaned it. “I baked a pie.”

  He stopped cleaning to look at her. Why was she stating the obvious?

  “It’s apple.” She held it out with stiff arms, thick oven mitts protecting her hands.

  “I see that. Why don’t you set it down here?” He indicated the table.

  She nodded but didn’t move. “I’m so sorry, John. I didn’t know what else to do to make it up to you, so I baked a pie because you seemed to like the last one I made, and then, while it was baking, I was thinking of other things to do so I decided to turn my mattress, and that’s when I found”—she took a breath—“this.”

  Sakes alive! From nothing to jackrabbit speed in an instant. “That pie smells delicious. Why don’t you set it down?”

  She nodded again, this time placing the pie on the table. “I haven’t opened it. The letter, not the pie.” She closed her eyes and exhaled. “I’m sorry. I’m babbling away and making no sense at all, it’s just…it was on my bed. Inside my tent. Whoever wrote it has been inside my home, maybe even…”

  Touched my things is what he imagined she couldn’t say. He’d seen the same reaction in robbery victims. The loss of property didn’t violate as much as knowing someone was in your home looking at pictures, rifling through treasures, touching clothing worn close to the skin.

  John led her to the stool, pulling it out from under the table so she could sit. “Would you like me to read the letter to you?”

  She tugged off the oven mitts and placed them beside the pie. “Just read it to yourself and tell me what I need to know.”

  “All right, but while I do that, would you mind slicing me a piece of that pie?” His stomach had been patient long enough.

  While she rummaged around for a knife and plate, John pulled a crate to the table, sat down, and read:

  Dearest Sarah,

  I have found you, my darling. You are mine and I am yours.

  So I linger and take in your scent, your world, your air.

  It won’t be long now, my dear.

  Good night, good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow.

  Your Secret Admirer

  John again noted the similarity in color and weight to what he’d purchased at the general store. Next time he was in town, he’d check with Mr. Harrison to see who else had purchased stationery. Perhaps a dark-haired man and blond woman?

  Sarah set a steaming slice of heaven in front of him. “So…what do I need to know?”

  John folded the letter. “I think you need to tell me the whole story about this Eugene character.”

  By the time she recounted how she’d discovered her fiancé and best friend together, he was on his second slice of pie. She sure was a talkative thing when she got a full head of steam behind her. He kind of liked it. Made a nice change to the unending silence of the plains.

  “And when I got home and told my father what happened, he said I should marry Eugene anyway because he doubted I could do better.”

  John’s fingers squeezed on his tin fork. How could a father ever say that to his daughter?

  “So I told him I’d move to Oklahoma instead of marry that no-good, two-timing…actually, I don’t think I said that to Daddy, but it’s what I was thinking.”

  “I can see why.”

  Sarah’s jaw went slack. Was he teasing her? Or serious? She stared at him, trying to discern what it meant when he made a flat, unembellished statement then forked pie in his mouth and chewed. He glanced at her for an instant, a look of expectancy telling her to keep talking. “Sorry. Where was I?”

  “No-good, two-timing…rather move to Oklahoma?” He cut himself a third piece of pie.

  “Right.” Sarah stood up to fetch another fork and plate. “I hope you don’t mind if I have some, too.”

  “Why would I mind?”

  She’d expected him to say something like, “Help yourself,” or “Go right ahead.” His surprising response highlighted how little she actually knew him.

  “Trust must be earned. Until then, I hope you’ll give me the benefit of the doubt.” Were the pastor’s words ringing in her head as a warning? Or as an encouragement to give John Tyler the benefit of the doubt?

  All right. She’d tell him a little. But she wasn’t going to trust him with her entire history. “After I told my father I’d move to Oklahoma rather than marry Eugene, I did some more research on homesteading, took advice from my grandmother, then purchased supplies and came down here. If my name hadn’t been drawn, I would have purchased land outright with the money my mother left me.”

  He slanted a look at her. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me you have enough cash on hand to purchase land?”

  “Yes.” And a whole lot more…even though she left half of her ten thousand dollars back in Boston in case things didn’t work out here.

  His lips rounded. Pie fell from his fork. He caught it with his hand and popped it in his mouth. “Please tell me you didn’t stuff cash under the mattress in your tent.”

  “Most of it is in the bank.” She scooped pie onto her fork. “I only kept three hundred in cash.”

  John covered his mouth, coughing several times before he swallowed. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to do that.” He cleared his throat. “You’re saying that somewhere in your tent is three hundred dollars in cash.”

  She swallowed her morsel of pie. Was that a lot of money? If so, it explained why Mr. Harrison’s mouth had fallen open when she gave him a thousand to open a line of credit at his store, and why Mr. Atwood at the bank shortened his prediction of how long it would take to accept wired funds after she said she’d be transferring two thousand.

  Should she tell John what she’d done? Or was it irrelevant? He already knew Eugene and Trudy were in town—well, might be in town. Seeing a dark-haired man and blond woman together didn’t prove anything.

  “Did you tell anyone you had that much cash?” John reached behind him to grab the coffeepot off his potbellied stove.

  She set her fork down. “Why do you ask?”

  He half-stood to take a couple of ceramic mugs from the shelf embedded in the dirt wall above the table. He poured her a cup of coffee and one for himself. “Based off the number of marriage proposals I overheard at the land office and at church this morning, you already know men want your land. You’ve paid men to build a barn and are set to pay them again when your house materials are delivered. Plus you purchased a horse and other supplies. It wouldn’t be a stretch for someone to think you have a lot of money.”

  He had no idea. Sarah sipped the coffee then forked another piece of pie into her mouth so the sweet could cut the bitterness. “Are you saying this secret admirer of mine i
s looking for cash?”

  John sipped his coffee without cringing. Did he like it lukewarm and so acidic it bit your tongue? “It’s possible.”

  First Eugene with his smiles and flattery, now some nameless letter writer. Would she never be free of men who were after her money? “What do you think I should do?”

  He tapped a finger on the letter. “Until we catch whoever wrote this, I think we need to trade houses.”

  It was her turn to choke. “You want me to sleep”—she looked around the tiny dugout—“here?”

  His immediate recoil said she’d offended him. Again. “Do you have a better plan?”

  She placed her hand on his arm to get him to look at her. “I’m sorry, John. I didn’t mean to sound disparaging. I was just surprised.” Movement out of the corner of her eye made her glance away. A fat-bellied, black spider descended from the ceiling. Straight toward the table.

  Smack! John smashed the offensive intruder. With his bare hand.

  She shivered. “In my world, the very idea that a woman would…” She tilted her head toward his mattress.

  His skin blanched and then got red. “I wasn’t suggesting—”

  “I know. But even if you aren’t here, even if you were in another state, it’s still improper for me to…sleep in your bed.”

  “Would you rather be kidnapped from yours?”

  She jerked straight. “Do you think it’s that serious?”

  He wiped his hands on his jeans and huffed. “Do you think I’d suggest trading places otherwise?”

  The question hung between them while Sarah looked around the dugout again. Could she do it? Trade places with him? Sleep in what amounted to a dirt cave?

  She reined in her escalating emotions. Now was the time to be practical, not dramatic. She’d read about homesteaders who lived in dugouts—which was why she’d chosen an overlarge tent and a house kit. But she wasn’t going to live here, just stay for a few days until they could catch the letter writer.

  So…for a few days, what would she need to survive? First, her oil lamp. There were no windows in this place. At night, with the door closed, it would be pitch black. She could handle almost dark, but full dark was another matter. The dugout’s small size didn’t bother her so much as the low roof, but at least his bed area had wood slats above it so no spiders would fall into her face. She hoped. As for the impropriety…was it any worse than when she changed out of her corset in the open air?

  She was already leaning toward saying yes when she recalled where she’d found the letter.

  “All right. We’ll trade.”

  Chapter 6

  After two nights in John’s dugout, Sarah decided she preferred a quick death by letter-writing assassin. Anything was better than the bugs.

  They fell on the meager table, on the paltry stove, into her undercooked food, and into her tangled hair.

  She hadn’t slept well or eaten much for thirty-some hours, and she wanted to go back to civilization—actually visualized apologizing to Eugene for making a fuss. If not for her house kit delivery scheduled for today, she’d buy a ticket for Boston on the next train.

  To make matters worse, John forbade her from leaving his property. She’d agreed at the time because he’d couched it in terms of her safety and setting a trap for the secret letter writer, and because she thought it would be a nice break from the unending work of homesteading.

  But she’d developed a routine over the past few weeks that started with biscuits and coffee at sunrise and didn’t end until she and Shakespeare plowed one crooked gouge at least three feet long, after which she rewarded him with oats and a good brushing, and God rewarded her with a sunset.

  The sunrises and sunsets were the same at John’s place, but everything else was all wrong—especially the coffee. She leaned into the dugout to toss the dregs of her current cup on the floor, still amazed and disgusted that this was how John hardened the dirt.

  His house, his rules.

  With a sigh, Sarah walked to the water pump five feet away to rinse the cup. She’d researched pumps and wells, but she’d always assumed they needed to be placed near a water source. John’s dugout was quite a distance from the creek and located in a small hill. If he got water in a spot like this, maybe she should ask him if she could do something similar so she could place her house in a location less susceptible to flooding.

  Oklahoma weather didn’t believe in half measures. When it was sunny, the whole sky was blue. When it rained, the drops came fast and hard, swelling the creek to twice its size in no time as water soaked the ground and ran into the streambed. After the first rainstorm, Sarah understood why John’s land configuration protected everyone downstream of him. East Cache Creek angled through the middle of the long end of his L shape, into the northwest corner of her square, then back into the short end of his L. If John lived up to his promise not to block the flow, and if she didn’t block up her section, ground water from miles around would collect and run downstream.

  She stilled, the picture of his face when he spoke about how his wife and daughter died haunting her. She gave a slow nod.

  Yes, he’d keep his promise.

  Hot on the heels of that thought came another: How would it feel to be loved as he’d loved his wife?

  Daddy seemed to get over Mother’s death within a few months. Of course, there were plenty of women willing to—

  “Oh! Gracious!” Sarah bent over, pressing a hand against her ribs. But the pain piercing her wasn’t physical.

  Women flocked around Daddy even before Mother died. Had he been unfaithful to her in the same way Eugene was unfaithful to Sarah? Was that why Daddy was upset with her that day in his office? Had he told her to calm down and be reasonable because—

  Because he was guilty of the same sin?

  She flailed her right arm until it hit the pump, and then ran her fingers over its shape to find the handle. Pumping furiously, she splashed water onto her face and neck to cool her heated skin.

  In her whole life, was there even one man worthy of trust?

  John Tyler’s face filled her mind’s eye. She wanted to believe in him, wanted him to live up to the strong, trustworthy image he projected, if only because she couldn’t stand the idea that every man was disloyal. If they were, she was doomed to live alone forever—an idea that had lost much of its appeal in the last few weeks.

  She was Sarah Maffey of Boston, heiress. Always had been and always would be, even if she moved halfway across the country to get away from the effect her money had on men. Before discovering Eugene’s treachery, she’d never minded that her money was part of her appeal—she just didn’t want it to be the only thing a man wanted from her.

  She splashed more water on her neck, not caring that she was soaking her blouse, too. The day was already hot, her skin hotter, and there wasn’t a soul around to see her dishevelment.

  She looked around. There had to be something she could do to occupy her increasingly troubled mind. She grabbed the tin pail and filled it with water. The dugout needed a thorough cleaning, and she was in the mood to scrub until everything inside was shiny. And, by golly, if any spiders or centipedes or bugs of any kind dared to bother her, she’d kill them with her bare hands!

  Thirty minutes and four pails of dirty water later, Sarah was finishing up when she stood too quickly and knocked her head against the shelf above the table. Coffee cups, tin plates, and a wooden box rained down. Why did the dugout have to be so small? A person couldn’t even—Sarah caught her breath on a gasp.

  Stationery the same color and size as her secret admirer’s letters spilled across the muddy floor. Suddenly, the gouge to her head was nothing compared to the stab to her heart.

  John had tricked her!

  The theft of her ticket, the unnerving love notes, the offer to trade homesteads to “protect” her…it was all staged to make her trust him. And she’d almost—almost—fallen for it.

  Half of her wanted to sit down and cry, the other half was f
urious. Was he after her for himself, or was he being paid to trick her? Were Eugene and Trudy behind this betrayal as well? They must be! How else would John know to say he saw a dark-haired man and blond woman in town?

  She was such a fool. “Such a fool,” she repeated, because saying it once—and only inside her head—didn’t seem to be enough to cover how ridiculous she felt.

  It was time to go back to Boston. If she was going to be pursued for her money, she might as well do it surrounded by comfort and the few people who loved her.

  Before she went, however, she was giving Mr. John Tyler a piece of her mind. And maybe a piece of her fist while she was at it!

  She swiped the stationery from the floor and stomped out of the dugout.

  Twenty paces later, she heard someone shouting her name and the thundering of horse hooves an instant before she saw John flying across the prairie on Shakespeare.

  Shock rooted her feet to the ground.

  The anguish on John’s face was the same as when he’d told her about his wife and daughter. His expression cleared to immeasurable relief the moment he saw her. He’d been worried about her? That look was for her! And he’d tamed the world’s most ornery horse to come to her rescue.

  She crumpled the offending stationery in her hand. Her rage fled, taking her doubts with it.

  John’s betrayal was a lie. The undeniable truth was in the way he leaped off a racing horse, ran to her, and crushed her to his chest while whispering, “Thank God, you’re all right. I was so worried.”

  He smelled of sweat and horse and desperation—and she loved him for it.

  Sarah paused outside her tent to take a breath. This was going to be bad.

  “You don’t have to go inside. I can clean it up later.” John squeezed her hand.

  She shook her head. “I want to see.”

  He pulled back the tent flap so she could step inside.