The Convenient Bride Collection: 9 Romances Grow from Marriage Partnerships Formed Out of Necessity
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“Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Cookbooks? Bah! I can do one better than that. If you come over tomorrow morning first thing, I can teach you to cook a roast sure to win any man’s heart. Lots of other things, too. Everyone knows my pies are the finest in all of Bristol. And it was only just last year I won a blue ribbon for my blackberry jam.”
Grace smiled. “Oh, would you really? I’d be so grateful.”
“Pshaw. You don’t even have to ask. If cooking a fine meal is all that stands between you and wedded bliss, there I can help you.”
A sigh found its way to her lips. “If only that were all, Mrs. Ackerman. If only that were all.”
Though her cooking had improved in the past two weeks, everything else in their marriage had stayed much the same. Near silence at every meal. Late nights coming home to find dinner on the stove, and his wife already asleep. Sitting across from her at breakfast as she wore a plain dress, her hair in a severe knot that did nothing to accentuate her quietly pretty features.
Suffice it to say, Grace wasn’t Audrey. And Raymond was no closer to finding out who she truly was. He’d tried. But the most he got out of her was a few sentences. He’d never been partial to chattering females. Except Audrey, of course. Still, sometimes he wished she’d take a lesson or two from the typical woman and just talk. He didn’t care about what, any subject would do. Just as long as she said something.
He dried his hands and hung the towel neatly on its peg. Tonight, there was no way he’d sit in the parlor feeling like a trapped animal, watching her mend or read. He simply couldn’t do it. After a long day at the clinic and on house calls, a bit of relaxation for him and his wife was well deserved. What to do? Oh, yes. Why didn’t he think of it before? A picnic dinner on Lake Compton. They could go and watch the sun setting over the lake, enjoy the fresh air. He’d taken Audrey before, and she loved it—
He needed to forget about her. She wasn’t in his life anymore. Grace was.
He opened the door. Grace sat on the sofa, head bent over a piece of mending. Was that one of his shirts? It sure looked like it.
He sat down beside her. “What are you working on?”
“Oh!” She glanced up with a start. “One of your shirts. I was doing laundry and I noticed it had a hole in it. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? Of course not. Thanks very much. I can’t sew worth a darn.” He grinned.
She smiled her usual soft smile.
“What have you done today?” He stretched his legs out and rested his arm on the back of the sofa.
“I visited Father at the store and helped him with the books. I hope you don’t mind. I made certain all the housework was done beforehand.” That frightened sparrow look again. Like a child cowering under blows. What did she think he’d do? Beat her because she hadn’t stayed home all day?
“Why would you think I’d mind? You’re my wife, Gracie, not a prisoner.” Gracie? Where had that come from? Yet somehow, it fit her better than Grace.
“Oh.” Her eyes widened as if the knowledge was news to her.
“I had a plan for tonight—”
Banging. On the door. “Doc McNair! Doc McNair!”
Blast it all. He stood and strode across the room, opened the door. Mr. Cooper stood outside, bent over, round cheeks puffing from exertion.
“It’s Muriel. It’s her time! You’d better come quick.” Mr. Cooper looked at him like a drowning man clinging to a rope, his eyes two huge fear-filled disks.
“I’m right behind you.” He turned. Grace sat on the sofa, motionless. For saints’ sake, couldn’t Mrs. Cooper have picked another evening to have her babe? Why had she chosen the very night he hoped to spend time with his wife? Not that the expectant mother had much choice in the matter. Yet why did crises always come at the worst times?
“I don’t know when I’ll be home,” he called over his shoulder, following Mr. Cooper down the stairs, half running to keep up with the man’s loping strides.
He grabbed his bag and supplies then jumped into the empty seat in Mr. Cooper’s wagon. The man whipped his horses into a gallop, and Raymond gripped the seat. Was it wise to drive this ancient conveyance at madcap speed? He didn’t exactly relish being thrown from his perch and into a ditch.
“Hurry, boys! Hurry, Star! We’ve got to get back to Muriel!” Mr. Cooper snapped the reins. Wind whooshed past them, the chill evening air seeping into Raymond’s bones. Mr. Cooper glanced at him.
“Will she be all right? Her and the baby?” His large farmer’s hands white-knuckled the reins.
“She’ll be fine. Childbirth is a perfectly normal and natural experience. Women have babies every day.” Raymond put on his best bedside manner voice.
“But you don’t understand, Doc. This ain’t just any woman. This is Muriel, my wife. Boy, do I love that little gal.” A smile split Mr. Cooper’s work-worn face. “She’s … she’s like the sugar to my spice, the bread to my butter, the Jill to my Jack. My one and only. Honestly, I can’t imagine my little old life without her. And if something were to happen, I’d just die inside. Am I making any sense?”
Raymond nodded slowly. Mr. and Mrs. Cooper shared a once in a lifetime love. What he’d known with Audrey had been infatuation, that he now realized. With Grace? He couldn’t describe the complicated mix of emotions that went through his brain when he thought of her.
But one thing he did know.
More than anything else, he wanted a once in a lifetime love. Someone to share hopes and dreams with, coffee in the morning and their bed at night. Someone he couldn’t imagine existing without.
Wanting was one thing. Having quite another.
Chapter 7
She couldn’t stay here another day. She was choking, drowning to death each and every moment. Drowning in the mistake she’d made a month ago, marrying a man who could never love her and whom she could never make happy. She couldn’t do it anymore. Their marriage had been a sorry mistake, and wasn’t it better to face up to it now than to live with more regrets? Audrey was right. Grace was a failure. Totally unworthy and incapable of ever winning the heart of a man like Dr. McNair. She just couldn’t bring herself to relax, let her guard down, even though he encouraged her to do so. No one had ever encouraged her like that before. The very process was unnatural. And she was tired of trying to be someone she wasn’t.
She wouldn’t go back to her father’s house. That would only bring further disgrace upon everyone. She’d set off by herself, perhaps find a job as a teacher or store clerk somewhere far away. Anything would be better than staying here and continuing to live this lie.
Tears stung Grace’s eyes as she packed her belongings in a carpetbag. She’d married Dr. McNair hoping they could make things work. None of it had come to be. She was a jinx, a failure, and it was wrong to force her presence upon him any longer.
She clasped the bag shut and ran her gaze once more over the room. The one he had prepared for Audrey. Ever since she stepped through that door, she’d been an intruder. An interloper. And she was through playing second fiddle to a memory. Of being the substitute wife.
She smoothed the lacy coverlet then opened the door. All yesterday, she’d scrubbed every inch of the house. It was the least she could do, leave his home in better order than when she arrived. She picked up her hat from its peg and placed it atop her head.
The front door burst open. Dr. McNair raced in. His hair stuck up at all angles, and real fear emanated from his gaze. An apron swathed his waist, streaks of red marring the white. She gasped.
“I know I have no right to ask this, Gracie, but I need your help.” His breath came out in short gasps. “There was a hunting accident and a man got shot in the back. I need to perform emergency surgery. If you say yes, you’ll have to promise to stay with me throughout the entire operation. Can you?”
He truly needed her. She sensed it from the pleading in his eyes, the urgency stretching his every muscle.
She could do this. One final task befo
re she left forever.
But if she could be of use to him … could she really leave at all?
“I’ll help you.” She took off her jacket and followed him down the stairs, snatching up her skirts and taking the treads two at a time. At the examining room door, he paused.
“There’s a lot of blood. Are you ready?”
Lord, give me strength. Help me to assist Dr. McNair in saving this man’s life.
She nodded. “I’m ready.”
The moment she entered the room, the metallic scent of blood assailed her like a weapon, trying to disarm her resolve. Red. Everywhere. On the table, the floor, caking the sheets wrapped around the man’s lower back. So much red.
Dizziness unsteadied her, but she shoved it back and moved forward. Dr. McNair rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands in the pitcher and basin. He dried them and faced her.
“First, we’re going to clean the wound so I can assess how much damage has been done. I need you to go upstairs and heat some water. Don’t make it too hot.” He hurried to the table and began to unravel the bandages. She dashed from the room with as much speed as the first time she entered his clinic. But unlike last time, she would be strong. She would show Dr. McNair he could rely upon her.
It seemed to take an eternity for the water to heat, but it finally warmed to a sufficient temperature and she carried it back downstairs. By now, Dr. McNair had removed the bandages, exposing the man’s bare back, blood oozing from a small but lethal hole. She shivered.
Quickly but carefully he cleaned the wound. By the time he finished, the water was crimson. He handed her the basin, and she placed it on the floor.
“Thank God it doesn’t appear to have hit any vital organs.” He surveyed the hole. “Still, removing the bullet will be tough. I’m going to have you administer the chloroform. Just soak that cloth in the liquid in that bottle and hold it over his mouth and nose. All right? Once he’s out, you can help me.”
Grace unscrewed the bottle and poured some of the contents on the cloth. A sickly, sweet fragrance filled the air. She pressed it tight against the man’s face, and soon his groans and shudders subsided.
“Hand me the scalpel on that tray. I’m going to have to cut around the hole so I can remove the bullet.”
Grace handed him the tool. Forced back the nausea at the sound of knife breaking flesh.
Lord, give Dr. McNair strength. And, please, keep me from fainting.
“Have you found it yet?” She tried to keep her voice steady.
“Not yet. It’s deeper than I thought.” More cutting. “There. I see the tip of the bullet.” He glanced at her. Blood covered his hands, his forearms. Could this patient live after undergoing such a procedure?
A furrow knit his brow.
“What’s the matter?” Her words trembled a bit.
“It’s too near the renal artery. Go ahead. Wash up.”
“Wash up for what?” Grace bit her lip.
“So you can apply pressure to the artery while I remove the bullet. If we don’t, there’s a very good chance he will bleed to death.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. No. It wasn’t possible. Assist, she could do, but put her hand into that mess of blood and tissue? She wasn’t that brave.
“Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit.” The verse came unbidden to mind. God would give her strength. And Dr. McNair would help her.
Trembling, she washed her hands and made her way to stand beside him.
“Do you see it?”
She nodded. Up close, the tang of blood was even more overpowering, the hole angrier. The top of her head brushed the firmness of his chest, the warmth of him so close.
“You can do this, Gracie. Just be brave, lass.” He pressed a piece of gauze near the wound, holding it open.
She took a deep breath. Her legs wobbled.
A life depended on her. She could do this.
She reached inside, her fingers pressing against the artery. Perspiration dripped down her back, the heat of the room strangling.
Beside her, Dr. McNair worked with his instruments, his face a study in concentration. Her fingers slipped. She pressed harder.
“You’re doing fine, lass.” The gentle lull of his tone unwound some of her anxiety. She took another breath.
Please, God, let this be over soon.
Suddenly, he held the bullet in his palm. They’d done it. Her legs nearly buckled under the relief.
With careful precision, Dr. McNair cleaned the wound then threaded the needle and began to close the hole. Grace focused on the intensity of his face, the chiseled lines of his jaw as he worked. A dull ache throbbed between her shoulder blades, but she kept her post beside him. The worst was over.
At last, he made the final stitch and, after washing his hands, bandaged the wound with fresh linen strips. She handed him the final bandage then collapsed to the floor. The enormity of what she’d just done struck her afresh, and she leaned her head against her knees, trying to still her thundering heart. Right now, bursting into tears sounded like the most refreshing thing in the world.
She sensed him beside her and looked up.
“You were wonderful, Gracie.” His eyes warmed, turning their brown depths to milky coffee. “I’ve never been prouder of any assistant. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Tears misted her eyes. She’d helped him. Perhaps that would make up for the mistakes she’d so far made. For the first time in her life, as she looked into his eyes, one word came, like a song to her hungry heart.
Valued.
Truly, honest-to-goodness valued.
In a million years, he would never have believed that his shy little sparrow could put her fingers into a man’s flesh with a cooler head and steadier hands than a third-year medical student. Sure, she’d been nervous, but she’d managed in spite of it, and rather than fainting on the floor afterward, assisted with the remainder of the operation.
She intrigued him. A mystery. So guarded and hesitant. What thoughts ran through that mind? What hopes and dreams did she cherish?
He wanted to know everything about her. Her likes, dislikes, thoughts, and aspirations. The things that made her laugh and those that made her cry.
And sure as Ireland was green, he wasn’t going to accomplish any of it unless things changed. Though they’d been married over a month, he knew less about her than he did about Audrey after only one church social.
So he’d court his wife. Lay on the charm until her eggshell exterior cracked, revealing the softer parts within. To start with: their long delayed picnic on Lake Compton.
He opened the door to his examining room. Grace sat in a chair beside their patient’s bedside, head tilted back, eyes closed in slumber. Their patient also appeared to be sleeping, thank goodness. Like the professional doctor he was, Raymond went first to the patient and checked pulse and respiration. All good. The man would live. Not only that, but he would enjoy a full and active life for many years to come. He could have attributed it to his own skills, but truly he couldn’t have done it without Grace. Nor the strength of the Lord he served.
He knelt beside the chair and studied her. His breath faltered. In sleep, her features relaxed, long lashes fanning over her rose-tinted skin, no one in their right mind would describe her as plain. Nor gorgeous, either. She had the sort of beauty that grew on a man, drew him closer. Like layers of the finest silk, making him want to go deeper, understand more.
She stirred, her eyelids fluttering open. “You should be in bed sleeping.” She blinked, her hair falling down around her shoulders.
“And just where should you be, lass?” Teasing sternness lilted his tone.
“Where every good doctor’s wife is. Caring for the patient.” She smiled, sweet and shy.
Doctor’s wife. His wife. The words struck him anew in their poignancy. This wasn’t just any woman he intended to court. He’d already married her. She was, in the legal sense anyway, his.
Yet he wanted more than
a marriage license that pronounced them man and wife. They’d accomplished the legalities. Could their hearts join as well?
“Time for bed, Mrs. Doc.” He fought the sudden desire to pick her up and carry her upstairs, her arms around his neck, her slight frame so close … “I’ll sit with the patient. I want you to get your rest.”
“Why?” She attempted to subdue the tangles of her hair.
He offered his hand and helped her to her feet. “Because tomorrow we’re going on a picnic. And I don’t want my wife yawning over the sandwiches.”
Chapter 8
Monet himself couldn’t have painted a prettier landscape for their day. Sun glittered over the lake like hundreds of tiny diamonds carelessly tossed upon a blue carpet. The air smelled of fresh-cut grass and flowers, of summer and promise. Grace tipped her head back and inhaled a long breath.
Their buggy rolled to a halt near the lake, and Raymond tied the horses to a hitching post. He looked different out of his professional attire, in a shirt and vest, a straw hat atop his head. Younger. Less serious. Terribly handsome.
He walked to the buggy where she sat. “May I?”
She nodded. He placed his hands around her waist and lifted her down. The warmth of his fingers pressed against the thin material of her dress. A shiver curled up her spine. Why did this man’s touch have the power to do such absurd things to her? Turning her from a calm, collected person to a blushing schoolgirl.
“There’s a nice spot near the lake.” He grabbed the picnic basket and blanket. She followed. It was nice having someone else to do the carrying. Why, she felt like a fine lady of leisure walking alongside him, with nothing for her hands to do but fold primly at her waist.
They made their way toward the lake, and he spread the blanket near the water’s edge. She settled herself atop it, adjusting her skirts, then opened the picnic basket. He’d insisted on procuring everything himself, not allowing her to cook a thing. Not that she minded. Although her kitchen skills had improved, her liking of the task had not.