Yankee Wife

by Linda Lael Miller

  Deep in the night, Lydia awakened from a healing sleep, her blood hot with fever. Brigham lay beside her, fully clothed, his breathing even and deep, and she wanted him.

  “Brigham?” Lydia lifted her head, brushed his lips with hers, let the silky tickle of her hair awaken him. Her hysteria was past, and she was in full command of her senses. “Brigham!”

  He opened his eyes, grumbled. “No.”

  Lydia laughed softly. “You've compromised me thoroughly, Brigham Quade. If I'm to have the reputation, and I surely will, then I want that pleasure you promised me.”

  Brigham swatted her bottom lightly. “Go back to sleep, Yankee. You don't know what you're saying.”

  “Yes, I do. You've ruined me by undressing me and lying beside me all night, and I want to know what you intend to do about it.” Lydia was quite serious. She was no prude, but certain conventions simply had to be respected, even in this remote wilderness.

  “I intend to marry you,” he said, as though his plans should have been obvious. He might have been talking about hiring more lumberjacks or ordering a shipment of dried beans, for all the expression in his voice.

  “That's very generous,” Lydia said acidly.

  He patted her again. “You're welcome,” he answered, in all seriousness, and then he drifted off to sleep again.

  13

  LYDIA LAY STILL BESIDE BRIGHAM, SOAKING IN THE warmth and strength of his body, listening to the even meter of his breathing as he slept. She recalled the night before, when her rigid New England composure had slipped so badly, and a blush rose in her cheeks at the memory.

  The experience had been a difficult one, an emotional transformation that had left her broken and raw in its immediate aftermath, but now she felt happier and more capable than ever before. Her feelings were back, and all of them were keen and vivid.

  They filled her with an uncanny energy, and when that became too great to be subdued, Lydia bolted upright and scooted off the bed. She went to the bureau for fresh underthings, to the wardrobe for the prettiest of her simple dresses, a bright yellow and blue calico print.

  Brigham lifted his head, made a grumbling sound, and focused bleary eyes on her. “Wh—?” he said.

  Lydia smiled. King of the Mountain.

  She slipped behind the changing screen in a corner of the room, taking her clothes with her. “It was very kind of you to propose marriage, Mr. Quade,” she called sunnily as she dressed, “and I meant to accept your suit. However, I've changed my mind.”

  A muttered curse word came from the direction of the bed, and the ropes supporting the mattress creaked. “What?”

  “I've decided not to marry you after all.” Lydia was fully clad now, and she peeked around the edge of the screen as she buttoned the front of her frock. “Of course, it wouldn't be proper for me to go on living in this house—much as I dislike Reverend Prophet, I have to admit he was right about that. Then again, I don't want to leave Charlotte and Millie, just when we're starting to establish a rapport, so with your permission, I'll move into one of the saltbox houses on Main Street. The blue one, if it isn't promised to anyone else.”

  Brigham was sitting up now, his clothes and hair rumpled, looking at Lydia in irritable disbelief. “You can't be serious.”

  Lydia reached for a brush and began to groom her hair briskly. Miraculously, she'd been set free of the past, a gift she'd never expected, and she was light-headed with the joy of it. “Oh, but I am.”

  He reached for his boots, pulled one on with a fierce thrust of his foot. “You're forgetting something, Yankee. You and I just spent the night alone together, in a bedroom. On the same damn bed. If you walk out of this house without my wedding band on your finger, you'll be ruined. You said so yourself.”

  She put down the brush and began to divide her hair for braiding. “That was what I thought, too, at first,” she conceded cheerfully. “However, after some consideration, I've come to the conclusion that I was mistaken. Oh, I'm not saying that we should throw off all moral constraints and behave in any way we wish, but we're not in Maine or Massachusetts, after all. This is the frontier, and the rules are a bit more flexible here.”

  He came to stand behind her, facing the mirror. She was aware of his looming reflection, of course, but she didn't allow her eyes to rise and link with his. He might cast one of his dangerous spells if she did.

  “What about Millie and Charlotte?” Brigham asked in a dangerously quiet voice. “They've come to hold you in very high regard. Losing you will be a blow to them.”

  Lydia allowed herself the smallest smile. She had finished plaiting her hair, and wound the thick braid into a coronet, which she pinned expertly into place. “I have no intention of deserting your daughters, Mr. Quade,” she said. “I will devote my days to them. Should one or the other of them fall ill, may heaven forbid it, I will serve as their nurse.”

  His hands rose, as if to close on her shoulders, but at the last moment he let them fall to his sides. “The houses on Main Street are unfurnished,” he said, his head turned slightly to one side, gaze fixed on the window, where a morning breeze ruffled the lace curtains.

  “I won't need much in the way of household goods,” she replied. “I'm used to making do.” Lydia took her travel case from under the bed and set it on the mattress. Then, methodically, she began removing her clothes from the bureau and the wardrobe. Brigham hesitated for a few moments, watching her with troubled eyes, then walked out of the bedroom and closed the door quietly behind him.

  Her resolve faltered a little—if personal honor had allowed her a choice, Lydia would have married Brigham and been his wife in every sense of the word. But to offer herself, loving him as she did, knowing full well that he didn't return her feelings, was a compromise she couldn't make.

  When Lydia left her room, she went straight to Devon's and rapped lightly on the door.

  “Come in,” Polly called.

  Devon's breathing indicated that he was resting in a degree of comfort. The swelling on his face had gone down, and his many abrasions and bruises were less angry-looking than before. Lydia's well-honed instincts told her this patient would recover handsomely.

  Polly, on the other hand, looked like something from a Greek tragedy. She'd lost weight, and there were purple shadows under her eyes. Her hair, usually so glossy, was dull and flat, and her clothes looked as though she'd been wearing them for a week.

  “Devon is improving,” Lydia said forthrightly. “You, on the other hand, seem to be in a definite decline.”

  The other woman sighed, her hollow eyes devouring the man sleeping on the bed. She swallowed, started to speak, and then stopped herself.

  Lydia stayed a few moments, then went into the hallway and down the rear stairway. She found Jake Feeny in the kitchen, along with Charlotte and Millie, who were simultaneously eating pancakes and arguing over which of them would be taller when they'd both reached their full height.

  Ignoring the girls, who needed to learn to work things out without constant adult intervention, Lydia took a plate from the shelf and began filling it for Polly. “If you have the time,” she said to Jake, with a bright smile, “would you please heat water for Mrs. Quade to have a bath?”

  Jake blushed as though she'd asked him for a waltz, and nodded. When he'd gone out to the shed to bring in a tub, Lydia sat down at the table, smoothed her skirts, and cleared her throat to let Charlotte and Millie know she wanted to speak with them.

  Two luminous pairs of eyes turned to her immediately, one set pewter-gray, the other a brilliant amber.

  Lydia cleared her throat again. This would be the most difficult part; making these children, whom she'd come to love very deeply, understand that she would never willingly abandon them.

  “I've spoken to your father,” she began, in a brave but slightly quavery voice. “We've agreed that it would be better if I went to live in one of the Main Street houses, since both he and I are unmarried.”

  Charlotte looked away, but Mil
lie leaned forward in her chair, a questioning expression on her face.

  “That would be easy to solve,” she said, as though pointing out the obvious to a slow-witted but much-loved maiden aunt. “You and Papa have only to get yourselves married to each other. Then you could stay and Charlotte and I would have a mother.”

  A small muscle in Lydia's heart twitched painfully. “I'm afraid it's not quite that simple,” she said softly. “A man and woman should not marry unless they love each other.”

  Charlotte bit her lower lip. “Some people think Papa is handsome,” she said. “He has money, and a large house. He never hits and rarely shouts. Couldn't you learn to love him, with time?”

  Learn indeed, Lydia thought ruefully. Her enterprise would be quite the opposite, she feared: learning not to love Brigham Quade. “I suppose I could,” she replied after an interval, “but he would have to love me as well, you see, and he doesn't.”

  Millie sagged slightly. “Oh.”

  Charlotte's golden eyes brimmed with tears. “This is dreadful. I've become attached to you, Miss McQuire—in fact, I meant to ask permission to call you Lydia.”

  She reached out and took one of each child's hands, squeezing them reassuringly. “You may both address me by my first name, except when we are having lessons. And it isn't as though we won't see each other every day, because you'll be coming to my house mornings to learn reading and arithmetic.”

  Charlotte made a face, but Millie scooted forward to the edge of her chair. “Couldn't Anna and the others have lessons, too?”

  Lydia smiled. “Of course. We'll have our own school, the seven of us, right there in my parlor, until the meetinghouse is built.”

  “I'm going to tell Anna!” Millie crowed, bolting from her chair and hurtling toward the back door in a streak of energy. “We're going to have a school—a real school!” With that, she clattered out.

  Charlotte remained in her chair, clearly feeling none of her sister's enthusiasm. She sighed and propped her chin in one hand in a gesture of forlorn acceptance. “You'll tire of Quade's Harbor soon enough,” she said. “And then you'll sail away and leave us even lonelier than we were before.”

  It was on the tip of Lydia's tongue to promise the child she would stay, but she held the vow back, realizing how rash it would be to make such a pledge. Brigham paid her salary, and there was no one else to work for, since he virtually owned the town. If he ran out of patience with her, he could banish her completely.

  “I have no plans to leave, Charlotte,” she said. “However, you're a young woman now, and you must know that life can be very unpredictable. If I promised to stay, the Fates would delight in making a liar of me.”

  This brought a slight smile to Charlotte's mouth. “Yes,” she agreed, “I am a young woman now, aren't I? Soon I'll be old enough to travel. I'll go to the far corners of the world.” She paused and sighed, staring off into the great beyond. “I'll probably marry a pirate who's so handsome that just looking at him will make my heart pound.”

  Lydia smiled and pushed back her chair. She would save her lecture on the low moral standards and general social unsuitability of the average pirate for later. For now, it was enough that Charlotte wasn't upset about her intention to move out of the Quade house.

  Brigham told himself he was glad Lydia was going to live on Main Street. He had enough people underfoot as it was, he thought.

  He sent his largest wagon and two teamsters to his place for furniture and other equipment Lydia would need to set up housekeeping. The men were to take their orders from Miss McQuire, loading and transporting whatever she chose to take.

  The shriek of the mill saw gave Brigham a headache, so he went into his office and closed the door firmly behind him. There was an enamel crock with a lid sitting on a table behind his desk, and he ladled out some water to cool his tongue, his mind weighted with worries.

  His first and foremost concern, at the moment, was Devon. His brother did seem to be on the mend, but he still hadn't come out of that deep sleep he'd been in since the accident in the woods. Despite Joe McCauley's predictions that Devon would recover, and Lydia's corroboration of that diagnosis, Brigham had a deep-seated sense of foreboding about the whole situation.

  Then there was the mess with Polly. She had told Brigham the truth of the matter herself, when she'd sought him out in Seattle and asked him for work. She'd told him how she had duped Devon, and said she wouldn't blame him if he didn't want her ever to set foot in Quade's Harbor again. All she wanted, she'd gone on to say, was an opportunity to make amends and start over.

  Brigham had been shocked, of course, and angry as well, but some instinct had urged him to give the woman a second chance, if for no other reason than that Devon had clearly loved her once. Besides, just about everyone he knew had some kind of shameful secret; the West was a magnet for adventurous misfits.

  Like himself.

  He smiled, sinking into the creaky wooden chair behind his desk, kicking his feet up and cupping his hands in back of his head. His favorite enigma was Lydia McQuire.

  Brigham was fairly certain the woman had set her cap for him—after all, she'd nearly come apart in his arms that night in the cabin, when he'd introduced her to a singular pleasure. The memory made him harden, instantly and painfully, and he set his feet apart a little ways on the desk. He sighed and looked up at the ceiling.

  Something must be wrong with him, he decided. Maybe he was getting old, set in his ways. He could have made love to Lydia, she would have welcomed him into the sweet solace of her body, and he needed that consolation sorely, but his damnable honor had interfered. Lydia was not a whore, and his conscience would not allow him to take advantage of her.

  He frowned, dark brows knitting together. His certainty that Lydia found him appealing, much as she might wish otherwise, was unshaken. However, he was a pragmatic man and he couldn't overlook the fact that she'd refused his offer of marriage, not once, but twice.

  Maybe she was leaning toward McCauley, the gentleman doctor, and she'd never made any bones about the fact that she found Devon attractive as well. Devon was a free man, since the marriage to Polly had been a fraud, and when he finally awakened, he might easily turn to pretty, gentle Lydia for comfort.

  Brigham's right temple began to pound. Then there were all the drooling lumberjacks who would be knocking at her door as soon as they knew she was fair game, and not the boss's woman, as many of them now believed. He'd be lucky to get close to her again, let alone persuade her to become his wife.

  There was a rap at the door, and Brigham brought his feet to the floor and reached for a pen and his ledger book. “Come in,” he barked gruffly.

  The hinges creaked and Joe McCauley stepped into the office, medical bag in hand.

  Brigham opened his ink bottle and dipped the point of the pen, even though he hadn't the first idea what to write. The tidy pages of numbers and notes, set down by his own hand, were as indecipherable now as Egyptian characters.

  “I can come back another time,” McCauley said, with a sort of cordial dignity, “if you're too busy to talk.”

  Brigham gestured toward the only other chair in the room, wiped his pen, and sealed the ink bottle again. He braced his forearms on the desktop and touched the splayed fingers of both hands together. “We can talk now,” he said, and the words came out sounding hoarser than he would have liked.

  McCauley drew up the other chair and sat. “Of course you know I've come here to discuss Lydia,” he said. He was a straightforward man, if a soft-spoken one, and Brigham liked him. “We both know that Lydia spoke impulsively last night at the table, when she mentioned marriage to me, but I would gladly have her for a wife.”

  The deep breath Brigham drew in left his lungs in a harsh rush. “You're in love with her?”

  The doctor raised one shoulder in a shrug. “I'm not certain that the sentiments I feel toward Lydia can be reduced to such a simple term. She's the only reason I'm alive today, and not just because she te
nded my wounds and saved me from that butcher of a surgeon who wanted to take off my arm for the bounty. There hasn't been a day, an hour, since I rode out of that Yankee camp, that I haven't thought of Lydia. Her name was the litany I said when the pain was unbearable, and when I was too discouraged and hungry to take another step. I don't think it was an accident that I happened upon her again, here in Quade's Harbor.”

  Brigham reached back, massaged the taut muscles at his nape with one hand. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked, even though he knew the answer only too well. McCauley's eloquent words had left him with a feeling akin to despair.

  “I am an honest man, Mr. Quade,” McCauley answered, “as I believe you are. I cannot go on living under your roof, knowing that your desire for Lydia's favor is as great as my own, without making my intentions absolutely clear. I will stay here, however, either working for you or in private practice, and if I can persuade Lydia to share my life, I will do that, too. Without hesitation.”

  Suddenly Brigham was possessed of an insane urge to hurtle over the desktop and take the good doctor by the throat, but he sat back in his chair instead. “There's no need for you to leave my household,” he said evenly. “I want you close to my brother. Besides, Lydia is going to live in one of the houses on Main Street.”

  McCauley looked pleased; the same expression of smugness would have earned another man a sound thrashing, but Devon needed a physician, and so did the growing community. “Very well, then,” the doctor said, rising and extending one hand. “I won't take up any more of your time. My aim in coming here was to make certain that we understand each other, and it would seem that I've accomplished that.”

  Brigham pushed back his chair and rose, shaking McCauley's hand as he did so. “I'll prove a formidable adversary,” he warned, and there was no boastfulness or conceit in his words, only grim sincerity.

  “I'm sure you will,” McCauley replied, his voice as warm and genteel as his handshake. “I'm sure you will.”