* * *
With extra help in the shop Alex and Lydia spent their weekends at Aspen Grange, often accompanied by her father, who had become a much-valued part of her life. As Lydia’s confinement drew near they spent less time in London. There was a new confidence in her, an elation. Alex was relieved and impressed by the way she had settled down to married life, and amazed how quickly she had learned to manage Aspen and its huge contingent of staff while designing gowns for her rapidly expanding enterprise.
Her enterprise wasn’t the only thing that was expanding and as the weeks passed she was impatient for the baby to be born. Miranda gave birth to a son and with the coming of spring, the Golding baby—a boy who was named Charles William—was born.
Lydia had never felt such softness, such tenderness, such sweetness, when she looked at this little human being she had given birth to who was sleeping in the cot beside her bed. Alex came and sat beside her on the bed, one arm about his wife and his eyes on the child. With his closed eyes, the feathery eyebrows, the tiny rosebud mouth, he was perfect.
‘Thank you, my love. You are a beautiful mother. Just remember one thing and brand it into your heart—I love you dearly and I promise you that nothing will come between us.’
Gathering her up into his arms, he kissed her then, with all the old passion and fierce possessiveness she knew so well. She felt the strength of his muscles as he held her and was aware again of the vitality in him and of the nearness of his beloved, strong face. She felt comfort in the closeness, weakened by the birth of their child. But tomorrow she would be strong again, and they would grow closer together. She felt her heart and mind almost burst with a joy too much to contain. These two people were hers, her family. They were all she had. All she wanted.
The world had taken on a wonderful glow.
* * * * *
If you enjoyed this story
you won’t want to miss these other stories
by Helen Dickson
THE FOUNDLING BRIDE
ROYALIST ON THE RUN
LORD LANSBURY’S CHRISTMAS WEDDING
LUCY LANE AND THE LIEUTENANT
Keep reading for an excerpt from THE PRAIRIE DOCTOR’S BRIDE by Kathryn Albright.
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The Prairie Doctor’s Bride
by Kathryn Albright
Chapter One
Western Kansas 1879
Sylvia Marks stared at the gold-and-green sign swinging over the Oak Grove mercantile, then dropped her gaze to the corner of the large display window. The crack was still there—a casualty from her last visit before Christmas. Mr. or Mrs. Gallagher, the owners of the store, had stuffed old copies of the Oak Grove Gazette into the opening to keep out the cold. They wouldn’t be excited to see her back again—or Tommy.
The main street of town was deserted this early, even the livery stable doors were shut tight. She hoped the store would be empty of customers. It was why she had come as soon as the sun rose enough for her to see her way across the river. Most folks were still in bed—at least she hoped they were. It wasn’t herself she worried about. She had long ago grown tough enough to endure their stares and whispers. It was Tommy she worried for.
She glanced down at her son. She’d wrapped him up as best she could, but at seven years old, he was growing out of near everything he owned. Spring had better hustle along a little faster so that she could see to shearing Jeremy and Petunia. Besides selling the sheep’s wool, she would be able to knit Tommy a larger sweater and make them both new socks and stockings. As it was, snow melted from her worn boots and the wet seeped inside, working its way down through the frayed wool strands and settling against her skin. Guess it was one more thing to make her tough.
She took a deep breath—best to get this done. She took hold of her son’s hand and strode through the doors of the Oak Grove mercantile. She knew exactly what she had to get: two yards of cheesecloth for rendering her cheese, along with two cases of jars with lids so that she could bottle her honey come late spring. That, and some flour and oats.
“Be right with you!” a man called out from the back room.
Her gaze caught on a bowl filled with silk ribbons of every color at the close end of the counter. It looked like the storekeeper had been cutting them into lengths. Large scissors lay beside the bowl. She couldn’t keep herself from touching the length of dark blue silk that shimmered pretty as the night sky. Wouldn’t that feel nice in her hair? She’d always been a fool for pretty things, but in her life pretty always had to walk a step behind practical. A bit of twine worked just as well or better for tying back her hair.
Mable Gallagher stepped through the curtained doorway.
Sylvia grabbed her hand back from the ribbons immediately, feeling guilty even though she’d done nothing wrong.
Mrs. Gallagher’s brows drew together in a frown. “What do you want, Miss Marks?”
She didn’t sound happy about being pulled from whatever she was doing in the back, or perhaps it was more a matter of Sylvia’s way of doing business that the woman didn’t care for. Out of necessity, Sylvia bartered more than she bought outright. She had precious little coin for any extras...like the ribbon.
“Just got a few necessities I’m aimin’ to buy. Won’t take but a minute.”
“See that you hang on to that youngster of yours. I won’t have a repeat of last time.”
Sylvia tightened her grip on her son’s hand. What had happened was an accident. Tommy had not meant to knock over the tower of canned goods. Mrs. Gallagher should have known better than to stack them so close to the window. Any fool could figure the outcome of that. Children liked to climb things, and Tommy more than most. She leaned down. “Don’t you pay her no mind,” she said softly in her son’s ear. “What’s done is done and a lesson learned. Just stay close.”
She straightened. “I got my wagon out front. I need a sack of flour and another of oats.”
“That all?”
“No. I need two yards of cheesecloth and two cases of canning jars and lids. I got three crocks of sorghum molasses and a dozen eggs to barter.” She set her basket of eggs on the counter.
“Are these fresh?”
“Wouldn’t bring them if they weren’t fresh.”
Mable Gallagher picked the stub of a pencil from over her ear and started tallying up in her ledger.
Sylvia was halfway through haggling out a satisfactory exchange rate when Mrs. Gallagher stiffened.
The pungent
smell of the stockyards snuck into the room. The hair on the back of Sylvia’s neck stood on end. Only one person could make both Mrs. Gallagher and herself uncomfortable—Tommy’s uncle. She tightened her grip on her son’s hand and turned to face him.
Carl wore the same brown britches and coarse cotton shirt that he always wore and each time she saw him they were dirtier and smellier than the time before. Looked like his long hair was getting streaks of gray in it. He was young for that to happen and she wondered if Thomas, had he lived, would have grayed early too.
“Well, well. Who we got here?” He swaggered up to her and stopped too close for comfort, staring down his long nose at her. By the way he acted, she could tell that he’d been into a bottle of spirits already. Being that it was so early could only mean he’d been up half the night drinking.
She stood as tall and stiff as she could, and still only came up to his chin. “Morning, Carl.”
“Ain’t you a purty sight this early come to town.”
His gaze roamed over her, making her queasy in her gut. He must have seen her wagon out on the street. Of all the people in town, he was the last one she wanted to see.
“Who you got hiding there in your skirts? That my kin? Well, step out here, boy, and let me have a look at you.”
“We don’t want trouble, Carl,” she said, moving to shield Tommy with her body.
“Why, I don’t never cause trouble.” The insolent sneer on his face deepened. “Come out here so you can say a proper hello to your uncle.” Moving faster than she’d thought possible, he snaked his hand around her and grabbed her son by the arm.
A cry of pain erupted from Tommy as fear leaped into his brown eyes.
Carl stuck his hands under each of Tommy’s armpits and whisked him up into the air, letting his legs dangle. Then he shook him. “You sure he’s a Caulder? He don’t hardly weigh three stone.”
“He weighs just what he should. Now, put him down. You had your fun.”
“He needs to grow a little backbone. Gotta be tough in this world. Ain’t that right, boy? Your ma had to learn that.” Carl shook him again. Harder this time.
Mable Gallagher pushed aside the curtained doorway to the back storage area and called out. “Henry! Get out here!”
Sylvia trembled with anger. “Put him down!” She inched closer to the large scissors lying at the end of the counter. She had never hurt Carl before, but she would to protect her son.
Carl tossed Tommy aside as if he was no more than a sack of potatoes and slammed his hand down on top of hers, pinning her fingers to the wood. “Now, what are you doing, woman? That ain’t very hospitable of you.”
Henry Gallagher strode into the room. He wasn’t as tall as Carl, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in muscle. He was a stocky bull of a man.
Carl relaxed the pressure on her hand, giving it a last squeeze before pulling completely away from her.
Immediately, she crouched before her son. “Are you all right?”
Tears brimmed in his big chocolate-brown eyes. He nodded—the motion barely detectable.
“You gotta quit mollycoddling the boy,” Carl said. “He’s a Caulder. Should act like one. Not some namby-pamby.”
She stood up, her gaze colliding with Henry Gallagher’s. His wife was no longer in the room. He looked from her to Carl and pressed his lips together. His censure was no help. It wasn’t her fault that Carl had shown up and was the one causing the fuss. Yet it seemed her link to that name made everyone judge her accordingly.
She stiffened her spine. The sooner she and Tommy could leave, the better. “I need two yards of cheesecloth and two cases of canning jars. I already negotiated for them with your wife.”
With a glance at Carl, Henry walked over to the corner stock of canning and pickling supplies. “These will have to do. It’s the only size I have left over from last summer. There’ll be a new shipment in June.”
“They’ll do fine,” she said crisply. She just wanted to get out of town as quickly as possible, before Carl got any more mean ideas.
Mr. Gallagher got the cheesecloth and picked up a case of the jars and carried them out to her wagon.
As soon as the man disappeared through the doorway, Carl sauntered over to the counter. “These yours?” He held up her basket of eggs, the handle balanced on one stubby finger as he swung the basket to and fro.
Her chest tightened. “Carl, why are you being like this? You’d best put that down.”
Carl shrugged. “You ain’t been by to see me in a long time. I near forgot how you looked. Just catchin’ up is all.”
The arc of the basket’s swing got wider and wilder. One egg flew out and splattered on the floor.
Anger exploded inside. Her chest tightened. Such waste! “What do you think you are doing?” She rushed forward, reaching to steady the basket.
He held it just beyond her reach. His mouth curved into a taunting jeer. Another egg flew out and met the same end on the mercantile’s plank floor. “What’ll ya give to get them back?”
Her heart pounded. “Now, you listen here. Those eggs belong to the Gallaghers now. There’s no sense in what you are doing.”
He grabbed her wrist, his fingernails digging into her skin, as he held up her arm just high enough to put her off balance. “Don’t you point your finger at me, missy. You always did think you were better than me and we both know it ain’t so.”
His words hurt—cut—as much as those grimy nails of his. She hadn’t made the best choices in life, but she couldn’t think about that now. Not with Tommy looking on. It was better to let the anger take over than to let what he said get to her inside.
Heat built up and rolled through her. Her jaw tightened. “You let me go.”
He huffed out a breath. “Or what? What you gonna do? You ain’t no bigger than a mite.”
“Mama?” Worry filled Tommy’s high-pitched voice.
She hated that he was a witness to Carl’s bullying, but there was nothing she could do about it. She twisted her arm, glaring back up at Carl. “Let go of me.”
“I’m just having a little fun. You know what that is? Fun?”
“This ain’t it. Not by a long shot.” She stomped down with the heel of her old boot on his foot. Hard.
Surprised, he loosened his grip for a moment, only to grab hold again. His jaw tightened. “Why, you little—”
“What’s going on here?”
A man stood in the doorway, his silhouette outlined by the early-morning sunlight on his back. He was tall as an oak tree with a deep voice to match. Sylvia couldn’t recall ever seeing him in town before.
Carl’s grip loosened. She wrenched from his grasp.
Carl sneered and let go of the basket.
Before she could think to react, the tall man scooped it up, saving the eggs just inches from the hard floor. His actions were so quick and precise that Sylvia stood there in shocked silence, her mouth gaping open, as he handed the basket back to her.
“It appears none are injured,” he said in that deep voice.
She closed her mouth.
His gaze, green as the pines in the Shenandoah, skimmed over her, before he turned back to Carl. “How’s that rope burn?”
Carl scowled. “Healed up.”
“Glad to hear it.” The man didn’t budge. He seemed to be just fine with waiting for Carl to make the next move.
Carl scowled again. He tugged his wide-brimmed hat down over his ears. “Guess the fun’s over. Gotta get back to the stockyards anyways.”
It was all Sylvia could do to hold in her relief as he stomped away. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, and in the case of the Caulders, she’d learned it was half-rotten before it hit the ground. Only Thomas had been different, taking after his ma’s side of the family instead of his pa’s. She’d been wary of Carl for some time, but when he
didn’t come around for a while, she thought things were better. For years, he’d had a woman friend over near Fort Wallace who kept him busy. If that wasn’t the case anymore, guess she would have to watch out for him from now on whenever she and Tommy came to town.
“What can I do for you, Doc?” Henry asked from behind the counter.
Doc? Sylvia turned back and stared as the tall man walked over to the counter. So, this was the doctor that Mayor Melbourne had talked into staying in Oak Grove. She’d heard tell of him a year or so ago but never had a reason to meet the man face-to-face.
She took in the way he was dressed—his white shirt was a bit rumpled, but clean. He wore one of those shoestring neckties she’d heard tell of and it wasn’t even Sunday! His dark burgundy vest had fancy stitching along the edges, like something she’d seen when she lived back East. He had dark brown scruff along his jaw and chin and upper lip. Seemed he wasn’t sure whether he was growing a beard and a mustache or not. His wavy hair was so thick it sprung like a soft cushion from his head. That, she could tell because he didn’t wear a hat or overcoat.
Didn’t he have the sense to know he’d catch his death of a cold in this wayward weather? Spring in Kansas was nothing to sneeze at, half the time cold, wet and windy and the other time sunny, hot and still windy. But today was a sunny one, so guess he had a right to enjoy the feel of it on his head after the fright of a winter they’d had.
“I passed the supply wagon late yesterday on my way back from Putnam’s ranch. Thought I’d check to see if my order of medicine and books came in.”
“I haven’t had a chance to look through the packages,” Henry said. “If you’ll wait, I’ll open them up.”
Funny how accommodating Mr. Gallagher was with other people. Guess some folks just counted more than others. Tommy inched up beside her and slipped his hand into hers. A peace stole over her as she felt the warmth of his skin against hers. Maybe she didn’t count to these townsfolk, but she sure as shootin’ counted to Tommy. And for her, that meant everything.
Carrying the Gentleman's Secret Page 24