Mail-Order Bride Switch

by Dorothy Clark

  “No. That’s not one of my...talents.” He refilled his empty cup, thought about that ham. Mrs. Fuller was staying at his hotel only one more day. And if she baked as well as she cooked... He rose, carried the coffeepot to the stove to stay hot, and sniffed. He didn’t smell any bread dough. He reached for the fireplace oven.

  “Don’t open that door, Garret!”

  He halted, frowned as she hurried toward him. “Why not?”

  “We only had wood enough to make a small fire, and the oven didn’t get as warm as it should. But Mrs. Fuller said it should stay warm enough to make the dough proof—that means rise up—” she gave him a pleased look “—if the door stays closed tight.”

  “I see.” He stepped back, leaned against the worktable and uttered words that somehow had the feeling of a trap. “I suppose Mrs. Fuller teaching you to bake bread will be all right. But that’s all.”

  “As you wish. Good evening, Garret.” She smiled and left the kitchen.

  He watched her walk away, the short train of her skirt floating over the floor behind her, and had a sudden, intense wish to call her back, to talk with her and get to know her.

  A dangerous inclination.

  He scowled, drank his coffee and warmed himself by the fire until she retired for the night.

  Chapter Seven

  Garret frowned and shoved his chair away from his desk. The aroma of baking bread was everywhere, even his office, and it was wreaking havoc with his concentration. He kept thinking about a hot cup of coffee and a slice of that fresh-baked bread slathered with butter.

  He blew out a breath, drummed his fingers on the chair arm. How much longer before Mrs. Fuller would leave the kitchen? Not even the lure of the bread and whatever smelled of cinnamon could tempt him to go to the kitchen with that woman in there. She looked about the age his mother would be—if she was even alive. And he’d been reminded of his mother enough yesterday. Every time he’d seen Ivy Karl sitting outside that tunnel, waiting and praying for her child to be alive and safe, he’d remembered how his mother had deserted him, and the anger and resentment had stirred and boiled to the surface.

  What sort of woman walked away and left her child behind? Or betrayed her husband? He’d vowed way back when he was ten years old that he would never give a woman the opportunity to do that to him. And now, eighteen years later, he had been forced to place himself in that position. Marriage! He’d been a fool to sign that contract!

  His face tightened. He glanced at the clock: twelve minutes until six. He couldn’t delay starting breakfast much longer. He rose, stretched the kinks from his abused muscles and crossed to the door that opened onto the lobby. There was no sign of Mr. Anderson. The man must be a late sleeper. Still, Mr. Anderson didn’t look the sort to miss any meals. He checked the key box for room number one. There was no note to wake the guest. Was that because Mr. Anderson wanted it that way? Or was it an oversight on Virginia’s part when she’d registered him? He would have to find out. He couldn’t have a guest missing a meal or a train connection because of their error.

  Virginia. He scrubbed his hand over the back of his stiff neck and strode into the dining room to feed the fire and light the oil lamps on his way to the kitchen. He wasn’t eager to see his bride this morning. In spite of his physical exhaustion, she had caused him a good deal of tossing and turning before he could get to sleep last night. The image of her being all housewifely wouldn’t leave his head. He didn’t want a wife. But he was stuck with one for five years. Five long years—less two days.

  He stopped by the hearth and stared. The oil lamp sconces on the paneled wall above the mantel were already lit. Golden light flowed over the two tables that cozied up to the warmth of the fireplace. The flickering flames of the fire cast a dancing reflection in the red-and-white dishes and pewter flatware set for the two guests. A tall pewter candlestick holding a white taper stood guard over a sugar bowl and creamer in the center of each table.

  The kitchen doors swished open. “Thank you for showing me how to make the bread and rolls, Mrs. Fuller. Though I’m afraid I will never master—oh! You startled me, Garret. Good morning.”

  He pivoted, skimmed his gaze over Mrs. Fuller and fastened it on Virginia. His pulse jumped up a notch. The blue plaid gown she wore made her eyes brighter than ever. His sour mood worsened. If he had to be stuck with a wife, why couldn’t she be an unattractive one? “Good morning.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go freshen up for breakfast now, Virginia.” Mrs. Fuller came to the tables, set the small dishes she carried on one of them and dipped her head in his direction. “Mr. Stevenson.”

  He looked up from eyeing the dishes of butter and preserves she’d put down, nodded and stepped aside. She hurried by him into the lobby.

  “I’m so glad you said Mrs. Fuller could show me how to make the bread, Garret. I’ve had a piece and it’s the best I’ve ever eaten. She puts potatoes in it!” Virginia glided up to the other table, set down matching dishes of butter and preserves and smiled up at him. “I’m certain you will be very pleased with it. I know Mr. Anderson will be pleased, as well.” She gestured toward the tables. “Are these dishes suitable? I didn’t know what you’re cooking for breakfast for our guests, so I wasn’t sure what to set out...other than a plate and cup and saucer.”

  “They’ll need a bowl for oatmeal. And also, a small dish of molasses to spoon over it or spread on their bread.” He looked away from the enticing curve of her mouth and strode toward the kitchen. “Did you ask Mr. Anderson if he wanted to be awakened in time for breakfast?”

  “Yes. He said there was no need, that his stomach was his clock.” A soft laugh escaped her.

  He gritted his teeth, shoved open one of the double doors and held it for her. She smiled her thanks and walked to the dish cupboard, her long curls bouncing, the fabric of her gown rustling. He grabbed a pan from a shelf and carried it to the sink, ran some water in it and turned to the worktable. She set a cup before him, held the coffeepot poised over it. “Would you like a cup of coffee to drink while you’re cooking?”

  The steam carried the aroma to his nose. His mouth watered. He’d kill for a cup of coffee, but not from her hand. That was too...cozy. “I’ll wait. I’m going to be busy now.”

  “Of course.” She put the coffeepot back on the stove.

  He glared at his empty cup, pushed it aside.

  “Is the molasses in the pantry?”

  “A small keg of it, yes. But I keep some handy here on the table.” He pointed toward a crock among a cluster of them at the end of the worktable, then grabbed another and scooped dry oatmeal into the pan of water, added some salt.

  “How do you know how much oatmeal to cook?” She leaned forward and peered into the pan, her curls mere inches below his nose.

  He jerked back. “I make it almost every morning for breakfast.”

  “Did you put in extra for Mr. Anderson?” She smiled up at him. “He has a healthy appetite, judging by the supper he ate last night.”

  Her nearness made his pulse pound. “There’ll be enough.” Would there be? He scowled down at the pan. He should have spent more time with the cook at his hotel in New York City. He added more oatmeal and water, then turned to check the fire in the stove. It was burning slow. He opened the damper to make it burn hot, shoved the oatmeal pan toward the back and stalked to the refrigerator. She was slicing bread onto napkin-covered plates when he returned to the table. Molasses gleamed like dark shiny pools in two small red-and-white bowls sitting on saucers with sugar spoons beside them. She might not be able to cook, but she knew how to serve the food in an attractive manner.

  The clock chimed the hour. He unwrapped the slab of bacon, sliced thick rashers onto the cast-iron griddle and placed it on the stove. The oatmeal was boiling. He gave it a stir and shoved it farther back to simmer before going to the pantry and grabbing the bowl of eggs.
/>   There was a scraping of chairs and muted voices from the dining room.

  Virginia pulled the napkins up over the bread and slid the plates on the tray beside the bowls. “I’ll be back for the food.” She grabbed the coffeepot with a padded holder and headed for the dining room. He told himself not to look, but his obstinate gaze locked on her, followed her to the door.

  The bacon sizzled on the griddle. He turned to tend it, slid the griddle toward the side, then cracked eggs into a large bowl. He added a bit of salt and pepper and stirred.

  The door swished open. He frowned, but kept his gaze fastened on the bowl in his hand. Her soft footsteps approached, stopped. The coffeepot clinked against the stove.

  “I told our guests they were having oatmeal and bacon for breakfast.” Her skirts rustled as she turned back to the table. “What is that you’re making?”

  “Eggs.”

  “Eggs?” She leaned over to peer in the bowl. “Why do you make them all frothy? I’ve never had them like that.”

  “Your cook could probably fry eggs without breaking them. I can’t. So I break them before I fry them.”

  “Oh. That’s a clever solution.” She laughed, picked up the tray holding the bread and molasses. “What do you call them?”

  “Broken.”

  Her laughter died. She gazed at him a moment, then looked away. “That doesn’t sound very appealing. I’ll think of something.”

  The look on her face said clearly that she didn’t deserve his surly attitude. And she was right. He scowled, picked up the fork and turned the bacon. She was only helping him—which was what he wanted. Just not in the same room. She was hard to ignore.

  “I’ll be back for the oatmeal.”

  That’s what he was afraid of.

  * * *

  “Oh, bother!” Virginia set the rinsed dishpan in the sink and grabbed the towel.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve splashed water all over me.” She swiped the towel over the wet splotches on the front of her dress, looked toward the sitting room door and froze. Garret was wearing his jacket. “Are you leaving...again?”

  “No. Mr. Anderson is on his way to the depot, and Mrs. Fuller is sitting by the lobby fire knitting, so I went to their empty rooms and gathered the ashes from their stoves to dump outside. Then I’ll bring in coal to refill the bins in their rooms.” Garret pulled on his gloves. “That towel won’t help much. You’ll dry faster if you stand in front of the fire.”

  A train whistle blasted through the predawn stillness.

  “The 7:10 is late. Could be it’s still storming up in the mountains.” A frown drew Garret’s dark eyebrows down. “I hope we don’t get any bad weather today. I shoveled enough snow yesterday to last me all month.”

  She glanced toward the windows, but it was still too dark to determine the weather. She tossed the towel on the drying rack and went to stand in front of the fire.

  “When your dress is dry, the bed in room number one needs to be made. I want the room ready for the next guest.”

  “All right.” She was earning her way! Satisfaction as warm as the fire’s caress swept through her. She was no longer helpless in her role of pretend wife and helpmate to Garret Stevenson—thanks to Mrs. Fuller’s kindness. She would miss the older woman when she left tomorrow.

  A sigh escaped her. She glanced toward the loaves of covered bread on the worktable. That lesson had not gone well. She could never make bread. At least not without a lot more instruction. Cooking and baking were hard, but she was determined to learn. She had hoped Mrs. Fuller would give her a few more lessons, but Garret did not want the woman in the kitchen.

  The oil lamps on the back porch flared. She slanted a look that direction. He seemed to have taken an immediate dislike to Mrs. Fuller. And there seemed to be no reason, since the woman was so kind. She smoothed the dried front of her dress and started for the lobby, on her way to bedroom number one. Perhaps when Garret came in, she would ask him to reconsider. It would benefit him if she could learn to cook, even a little.

  Boots stomped on the front porch. Oh, no. A new guest had arrived and the bed was unmade! She hurried from the sitting room into the lobby, stopped and stared at the people coming through the front door carrying valises. Why, there were a dozen or more! And some with children! And Garret was outside.

  She took a deep breath, patted her hair and stepped forward. “Welcome to you all. May I help—why, Mr. Anderson! I thought you were leaving us today.”

  “So did I, Mrs. Stevenson, so did I.” The portly man snatched his hat from his head with his free hand and frowned. “The snow is too deep in the mountains ahead. The train can’t go forward till the engineer gets the word. They figure it will be tomorrow or the next day before they get the tracks cleared, so here I am.” He smiled and held out his hand. There was a dollar and fifty cents in it. “You can just give me back the key to my room, and I’ll get out of your way so you can register the rest of these fine people.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Anderson.” She stepped behind the long desk and opened the register. “I’ll just add another day to your previous visit. Here is your key.”

  She smiled at the next man standing in front of the desk. “May I help you, sir?”

  The door to their sitting room opened. She met Garret’s shocked gaze and smiled. “You were right about the snow in the higher mountains blocking the Union Pacific tracks. The train is to stay here in Whisper Creek until workers are able to clear the way forward. I was about to register those who wish to stay here meantime.” She looked back at the young man in front of the desk. He put down the two valises he held and took a small child from the woman beside him. An older child pressed back against the woman’s skirts.

  “I’ll take a room. And that Anderson fellow said that you serve breakfast until eight o’clock. I’d like to order breakfast for my family, please. My wife’s not been well, and she needs food to get her strength back.”

  “I’ll have breakfast for my family, too, please.”

  “Coffee would be just the thing...”

  “I’ll have breakfast, too.”

  The chorus of requests for breakfast grew. So did her panic. She shot a look at Garret.

  He put down the bucket of coal he held, moved to stand beside her and held up his hands. The chorus dropped to a murmur.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we will take care of you all as quickly as possible.” A friendly grin warmed his face. “I know there’s nothing like a good hot cup of coffee to make a situation look better. Now, those of you who want rooms, line up in front of the desk, please. You need to be registered before you have your breakfast.”

  What breakfast? Her stomach clenched.

  “Those of you interested only in purchasing coffee or breakfast, please have a seat in our warm, comfortable dining room. It’s through those doorways.” He swung his arm to his left. “My wife will be with you as quickly as breakfast can be prepared.”

  She stiffened, caught her breath. What was he doing? She turned her back to the people and looked up at him, mouthed, I can’t—

  He gripped her shoulders and squeezed. “It’s all right. I’ll take care of the registering, dear.” He leaned down, hissed, “Go and get Mrs. Fuller. Tell her you need help, and that I will pay her to cook breakfast for these people.”

  She looked into his eyes—he was not happy at being forced to ask for the woman’s help. And it was her fault. She nodded, slipped out from behind the desk and hurried to Mrs. Fuller’s room, his voice following her.

  “Just sign here, sir. Your name and address, please. And then, if you and your family will have a seat here in the lobby, or if you wish breakfast, in our dining room, we will get the fire going in the stove to prepare your room for occupancy. It’s a dollar and fifty cents per night. Or twenty-five cents more if you’d like one of our larger corner rooms with
two beds.”

  “I’ll take the corner room.”

  Beds! Who was going to make all those beds? She would be busy in the kitchen and she had to serve all those people, as well. Her stomach roiled. How could Garret be so calm? She fisted her hand and rapped on the door of bedroom number two. Please, Lord, let Mrs. Fuller agree to help me again. Please!

  * * *

  Garret grabbed a fork, the plate with his apple pandowdy on it, and left the room. Even sitting at the eating table by the back wall was too uncomfortable when Mrs. Fuller and his bride were in the kitchen. Just the sound of their voices made his anger rise and boil in his gut. It was unreasonable and unfair, but the feeling was there and too deep to be ignored. He left them to their chores, walked through the sitting room into the short hallway and entered his office.

  Mrs. Fuller could cook. There was no denying that. Breakfast was a triumph over time and the grouchy, out-of-sorts people who had filtered into the dining room. The bread was perfection. And the bacon with eggs, and pancakes served alongside, had his guests asking for more. And how had she turned that pot of stew he’d started that morning for dinner into a delicious beef and vegetable soup that had served all their guests? It seemed impossible, but she’d done it. And the hash she’d made from tinned corned beef for supper! And the corn pudding. And...everything. The woman had made three excellent meals from the meager supplies he had on hand. It made his mouth water to think of what she could do with a full pantry and fresh meats. If only she were a man.

  He flopped down in his chair, set the plate on his desk and took a bite of the pie. Flavors exploded in his mouth. He scowled, stabbed the fork back into the pie and ate another bite. It was as good as the first. So the woman could bake, too. He finished the pie, drummed his fingers on the desk. He desperately needed a cook. Today had proved that. And he’d looked in the kitchen often enough throughout the day to realize that while Virginia tried hard to learn, she just wasn’t a cook. But she was wonderful in the dining room or behind the desk. She was very good at soothing the guests. And she could make beds.