He grinned at the memory of her flapping the sheets and blankets through the air, tucking them in with the corners neat and tight, then adding the pillows and quilts before running to the next room. He’d been hard-pressed to keep up with her while starting fires in the heating stoves.
And tomorrow would be another busy day. There had been no word from the railroad about the train moving on.
That was it, then. His grin died. He shoved his chair back, picked up his plate and headed for the kitchen. Like it or not, he would offer Mrs. Fuller the position of cook for his hotel. But people traveled for a reason. There was always a possibility that she would refuse.
For the sake of his business, he hoped she would accept. For his peace of mind, he hoped she traveled on.
* * *
Garret scrubbed his hair dry, draped the towel over the rack and left the dressing room. He glanced at Virginia’s bedroom door—then stopped and looked again. It was ajar. It had been closed tight when he’d gone to take his bath. He stepped close and listened, frowning at the silence. “Virginia, are you all right?” There was no answer.
He turned and hurried down the short hallway into the sitting room. She was standing on the hearth, looking down at the fire. Her hair, encircled by a ribbon at the nape of her neck, hung in a thick cluster of dark blond curls down the back of her purple dressing gown.
“You’re up late.”
She turned, met his gaze. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Neither would he...now. He should have gone to his room and let her fend for herself. “Are you overtired or sore? I know you worked hard helping with the cooking, serving our guests and making beds. It must have been exhausting for you.”
“A little. But mostly I found it—” she frowned, tapped her chin with a piece of paper in her hand “—I don’t know the exact word I want...perhaps...exhilarating.”
“Exhilarating! Making beds?” He half snorted the words. She went as stiff as the poker hanging on the cast-iron hook on the fireplace behind her.
“I realize that for someone as talented and skilled as you, Mr. Stevenson, cooking or serving tables or making a bed seem common, mundane tasks. But for me, with my lack of skills, they are an accomplishment! And that, sir, is exhilarating!”
He looked into her beautiful blue eyes, now throwing angry sparks his way, and raked his fingers through his still damp hair. “I didn’t mean to demean your accomplishments.” Best to get off that subject. He gestured toward the paper in her hand. “Is that the list for me?”
“Yes. After supper, Mrs. Fuller and I made a menu for the coming week. And then we made a complete inspection of the pantry and refrigerators and cupboards and drawers as you instructed. We even looked in the crocks and baskets to be sure we didn’t overlook anything. This is the list of provisions we will need. I waited to give it to you, as we’ll need some of them to prepare breakfast in the morning.” She held out the paper, slanted a look up at him. “I’m quite certain Mrs. Fuller was being frugal with your money. I added aprons to the list. Martha always wore an apron.”
He nodded, glanced at the long list. “With the trains not moving, it may be hard to get some of these things in the quantities listed. Especially the fresh meats. I’ll go to Latherop’s store first thing tomorrow morning and get what I can.” He shoved the list in his dressing gown pocket and scrubbed his hand across the back of his neck. His shoulders were tightening. “Mrs. Fuller will simply have to change the menu if I can’t get the supplies.”
“I’m sure she will do her best.”
He wasn’t. He let it alone.
“Why don’t you like Mrs. Fuller, Garret? She’s been very kind and helpful.”
He glanced at her, skirted the truth with his answer. “It’s nothing personal. She puts me in mind of someone I once knew.”
“Someone you disliked?”
“Not then.”
She studied him, sighed, lifted her hand and twisted the top button on her dressing gown back and forth. “I thought, when I came, that my stepping in to fulfill Millie’s arrangement with you would help both of us out of our dire situations. It has helped me, but I seem to have made yours worse. I’m sorry that my lack of skills has forced you to employ someone you don’t care to have around.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at the fire. “There’s no need to apologize. I realized during the rush of guests this morning that it would be impossible for one person to do all of the work required. I should not have put that burden on you.” He fingered the list in his pocket, hoping he hadn’t made another mistake, though he’d had no choice. “Mrs. Fuller is a good cook. And her skills are helping me out of a very difficult situation. I’m grateful she accepted my offer.” The bitterness rose, tainted his words. “But she’s a woman. I dislike having to wonder when she will walk away.”
“But why—”
He gave her a look that said he didn’t want to discuss it, and walked over to wind the clock on the wall. “You’re not without skills, Virginia. You have a natural gift for putting people at ease, and that is a valuable asset in this business. One that can’t be learned—like making beds.” He put the key back and closed the glass over the clock face. “It’s been a strange day without whistles blasting out the notice of a train’s arrival or departure. And a busy one, with the eight rooms on the second floor all full. And it seems as if it may be the same tomorrow. We’d best get some rest.” It was a mistake, one he knew would cost him sleep, but he turned and looked at her. She was smiling. “Good night, Virginia.”
“Good night, Garret.” She crossed the room and disappeared into the hallway.
Five years.
He sucked in air and went to bank the fire.
Chapter Eight
Virginia waited by the door, pulled it open at the thud of Garret’s boot against it. Cold air rushed in, chilling her hands and face. Garret edged through the doorway into the kitchen. She shut the door, reached up and snatched the bulging burlap bag off the top of the barrel he carried. “Ugh!”
“Careful, that’s heavy. You’d better put it down before you hurt yourself. I’ll come and get it as soon as I put this flour with the rest of the stuff.” He stomped his boots on the small rug and headed for the pantry.
“I’ll manage.” She took a firmer hold on the neck of the rough sack and followed him, the cans inside bumping against her knees. She willingly relinquished her hold when he grabbed the bag and swung it to the top of the barrel he’d shoved into the far corner.
“This is the last of it.”
“I should hope.” She glanced around, her gaze skipping from barrels to crates to overstuffed burlap bags. “There isn’t room for anything more.”
“That’s good, because there’s nothing much left to buy. I about cleaned out Blake’s reserves. The back room at his store is almost empty.”
“It must be. I’ll help Mrs. Fuller put these supplies on the shelves when we have time.” She hurried back and picked up her knife to finish dicing the potatoes Mrs. Fuller had peeled for breakfast. There was a steaming cup sitting at the end of the worktable. “What’s this?”
The older woman glanced up from slicing ham into three large, cast-iron frying pans. “I thought perhaps Mr. Stevenson would welcome some hot coffee after being out in the cold.”
“I’m sure he would.” She looked over at Garret, caught a glimpse of a frown. He tugged off his hat and gloves, shoved them into his jacket pockets and came to the worktable, his boots thudding against the floor.
“Virginia told me you helped her plan a menu, Mrs. Fuller. But there are a few things I couldn’t get. Mostly the fresh meat.” He placed the list on the table and picked up the cup. “Blake is supposed to get in a supply this afternoon, but it’s snowing, and the trains may be held up again today. I bought an extra ham, two more boxes of dried cod and some tinned stewed beef to take the
place of the fresh meat. It was all Blake had on hand. I should have prepared better for an occasion like this.” He blew on the coffee, took a swallow.
“It’s difficult to plan when the number of people staying in your hotel changes from day to day, Mr. Stevenson.” The older woman pushed the ham aside, scooped a dollop of lard from a can and began to grease two large crockery baking dishes. “I’m sure Mrs. Stevenson will adjust the menu accordingly.”
“With your help, Mrs. Fuller. Oh!” She jumped back out of the way as a wet potato slipped from her fingers and dropped back into the bowl of water. “Did I splash you?” She glanced across the table. There were wet splotches on the bodice and right sleeve of Mrs. Fuller’s plain green cotton dress. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s no matter, dear. This is an old dress.” The women turned toward the stove and tugged at the wet fabric clinging to her forearm.
She stared at Mrs. Fuller’s face. The woman was as gracious as ever, but there was an underlying stress in her voice. An image of the older woman’s mended carpetbag flashed into her head. Mrs. Fuller could not have many dresses with her.
She glanced at Garret. “Were you able to get the aprons I asked for?”
He lowered his coffee, swallowed and nodded. “They’re in one of these bags.” He put his cup down and spread open the neck of one of the burlap sacks he’d set on the floor by the worktable.
“I’ll help you look.”
“No need. Here they are.” Garret straightened, folded white fabric clutched in his hand.
“Oh, good! They should help. Thank you.” She took the aprons, handed one to Mrs. Fuller and smiled. “This should protect your gowns from my clumsiness.”
“Thank you, dear. But you’re not clumsy. Wet potatoes are slippery. I’ve dropped more than a few in my day.” Mrs. Fuller patted her on the arm, turned and shook out the apron.
The movement of the older woman’s right hand was limited, though she did her best to hide the fact. She squelched an offer to help in order to spare Mrs. Fuller any embarrassment and held up her own apron. The fabric unfolded, the length cascading toward the floor. “Now, let’s see...” She lifted a narrow strap, frowned.
“Like this...” Garret took the garment and held it by the straps. “Slide your arms through the holes, then turn around. It ties in the back.”
Warmth stole into her cheeks. What a dolt he must think her. “I know that!” She slipped her arms through the straps, smoothed the bib, then reached behind her and fumbled for the apron strings. “Martha and Millie wore aprons...and I’m perfectly capable of—there!” She smiled in satisfaction, snatched another potato from the water and resumed her slicing and dicing.
“There what?”
She stopped her work and looked at him. “I beg your pardon?”
He gestured toward her waist. “You’ve tied your apron to your dress sash.”
She glanced down. One side of the apron hung askew, and the waist of her gown was sagging. “Bother!” She flexed her fingers. They were covered with potato juice.
“Allow me.”
He grabbed the free apron tie and drew her up short, stepped behind her. A chill slithered down her spine. The waist of her gown pulled taut, went tighter still. She peered over her shoulder, caught a glimpse of his frown. Had her ignorance angered him? Another chill slipped down her spine. Would the little acts of cruelty start now? “What’s wrong?”
“You’ve got the ties tangled.”
Heat from his fingers penetrated the light wool of her gown and made warm spots on her back. She sucked in her stomach and leaned forward to get away from them.
“Hold still. There! That’s got it.”
The waist of her gown relaxed. His hand slipped around her side, grabbed the dangling apron tie again and pulled it to her back. She caught and held her breath, then released it and stood quietly, suddenly mindful that while he was strong, his touch was gentle and respectful. Not at all like Emory Gladen’s.
“Finished.”
“Thank you.” She picked up her knife, wishing she had time to go to her room and think. Garret Stevenson confused her.
The clock chimed the hour.
She glanced up at the sound of movement and found Garret looking at her, his gaze as warm as his fingers. He looked away, shrugged out of his jacket and ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s time for me to start knocking on the doors of the guests who left requests for me to wake them. I hope I haven’t ruined your plans or delayed things by not getting all the items you needed for your menu. But I have to know before I start waking the guests—will breakfast be ready on time?”
She looked across the table. “Mrs. Fuller?”
“It will be ready, Mr. Stevenson.” The woman coughed, lifted her apron skirt and wiped at her eyes. “Sorry...onions...”
“Mrs. Fuller, I was supposed to chop the onions this time!” She reached across the table for the diced onions. “You’re too kind.”
“An odd objection as that works out in your favor, Virginia.” Garret started for the sitting room. “Make sure there is plenty of coffee.”
“We will.” She pulled her gaze from him and looked back across the table. Mrs. Fuller was cracking eggs into a bowl. “I’ve finished the onions. What do you want me to do now?”
“Mix the onions into the potatoes, then spread them in those baking dishes. I’ll pour these eggs over them, and then we’ll put them in the oven to bake.”
She did as directed, then watched her mentor add salt and pepper and a little water to the eggs before picking up a fork and whipping them. She slid the filled baking dishes to the other side of the table so the woman wouldn’t have to stretch out her arms to reach them. The golden froth poured over the vegetables, filled the spaces. “Garret makes eggs like that. He calls them ‘broken.’”
The bowl jerked. Eggs spilled over the side of the dish onto the table. “I’m sorry, dear. That was clumsy of me.”
“No bother, Mrs. Fuller.” She wiped the dish and table, went and rinsed the cloth at the sink while Mrs. Fuller put the potatoes in the oven. “What’s next?”
The older woman straightened, closed the oven door and adjusted the damper on the firebox. “I’ve only to make oatmeal, start the ham frying and slice bread. And make coffee. Four pots should be enough.”
“Then, if you don’t need me, I’ll get started on setting the tables. I’ve butter, preserves and molasses to set out before the guests come to the dining room.” She piled small bowls from the corner cupboard onto a tray, carried them to the worktable and reached for the crock of molasses.
* * *
He couldn’t stop looking at her. He’d taken every opportunity throughout the day to watch his bride. Garret gave up any pretense of work, rose from his desk and went to stand in his office door. It wasn’t only Virginia’s beauty—though that took his breath away. It was her willingness to learn and to work. She’d sailed between the kitchen and dining room serving their guests today as if she’d been doing so for years. And in between meals, she’d switched back and forth from helping Mrs. Fuller in the kitchen to playing hostess to the guests. And everyone, from the oldest to the youngest, responded to her natural charm and graciousness. She’d entertained the snowbound, bored older children by organizing dominoes and jackstraws tournaments. She’d even tied a blue hair ribbon into a fancy bow for the winner. Her ease with their guests of all ages intrigued him. It was a definite asset in the hotel business.
And she was smart, seemed to have an intuitive mind for business. He’d noticed that the first night, when he’d explained to her that Whisper Creek was dependent on the train for their food supply. Her immediate response that he should buy a ranch to have his own source of food for the hotel was a good one. He’d been seriously considering it ever since. The deep snow and the stalled trains made it more sensible than ever.
He swept a g
lance over the people who remained in the lobby—Mr. Anderson, three young men and an elderly woman. The families had retired. Mr. Anderson and the woman were holding books, but had stopped reading to listen to Virginia play the piano. The young men simply sat and stared at her. Not that he blamed them. Still...
He scowled and moved out of the shadowed doorway to the desk, flipped open the register and pretended to look for something in it. The men glanced his way, stirred in their chairs. Message received. He hid a smile and looked back at Virginia. His gut tightened. She had an exquisite profile. She’d done something with her hair that held it in a pile of curls at the crown of her head, and it made her fine-boned features look even more delicate. And her neck, bent slightly forward as she played, a graceful curve revealing creamy skin between her high collar and her upswept hair...his fingers tingled to touch it—to find out if it was as soft and smooth as it looked.
The clock chimed.
The elderly woman rose, picked up her cane and poked the young man in the chair beside her. “Time I was in bed, Albert.”
“Yes, Grandmother.” The young man rose, took the woman’s arm and helped her to the stairs.
Mr. Anderson yawned and got to his feet, walked to the hallway and disappeared.
Virginia stopped playing, lifted her hands from the keys and stood. The two young men left in the room bolted to their feet. She dipped her head. “Good night, gentlemen.”
“Good night, Mrs. Stevenson.”
She started toward the door to their sitting room, saw him standing behind the desk and smiled. “I didn’t know you were still working, Garret. Would you like me to bring you a cup of coffee?”
Her smile shook him. “No need. I’m through here.” He closed the ledger, opened the door and held it while she glided by. A hint of roses teased his nose.
He closed the door and followed her into the room, reminding himself that it was her graciousness and her ease with their guests that intrigued him. Nothing more.
* * *
Mail-Order Bride Switch Page 10