The Bridegroom

by Linda Lael Miller

  “Jacob went to the U.S. Marshal?” Lydia whispered, her head spinning.

  “Yes.”

  “And if I told these—deputies—that Gideon forced me to leave Phoenix and marry him, they would arrest him?”

  “That’s about the size of it,” Rowdy said solemnly, watching her very closely. “And the marriage would be annulled, if that’s what you wanted.”

  Sending Gideon to prison was unthinkable, of course.

  And yet, for one moment of vengeful temptation, Lydia considered doing just that.

  In the next, she dismissed the idea.

  Clasping her hands together in her lap, she lowered her head, too mortified to meet Rowdy’s gaze because she was afraid, if he looked into her eyes, he’d see that for the merest fraction of a heartbeat—

  She started slightly, but did not pull away, when Rowdy reached across the table and clasped her hand, squeezed it briefly before letting go. “Do you love my brother, Lydia?” he asked, very quietly.

  Lydia bit down hard on her lower lip. She wanted a life like Lark’s, even after what she’d seen the woman endure, a life like Sarah’s—a loving husband, babies of her own, a real, true home.

  Could she have those things with Gideon?

  Surely not. He’d already told her he didn’t mean to stay in Stone Creek.

  Still, she could not deny Rowdy an answer, because he’d asked so gently, as though he really cared.

  Wretchedly, she nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I love Gideon.”

  “But?” Rowdy prompted, still gentle. It touched Lydia deeply that, after all he’d seen Lark go through, all the suffering that had caused him, he genuinely wanted to help.

  “He doesn’t love me in return,” Lydia managed, in such a small voice that Rowdy leaned forward a little to hear.

  Playing on the floor, Marietta recited, “He doesn’t love me in return.”

  “Hush,” Rowdy told his daughter, without looking in her direction. “I’m sorry, Lydia—she’s like a little parrot. Repeats everything.”

  “She’s a darling,” Lydia said, and began to cry. “I wish I had ten like her.”

  Rowdy chuckled at that. “Be careful what you wish for, Lydia Yarbro. Because you might just get it.”

  Hearing someone address her like that, by her married name, affected Lydia in an oddly profound way. “Lydia Yarbro,” she repeated brokenly.

  “That’s who you are, isn’t it?” Rowdy asked, his voice husky. “And why do you think Gideon doesn’t love you?”

  “Because—because he’s leaving town,” Lydia said, and immediately wished she hadn’t.

  “What?” Rowdy asked, not only surprised, but angry.

  “He told me so yesterday morning,” Lydia admitted, because she was in too deep now to go back.

  Rowdy muttered a swearword, shoved splayed fingers through his already-mussed hair.

  Marietta repeated the curse, beaming.

  Lydia laughed, through tears, and got to her feet. “I’ve said too much,” she told her brother-in-law. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go up and see Lark now, and—and the baby.”

  Rowdy nodded. “I suppose he’s at the mine?”

  “Yes,” Lydia said on her way to the staircase, stooping to pat Marietta’s golden head as she passed. Pausing on the first step, gripping the newel post, she added, “Please don’t say anything to Gideon, Rowdy. Promise me you won’t.”

  Rowdy pushed back his chair, rose. “I can’t do that, Lydia. I can’t make a promise I know I won’t keep.”

  Lydia closed her eyes, once again wishing that she’d held her tongue.

  When she opened them again, Rowdy was bending down, scooping Marietta up into his arms. Without a word, he left the room, probably taking his little girl to join her sister and brothers, in some other part of the house.

  After a moment spent recovering her composure, Lydia climbed the stairs and walked along the hallway, let herself into Rowdy and Lark’s bedroom.

  Lark was sitting up, with pillows at her back, holding an impossibly small bundle in her arms. Although she was still very pale, when she smiled she looked almost radiant. “Come see your new little niece, Lydia,” she said. “Miranda Jane Yarbro, this is your aunt Lydia.”

  Lydia’s throat tightened with a fresh rush of emotion. She’d never been anyone’s “Aunt Lydia”—until she married Gideon. Like someone in a daze, she approached the bed, sat down carefully, so she wouldn’t jostle Lark, and accepted the tiny bundle.

  Miranda was perfect, though hardly larger than a doll. As small as that bundle was, Lydia realized, it consisted more of blankets than baby.

  Holding that child, Lydia felt such a terrible and hurtful yearning that she could not catch her breath.

  Downstairs, someone turned the doorbell, loudly, insistently.

  Lark frowned at the sound.

  Lydia barely paid it any mind—she was absorbed in little Miranda, noting her every feature—unbelievably small fingers, complete with nails, a pert little nose, blue eyes with gossamer lashes. She had a shock of dark hair that would probably turn fair, and her ears—her ears. They were like tiny pink seashells, thin enough to see through.

  The clamor on the front stairs finally distracted her from the baby, but barely. Carefully, and with a nearly overpowering reluctance, she handed the child back to Lark just as Hank burst through the doorway.

  “Aunt Lydia,” he said. “Papa says come quick!”

  For the briefest moment, Lydia thought someone had come bearing word that Gideon had been hurt—or worse—at the mine. Hank immediately disabused her of that notion.

  “Well,” he said, his gaze connecting briefly with his mother’s, “maybe he didn’t say ‘quick.’ But there are men downstairs, and they have badges and round hats, like Sam O’Ballivan wears, and they want to see you.”

  Lydia cast a glance at Lark, who was frowning in concern. Rowdy probably hadn’t told her that the deputies were on their way, given all they’d both had to cope with over the past twenty-four hours.

  Standing, Lydia smoothed her hair and her skirts. She would tell the men that she’d left her home and Phoenix willingly, married Gideon Yarbro without coercion of any kind. And they would go away.

  It was really quite simple.

  But when she followed Hank down the stairs and into the front parlor, she nearly fainted on the threshold.

  Jacob Fitch rose from a wingback chair and turned, smiling, to face her. “Enough of this foolishness, Lydia darling,” he said. “All is forgiven, and I’ve come to take you home.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  LYDIA STARED AT JACOB, stunned, though after a few moments of reflection, she decided she shouldn’t have been at all surprised by the encounter. On some level, she’d known all along that she hadn’t seen the last of her spurned bridegroom.

  “Mr. Fitch,” she said, in stiff greeting, flustered and quite unable to hide the fact from him or the imposing deputies, one standing with his back to the fireplace, the other perched on the edge of a chair seat, as though prepared to leap up and give chase if she fled.

  Thank heaven Rowdy was there, and clearly had no intention of leaving her alone with two strangers and the last man on the face of the earth she wanted to see.

  Fitch approached her, stood so close that she could feel his breath on her face, fetid and hot. “‘Mr. Fitch’?” he countered, speaking gently for Rowdy’s benefit, and that of the deputy marshals. But she could see the dangerous fury in his eyes, the passion, not for her, but for revenge. “Come now, Lydia dear. You’ve never addressed me so formally before.” This was untrue; she’d never addressed him by his Christian name, but she did not refute the statement.

  He lowered his voice then, to a whisper, a bare breath of air. “Are you—are you untouched?”

  Color surged into Lydia’s face, but the source of it was indignation, not shame. Her first impulse was to lash out, to say that she had been thoroughly touched, but common sense warned her against it. In any
case, it was none of Jacob Fitch’s affair, what had and hadn’t gone on between her and Gideon, nor was it something she would air in front of Rowdy and the deputies.

  She remained stubbornly silent.

  And something more frightening than fury moved in Mr. Fitch’s eyes then—a coldness that sent icy chills through Lydia. Of course he had interpreted her silence as an acknowledgment that she was no longer the virgin he’d reserved for himself.

  In the next instant, he’d changed again. Become the magnanimous gentleman, willing to overlook an indiscretion. “Either way,” Jacob Fitch said, his voice swelling to fill the room again, “this silly little escapade is over.” He drew his watch from the pocket of his brocade vest, flicked open the case with a quick motion of his thumb. “If we hurry, my dear, we can gather the aunts and that housekeeper you seem to hold in such high regard, and catch the afternoon train back to Phoenix—where we belong.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Lydia said, knowing she might not have been brave enough to utter those words if Rowdy hadn’t been there, but equally certain that she would fight to the death if Jacob Fitch tried to remove her from that house by force.

  “Don’t be stubborn,” Fitch crooned, taking Lydia’s chin between his fingers. Although the gesture probably looked like one of affectionate tolerance to the deputies and possibly even to Rowdy, it was, instead, a subtle show of power—only a shade more pressure, and he would have left bruises. “I haven’t sold your things, or your aunts’. Mother and I have moved in, and all we lack for a happy household is you, darling.”

  Lydia finally found the strength to pull free of Mr. Fitch’s grasp, step around him, and approach the nearest deputy, the taller one, standing silently in front of the fireplace.

  The man’s long face seemed wooden, and his deep-socketed gray eyes showed no expression at all. Overall, he reminded Lydia of Abraham Lincoln, with his melancholy countenance and homely features.

  “I left Phoenix willingly,” Lydia told him clearly. “And I married Gideon Yarbro because I wanted to be his wife.”

  The deputy’s thoughtful stare was unnerving. “Mr. Fitch here,” he finally said, his voice a deep and resonant base, “claims he and Mr. Yarbro exchanged blows, and then Mr. Yarbro carried you out of that house, kicking and struggling all the way. We’ve spoken to the justice of the peace and the other witnesses, Miss Fairmont, and they all confirmed Mr. Fitch’s account of the incident.”

  “I am no longer ‘Miss Fairmont,’” Lydia said evenly. “Please address me as Mrs. Yarbro, if you don’t mind.”

  The deputy’s smile came as a surprise, given his dour manner and plain features. “If you’re afraid to tell us the truth,” he said, quite kindly, but with an undercurrent of iron in his voice, “you needn’t be. Mr. Sullivan and I are duly sworn officers of the law. We will protect you and escort you safely back to Phoenix, I assure you.”

  Rowdy gave a little snort at this, earning himself a scalding glance from the tall deputy. Out of the corner of her eye, Lydia saw that her brother-in-law was undaunted by the look, and silently blessed him for standing by her.

  “I’m not afraid to tell you the truth,” Lydia said, holding her head high. “I have just done that. I am married to Gideon Yarbro in the eyes of God and man and I wish to remain so, and if you would please leave and take Mr. Fitch with you, I would be most grateful.”

  The deputy took her left hand, briefly, ran a calloused thumb across the knuckles. “You’re not wearing a wedding band, Mrs. Yarbro.”

  “We haven’t had an opportunity to purchase one,” Lydia replied.

  Mr. Sullivan, the second deputy, rose from his chair and spoke for the first time. He was shorter than his cohort, and stocky, with bristly black eyebrows and jowls. “Mr. Fitch,” he said, swiveling his gaze to Jacob, “it appears the lady would prefer to remain in Stone Creek, with her husband. There is no more we can do here.”

  Fitch seethed visibly, nearly shimmered with the heat of anger, and even from a distance of several yards, Lydia felt the impact of his fury as surely as if he’d drawn back his hand and struck her.

  “This is outrageous!” he ranted, spittle flying from his mouth as he spoke. So much for the generous gentleman, swift to forgive. “Can’t you see—can’t either of you see—what’s happening here? Lydia is being held prisoner! And why has no one asked to see the marriage certificate?”

  “I’ll thank you to keep your voice down, Mr. Fitch,” Rowdy said, in an ominously quiet tone. “My wife is not well, and I will not have my children frightened.” Then, going to a desk and opening a drawer, he brought out the ornate sheet of paper Gideon, Lydia and the minister had all signed. “As for the legal evidence that a wedding did take place, here it is.”

  The Lincoln-like deputy took the certificate, examined it, handed it back. He hadn’t needed to see it, Lydia knew; he believed her assertion that she wanted to stay in Stone Creek, with Gideon.

  The front door opened, in the near distance, though Lydia could not see into the entryway from where she stood, and she raised a silent prayer that Gideon hadn’t gotten word that Mr. Fitch and the deputies had arrived. He would either hand her over to Fitch with apologies for spoiling the first wedding, or get himself arrested on the spot for taking his fists to the man.

  For all this, Lydia was disappointed, as well as relieved, when Wyatt stepped into the parlor, accompanied by a young man who resembled Sarah, though his hair was light, instead of dark like Sarah’s and Wyatt’s.

  This would be Owen, she thought, calmer now that she knew the matter at hand had been settled, at least for the moment. To herself, she observed that Sarah hardly seemed old enough to have a broad-shouldered son, nearly as tall as Wyatt.

  “I will not tolerate this, Lydia,” Fitch raged, ignoring the new arrivals. All his attention was focused on her, and it burned like sunlight narrowed to a pinpoint through a powerful magnifying glass. “Do you hear me? I will not be played for a fool like this!”

  “Seems a little late to avoid that,” Rowdy drawled. “And I won’t tell you to lower your voice again.”

  “I’ll burn that stupid house to the ground!” Fitch answered, ignoring Rowdy, but he rasped the threat, instead of shouting like before. “Those precious paintings, the books and papers and bric-a-brac—all of it!”

  The deputies closed in on either side of him, each taking an arm. “Arson is a crime, Mr. Fitch,” the tall one told him quietly. “Get hold of yourself.”

  With that, the two men propelled a still-sputtering Jacob out of the parlor, into the foyer, and then through the front door.

  Lydia hurried to the window to watch the trio struggle down the front walk to the gate, Jacob Fitch resisting all the way.

  “Are you all right, Lydia?” Rowdy asked quietly, standing at her side now, taking a firm but gentle hold on her elbow.

  She nodded, swallowed, straightened her spine.

  “I’d best get back to Lark,” she said.

  But her head swam suddenly, as she turned too quickly from the window, and she might have lost her balance, even fainted, if Rowdy hadn’t been so quick to take a second, and much firmer, hold on her arm.

  “I’m taking you home,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I’m quite all right, really—”

  Wyatt spoke then. “Any fool could see you’re not,” he argued. “Owen, go and hitch up Rowdy’s buggy and see your aunt Lydia home to the Porter house.”

  Owen nodded, and without a word, left the house to do Wyatt’s bidding. Lydia had learned, during the cleaning party at her place, that Wyatt was actually Owen’s stepfather, though Wyatt had adopted him soon after he and Sarah were married, and Owen had taken the Yarbro name.

  “I don’t want to go,” Lydia protested. She had promised to spell Sarah, take over Lark’s care for the day, but that wasn’t the whole reason she resisted the idea. She was terrified that Jacob Fitch would somehow escape the deputies before they’d boarded the train and come in search of her.r />
  The thought of Fitch confronting her at some unexpected moment sent a jolt of fear through her. He might lie in wait for her somewhere, awaiting his chance to catch her alone. And practically anyone on the street could tell him where Gideon Yarbro and his bride had taken up residence, seeing no reason to withhold the information. Suppose he came there while Gideon was working? She and the aunts and Helga would be alone, with no way to defend themselves.

  She soon noticed that Rowdy was watching her closely; he’d clearly guessed what she was thinking—or simply allowed common sense to lead him to the same conclusions. “Wyatt, I’d be obliged if you’d see Lydia home yourself, and stay with her until Owen fetches Gideon from the mine to look after his wife.”

  The slight emphasis he’d put on the last two words reminded Lydia that Rowdy was still annoyed with Gideon, and it was her fault. She’d told him that Gideon planned to leave Stone Creek, after all.

  Again, and sorely, she wished she hadn’t.

  “Please,” she said, “this is all unnecessary—”

  “I don’t think so,” Rowdy said flatly.

  “Neither do I,” Wyatt agreed.

  And so it was settled.

  Owen set out for the mine.

  Wyatt went out to the large barn behind the house to hitch up the horse and buggy.

  Barely a quarter of an hour later, Lydia was home, sitting glumly at her own kitchen table, while the aunts polished things and Wyatt sipped coffee and chatted idly with Helga. He seemed relaxed, but Lydia couldn’t help noticing that he’d remained standing, and glanced out the side window every few minutes.

  Perhaps half an hour had elapsed in this fashion when the back door slammed open and Gideon burst through the opening, wild-eyed and breathless. His gaze sought Lydia, moving from person to person, and landed on her with an actual impact.

  “Holy Christ,” he rasped, sagging against the doorjamb.

  “Mr. Yarbro,” one of the aunts scolded, though kindly. “Taking the Lord’s name in vain is hardly becoming.”