Mail Order Bride- Summer

by Sierra Rose

  “You’re lookin’ might fine from where I’m standin’.” Then, that far too intimate a comment quickly put aside, he continued quietly, “What can I do for you, Molly?”

  Another unsteady flit of laughter. Embarrassed for her; delightful for him. “I’m not sure. I don’t even know what to do next, or where to go...except possibly to run away...”

  He shook his head as if to joggle away the cobwebs of yearning and admiration that were befuddling his brain and clouding his usual logical thought processes. This was a married woman, for the love of Heaven, he tried determinedly to remind himself. After all she’d endured in such a short time, he could hardly force any attentions on her and expect a favorable response. What had happened to the cool, quiet reasoning that normally ruled his life?

  Clearly such reasoning had gone out the window.

  “My advice? Here’s what you might wanna consider doin’.” Reining in emotion, exercising restraint. “Hold onto that message from your husband. Write down information as to what happened after your weddin’, and take notes from witnesses to document your—the extent of your injuries. Gabe, Camellia, me. And so on.”

  “Oh. But I don’t know that—”

  He held up one hand. “Whether it’ll do any good? I dunno, either. But, better to have it and not need it. Then, if you like, I’ll go with you to see a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer?” She shrank back into the chair as if to hide from the public.

  “Yup. New one, got here a few weeks ago and opened himself a nice office.”

  “I—I’m not sure...but if you think it’s best—?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do. His name is Oliver Petrie, from somewheres in Pennyslvania, and I’ve met him. Young, forward-thinkin’ fellah with a wall fulla certificates. He can give you a much better idea than I can about your status, Molly. And, until you got the facts of what your options are, you can’t make a rational decision about how to move ahead.”

  Her face looked crestfallen. “You’re undoubtedly correct.” Quiet for a bit, pondering the situation, while her troubled gaze once again sought the window with its panes of rain-stoked glass, and her fingers threaded themselves together. Then the eyes, clear as blue quartz, returned to his.

  “Thank you, Paul. I think your advice is best, and I appreciate—more than you’ll ever know—your taking the time to talk with me.”

  “I’m happy to do so.”

  “I will accept your kind offer, whenever you’re free to accompany me to the office of this Mr. Petrie. And if you wouldn’t mind remaining there—while we confer—?”

  Paul inclined his head toward her. “At your convenience, ma’am.”

  As she gave him another smile, he caught his breath. Only a fraction of its full wattage, yet the slight indentation of dimples and the impression of lips full-bloom and flushed as one of her roses gave a hint of what power that smile, brimming to capacity, might carry.

  “Tomorrow, shall we say? Come to dinner here first—Cam won’t mind—” (to put it kindly, a half-truth) “and we can walk over to see the attorney afterward. Does that suit?”

  “It suits me just fine. You don’t need to bribe me with a meal, Molly,” his grin was merely responding to her own lightened mood, “but I’d be hard pressed to turn down some of your sister’s cookin’.”

  They exchanged a glance. Deeper, more significant, than any thus far shared. Then Molly gave a slight nod. “Well, then.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  DR. GABRIEL HAVERS did not make his expected appearance at dinner, after all. No. He showed up for supper. In the company of his partner in crime and evil twin, Sheriff Paul Winslow.

  Were Camellia inclined toward profanity, she would have let out a string of the bluest oaths known to mankind when she opened the door to find these two awaiting admittance. Instead, she groaned aloud. And then took refuge in scolding, like a little broody hen.

  “And just why are you here, yet again? I am not running a soup kitchen for indigents, I can assure you. I have more important things to do than to spend my whole day cooking and cleaning. And don’t you dare set foot inside the house in that condition. I won’t have mud tracked all over my floors!”

  The men, taken aback, blinked at each other. Then, shrugging with a “What the hey” expression, each employed the available cast-iron bootjack with force and energy.

  “All right, all right, come in out of the rain. Sometimes I do believe men have no more sense than God gave a goose. Boots over there, gentlemen, on the rug, if you please. Then you may enter. I suppose you want coffee right away, as well.”

  “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, ma’am,” said the doctor with unaccustomed humility.

  The sheriff was right with him. “Coffee sounds positively delightful, ma’am,” he echoed meekly.

  Cooling down her spurt of temper from high boil to simmer, Camellia flounced through the parlor into that current bone of contention, the kitchen. Both callers traipsed along in her wake, amazingly, sweetly, soundless in their stocking feet. A pleasant change. Perhaps she ought to institute the rule of no clumping footgear inside her house at all, during any season, wet or dry.

  “We’re just mighty appreciative of your talents, ma’am,” Gabe, pulling out a chair at the table, tried again.

  “You put together a mighty mean meal, ma’am,” Paul murmured, doing likewise.

  Hands on hips, arms akimbo, she surveyed both of them without much affection. “And just what excuse will you use when you can no longer depend on Molly’s presence as justification for being here?” she demanded.

  “Why, the unutterable esteem we hold for you, dear lady,” grandly proclaimed Gabe.

  “The pure pleasure of just bein’ able to associate with you,” declaimed Paul almost as grandly.

  Camellia snorted. And relented a little. “All right. I’ve prepared dinner for you. I’ll prepare supper for you. But I absolutely, positively draw the line at breakfast!”

  Ben’s entrance through the back door, a quarter of an hour later, seemed a repeat performance of the noontime ritual. “H’lo, Cam,” he said, pressing a cool damp cheek to hers. Then, seeing she wasn’t alone, he inquired mildly, “You started takin’ in boarders now? I can tell you right away, these two ain’t reliable.”

  “Get your boots off,” ordered both guests in concert.

  He was startled enough to instantly obey—as if the command had been made in his wife’s voice. Camellia, expertly beating some sort of gravy into submission at the stove, grinned. Perhaps these two moochers might serve a purpose, after all.

  “Camellia, my dear, might I ask what is on the menu for this evenin’?” the doctor entreated in his most dulcet tones.

  “Does it matter? Why don’t the two of you settle down into marriage, so you can bedevil your own wives about food, instead of me?”

  “Will Molly be here at the table with us?”

  Paul, traveling along the road of his own thoughts, spoke without considering any possible consequence. Silence followed his non sequitur: deep dark silence broken only by the sound of rain thrashing at the window panes and an occasional rumble of thunder overhead. Camellia, Paul, and Gabriel each traded glances; the doctor even arched a quizzical brow.

  Into the silence came Molly.

  Still slowly, still cautiously, favoring hidden injuries and stiffened muscles. But her half-smile of greeting more than made up for any faltering of gait.

  And how beautiful she was, reflected a bedazzled sheriff, as both he and Gabe rose politely at her approach. That shiny blue-black hair, with all the curls piled on top of her head like a little girl playing dress-up; the aquamarine eyes, which, meeting his, immediately lighted up with pleasure; the heart-shaped face, set off with high pinkened cheekbones and soft red lips; that form, fragile yet alluring, with all the inviting curves just built for the caress of a man’s hand...

  “Paul. Paul. You still with us on planet earth, son?” said Gabe, with his usual crooked grin.

  “Alwa
ys and forever.”

  Tonight’s discussion centered on the weather: cooler, drenching rain, wind, so opined Ben, to beat the band. The storm had swept in as light moisture and quickly turned ugly. Paul reported that a small tree, taproots beleaguered during last month’s downpour, had gone down over on First Street; Gabe reported that he’d nearly been brained by a flying shingle torn from someone’s roof. It was a gully-washer, all right, in everyone’s judgment.

  “Flapjacks are mighty tasty, Camellia,” Paul ventured then. “Never tried ’em with gravy on top b’fore. Sausage, ain’t it?”

  “I’m afraid you gentlemen will just have to take pot luck, when you stop by uninvited.”

  Another one of those meaningful looks between the gentlemen. Ahuh. Definitely still cranky.

  Ben, sitting beside her, slipped one arm possessively around his wife’s waist. “You’ll haveta excuse Mrs. Forrester, boys. She gets a mite testy when she’s been doin’ nothin’ for cookin’ for you ungrateful derelicts for days on end.”

  Although neither had any experience in dealing with marital moods, they recognized when a husband was doing his best to walk a narrow line. And more power to him. The parlor settee wasn’t likely to be near as cozy as that big double bed upstairs.

  “And all alone, too, without my help, when I’m the cause,” was Molly’s quiet, dejected contribution. “I’m sorry, Cam. You’ve had so much to do since I’ve arrived—since I’ve been brought here...”

  Good humor restored, Camellia reached across the table to clasp her sister’s hand in her own. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Mol. Are you feeling a little better, after this afternoon’s nap?”

  “Oh, yes. This weather was perfectly conducive to sleeping, wasn’t it, with all the soft rain and the house so still around us? I just wish—” She hid the beginnings of a small yawn behind one palm, “—I could regain my energy. It seems all I want to do is stay in bed and drowse my life away.”

  “Nothin’ wrong with that, when you’re recoverin’.” This was Gabriel, fixing her with the eagle eye of a physician as he took in her appearance. Frail, marked by bruises, diffident, yet carrying the soft bloom of a budding rose. “You hoggin’ that bowl of succotash down your way, Benjamin?”

  “Just tryin’ to keep you from inhalin’ every scrap of food Camellia set out. Next you’ll be wantin’ to take the leftovers home.”

  “Say.” He brightened. “That’s a good idea. Well, Miss Molly, you just take your time gettin’ back to normal, y’ hear? Quinn Hennessey’s hands not only beat most every square inch of your body; your whole concept of self-worth and self-respect took a beatin’, as well.”

  Paul Winslow, Turnabout Sheriff, said nothing in response to this charge. Not a word. But, had anyone glanced his way, they would have seen a fierce light suddenly shining in his dark eyes, and a muscle ominously flickering along the line of his formidable jaw.

  After supper, the men, true to form, took their pipes and cheroots and a bottle of applejack into Ben’s study. Who knew what earth-shaking, vitally important, fate-of-the-world subjects might be discussed there? Or, perhaps, they would merely squint like sleepy owls into the smoke and cat-nap.

  Molly insisted upon helping in the kitchen, despite her sister’s protests. Leftovers to wrap, dishes to wash and dry and put away, table and stove to clean, things to be set in motion for the morrow. Rolling back the white sleeves of her shirtwaist to plunge both hands into the hot sudsy water revealed the bruises Molly bore that nearly cracked Camellia’s heart in two.

  “Oh, Cam, darling, don’t cry,” the girl, catching sight of that wrenched, wracked expression, implored. “It’s all right. I’m feeling better, honestly I am. It hardly hurts at all, now.”

  The evening came to a close when Ben, pleading early hours for the next day, finally kicked his guests out into the rain and told them to stay away for a while so as to give everybody a break. Gabe, half-asleep, tugged on his boots, clapped a bowler atop his head, and dragged a reluctant Paul by his coat sleeve out the door.

  Leaving the Forresters and Molly to heave a collective sigh and make ready for bed.

  Chapter Sixteen

  NEXT MORNING BEN PUT his sizable foot down, flat on the floor. Even minus the boot his action provided sufficient emphasis. No. Neither of the ladies was going anywhere today. Had they looked outside? Were they aware of how much rain had fallen, and how much more would still be falling all afternoon, given the sullen skies? Did they appreciate the condition of every street in town, halfway to a horse’s hocks deep in mud?

  “Perhaps—a surrey—?” Camellia, aware of her sister’s plans to see the new attorney with Paul as escort, suggested doubtfully.

  “Darlin’, a surrey wouldn’t get six yards outa the livery before it’d be stuck till next September. Naw, I’m gonna head on over to the store, but I expect you two to stay put. No sense in either onea you gettin’ mired down, like half the folks in Turnabout are gonna be.”

  With a sigh, Camellia untied the sensible apron around her waist to join Ben at the table. Thick slices of bread, toasted in the oven, and eggs fried to exquisite crispness. That was it for breakfast this morning; she’d had her fill of broiling and burning and baking and was ready for a reprieve.

  “What do you think, Molly?” she asked as the girl approached. “If we are prohibited by weather from leaving the house, what on earth shall we do with ourselves?”

  “I’ve had a great hankerin’ for onea your cherry pies,” Ben submitted around a forkful of sunny runny egg yolk.

  “No, absolutely not. If you behave yourself, I may—I just may—put together a supper for you tonight. But nothing special today, understand?”

  “Sure, sure, can’t say I blame you.” But his lower lip protruded just a little, in disappointment, and his craggy face appeared so crestfallen that Camellia, carefully folding her lips together against a burble of laughter, gave his shoulder a consoling pat.

  Teasing repartee and give-and-take banter though this might be, Molly recognized love talk when she heard it. Her sister had married a stranger, an unconventional man; but she seemed to be making a success of the venture. It hurt Molly, just a bit, to see this type of playful yet romantic relationship that she had hoped for with her own mate. Only to have that dream rudely snatched away and crushed underfoot, like some fragile flower.

  She was beginning to believe that cultivating a sense of humor might be one of the most important attributes in a strong, stable relationship.

  The two women lingered in the kitchen after Ben, mumbling things not meant for the delicate hearing of ladies, pulled on hat and slicker and headed out to brave the elements. It would be a slow day for business at Forrester’s, for sure, but duty called. Much as he might prefer to stay home lollygagging with his wife, there were things to do at the store.

  “Oh, this is nice, with just you and me here,” murmured Camellia, adding more brown sugar to her cup of coffee. “Who would think those great hulking males could take up so much space in a room?”

  “I know.” Molly smothered a yawn. “So pleasant. And quiet. I do declare, I could go right back to bed in this weather.”

  “I have a better idea of how to spend our day, once we have things cleaned up and put away.”

  During the six weeks or so of her young marriage, Camellia had cajoled Ben and his two stockmen, whenever available, into moving most of the trucks, boxes, and crates from storage in the barn to the empty spare bedroom upstairs. She wanted, she had explained, to unpack at her leisure, sort through items transported from the St. Louis house, discuss distribution with her sisters, and allocate this and that and the other thing.

  As it turned out, this sort of unexpected make-work project could neither have been planned nor chosen more carefully as a distraction.

  “Oh, I’d forgotten we had this,” said Molly with pleased surprise, upon unearthing a particular knickknack or objet d’art. “You didn’t tell me you were packing these,” upon discovering a stack o
f table linens. “I thought we were leaving that behind,” upon coming across the collection of gold-framed miniatures.

  This was not, of course, the time to make a single comment that might urge Molly to take a few items of particular interest, for her own place, since she had none. For the moment, her place was here, and likely would be for the foreseeable future. Better than Mrs. McKnight’s boarding house; certainly a vast improvement over whatever quarters Quinn Hennessey was currently calling his own.

  She was delving head-first into one large trunk, only to emerge disordered as to hair and reddened as to complexion. “You brought my sheet music!”

  “Well, certainly. After hauling that grand piano more than five hundred miles, a box of your collected pieces was nothing by comparison. Besides,” Camellia, her own soft upsweep somewhat in disorder, as well, smiled across the room at her sister, “I’m looking forward to hearing you play shortly. Not the grand, naturally—that’s still safely stored in the barn. But on Ben’s old upright, in the parlor. Will you?”

  “Yes, I’d like that, Cam. Thank you.” A moment in which to share pure communion of spirit—past joys, and those tempered by the present—then Molly returned to the task underway. “Are you searching for anything in particular in this Aladdin’s treasure trove you have hidden up here?”

  “I am, indeed. Perfect for weather such as today, with idle hands,” another smile, this one full of mischief, “being the devil’s workshop.”

  “Fancy work,” realized Molly, spying what was being held aloft.

  “That’s right. A good time to get back into embroidery, don’t you think? And, perhaps later this winter, some knitting. I’m sure there are ladies in this town who would be happy to teach me. Mayhap even a sewing circle, at church.”

  “I don’t see why not. After all, Hannah is determined to get her gardening club up and running.”