by Stacy Henrie
And he’d tell her so, just as soon as the knot in his throat loosened.
He sounded like a man in love.
But that was crazy. He wasn’t the type to lose his heart. He’d never been in love, so what did he know?
But he’d had two long years while running his advertisement in Midwifery Circular to fall in love with the idea of loving her.
She sniffled and wiped away tears with her fingertips.
Automatically, he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. Despite the day’s work, it remained clean. She pressed the linen to her face, and her pain became his.
His throat constricted even tighter. Tears threatened. Shoot. He hadn’t shed tears over a woman— ever.
Before he paused to think it through, he lifted her onto his lap and turned her into his embrace.
He’d thought to hold her but found her holding on to him, every bit as tight.
Without hesitation, he soothed his hands over her back. Tried to communicate patience and understanding and calm. He pressed a kiss to her temple.
Couldn’t she sense how very right this was? She fit in his arms, filling the emptiness in his life, the niche he’d carved out for the ideal bride.
The uncomfortable thought— that his touch reminded her of her lost love, and she thought of him instead, flitted past. He squashed it like a pesky fly.
Part of him didn’t care if she was still in love with another husband. He wanted to take her to wife. Eventually, she’d come to love him too— instead.
Wouldn’t she?
What if she wouldn’t give him a chance?
How would he go on without her?
It’d been darn easy to shrug and push forward after the last two mail order midwives hadn’t worked out. He’d never met them, never heard a melodic voice, never glimpsed the spark of intelligence in sky-blue eyes.
He’d never kissed another potential bride.
Just Naomi.
By George, he wanted to keep her.
She sniffed. “I must confess—”
“Shh. It’s all right.”
She shook her head against his shoulder.
He couldn’t let her go. She’d have her say, then somehow he’d convince her to stay.
She wouldn’t leave him.
Not until she’d given them every chance.
“I’m not… He didn’t…” She drew a deep breath. “He didn’t die.”
Joe blinked. What? He squeezed his eyes shut. He’d assumed—
How had the conversation gone? He’d asked if she’d ever been married.
He recalled her words, precisely. “I was married, but…”
Then he’d said, “It doesn’t matter.”
Was married, she’d said. As in not at the present.
Did that suggest she no longer loved her former husband? A wagon-load of good news. Yet something had prevented her from going through with the ceremony. “You’re divorced?”
She lifted one shoulder. “I believe so. I hope so.”
Ah, so that was the problem. “The preacher’s question made you uncomfortable.”
“You need to know my circumstances. I can’t lie to you, Joe.”
Warmth filled his heart. A very good sign, her choice to assure he knew the truth. “Thank you. Now, help me understand the problem.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “We’ll figure this out together.”
Her petite frame trembled. “On the twenty-first of June, my husband informed me he’d filed for divorce. His uncle is an influential judge in New York, so I’m certain the dissolution will happen.” Her trembling worsened.
“It’s all right.” He wanted it to be all right. He’d do anything within his power to make it all right. “You can tell me anything, Naomi. Anything.”
She stilled, seeming to hover on the edge of disclosure, trying to decide what she could trust him with… and what she couldn’t.
He held her, silent and waiting. Wordlessly inviting her confidence.
“My husband,” she whispered after several long moments, “my former husband, Ernest Walter Thornton the Third, kept a long-term mistress.”
Fury swept through Joe, and he fought it back. With his bride cuddled in his lap, she’d know if his muscles clenched. She might misinterpret. This conversation was too important to mess up by reacting strongly. He had to earn her trust, and earn it he would.
“I saw them together, his mistress and him…” She trailed off, her voice pinched in pain. “She’s pregnant, obviously third trimester. My former husband fathered a child with a woman he loves while married to me.”
Joe had never met Ernest Thornton and his haughty Roman numeral three, but knew the type. And hated him. “You deserve so much better. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“I assume he divorced me in order to marry his lover before his child is born.”
Probably. The fool.
“He…”
Joe soothed with gentle words and a kiss to her hair.
“He told me he’d initiated divorce proceedings, but I’ve not actually seen paperwork. The man’s a liar, obviously. I don’t know what to believe. It’s possible I’m still legally his wife.”
And there it was. The issue that brought her to interrupt the simple ceremony that would join her to him in matrimony and asked to speak to him in private.
The only bright spot in this mess was her determination to treat him, Doc Joe, a simple country doctor who never would’ve known the difference if his bride were entering a bigamous marriage, with honesty and fairness.
Yeah, Naomi was the gal for him. “I want to marry you. I’ll say that right now. But a divorce is so, so—”
“I don’t care.” Yeah, the stain of divorce had ruined more than one good name. “New York is more than half a continent away. No one needs to know.”
“I don’t know if I can… if our marriage would be…”
... legal?
Part of him didn’t want to care. Not at all. She was as good as divorced, two thousand miles from a man who’d thrown her away. She deserved a fresh start.
If he had to guess, most folks west of the Mississippi had left big secrets back at the homestead. Some no doubt left rightful names behind.
But not Naomi. She answered to her name too easily. The woman had an honest streak a mile wide.
“It’s legal,” he insisted, “as long as we want it to be. Whether we say our vows before a man of the church or justice of the peace, marriage is an agreement between man and wife.”
If they lived together, shared everything, built a life together.
Yeah, he wanted God’s blessing but figured the Almighty would see things fairly.
She seemed unwilling to answer. He nudged her. “Naomi? What do you think?”
A little shrug. She seemed so small, so fragile— in stark difference to the confident woman he’d met in his surgery. She’d seemed six feet tall and near bulletproof when those talented surgeon’s hands joined his, fighting for a wounded man’s life.
“I think…”
He counted to ten. Then twenty.
Ultimately, all that mattered is that she was comfortable with it. If she didn’t want to marry him, he’d wait.
Naomi was a gal worth waiting for.
Please, want me… eventually.
She shifted, her lips brushing his cheek. “I’m not accustomed to a man wanting my opinion, nor expecting to hear my ideas on any subject.”
“You’ll find I do.” He wanted to kiss away her uncertainty. Banish it forever. And smack Ernest with his Roman numeral three for his idiocy. “That was before, Naomi. He was before. This is now. Let’s move forward, you and I, and build a good life together.”
“I like the sound of that.”
Scads of uncertainty and angst melted away like ice in summer’s heat.
“Me too. Ready?”
“Ready.”
Chapter Ten
On the one-week anniversary of their wedding, Naomi walked home from the clinic, hand in
hand with her husband. The sun had begun its slow descent, taking with it the oppressive heat of the day. Shadows lengthened.
Already, the depth of intimacy between them astounded her. One year and eight months with Ernie and she'd never felt so close, so well-known, so... cherished. The growing tenderness between them was sweet, and Joe’s lovemaking reached her heart.
Ernie had been desperately wrong about many things, including their tepid romance. He’d blamed it all on her. Now, she had no difficulty seeing where the fault lay.
They turned the corner, and their own little house came into view. Home.
The clapboard structure could easily fit inside the front parlor of the brownstone in New York, but was much more a home than that austere structure.
Let Ernie keep the townhouse. She didn’t want it.
This tiny three-room cottage was the right place for her.
Here, it was easy to believe no other life existed.
“Do you like the new sign?” her husband asked.
“I love it. It’s perfect.”
He’d hung the shingle outside the clinic. Dr. Joseph Chandler, MD, and Dr. Naomi Chandler, MD. The town had long called him Doc Joe, and since he’d introduced her around, virtually everyone addressed her most informally as Doc Naomi.
Somehow, it fit. And she adored the connection to Joe.
The inhabitants of Evanston and surrounding settlements weren’t only accustomed to women casting votes, they showed most open-minded acceptance of her as a female physician. She had plenty of patients of her own. Women who were anxious— and apologetic to Doc Joe— to have her care during pregnancies and deliveries, illnesses, and injuries. Many confided, in private of course, they simply felt comfortable with another woman. Her patients weren’t all female. Men sought her professional advice too. All in the space of one week.
Joe put an arm about her waist as they climbed the porch stairs.
In no hurry to go inside, she moved to the porch swing, and he followed. The ropes squeaked at his greater weight.
He pushed off the floorboards to set the swing in gentle motion.
She eased her head onto his shoulder and marveled at the many ways he’d shown her love, affection, acceptance, appreciation— in every little thing. So much more than the new shingle. He’d made her his full partner in every way. He’d gone so far as to ask her opinion on financial matters. They’d visited the bank, and Joe had instructed the bankers to allow Naomi full access to their joint accounts.
Never had she felt more loved, more valued, more trusted.
She wanted their union to last the duration of their lives.
She wanted forever.
Joe kept the swing moving with gentle motions.
Her heart overflowed with a powerful emotion that must be love. Sure, she’d loved Grandfather and remembered, distantly, loving her parents. But she’d never been in love with a man, a lover, a husband. Until Joe.
More importantly, she’d been falling in trust with him as well. The man’s heart couldn’t be more giving, more genuine.
He loved her. Obviously. But he’d yet to say the words. No problem there. Ernie had never said the words, either. But her former husband wasn’t welcome in her thoughts, nor in this marriage, so she banished him yet again.
Joe didn’t need to say those three little words. She knew.
Never had any wife known with such utter certainty how very much in love her husband was.
But the thought of disclosing the inner workings of her heart, handing over that last bit of control, giving him the power to wield over her by confessing love— it just seemed too early. Only one week.
Her heart rate escalated, weighing the risk. Did she dare voice the significant changes in her heart?
Surely he knew how much he’d come to mean to her. He must know.
Opening her mouth wasn’t necessary, was it?
She didn’t want to ruin a good thing, so she held her tongue and snuggled closer. She draped an arm about his toned middle.
He caressed her arm, raising tingles of awareness in his wake. “I have something for you.”
He’d surprised her with little gifts all week. First, he’d shown her his extensive medical library at the clinic, including subscriptions to many medical periodicals. He’d shared all those resources. Another day she’d accompanied him home from work to find he’d had several new blouses and skirts made for her, the dressmaker having slipped patterns off one blouse and skirt he determined too threadbare to be of use any longer.
Every day he gave her the gift of full partnership in medicine, the freedom to practice as his equal. They discussed cases and treatments and diagnoses. He asked her opinion. And listened. She asked questions, and he answered without a glimmer of condescension.
“You’ve given me so much. I can’t think of a thing I need.” He’d seen to her every need and most of her wants. Until Joe, she’d never known how very little she needed to be happy.
He pressed a quick kiss to her lips but all too soon pulled away. He pushed his long fingers into his trouser pocket and came up with something small that caught the waning rays of summer sunlight.
A ring?
Whether out of tradition or expectation or yet some other unknown motivation, Joe dropped to one knee on the porch floorboards. He held a gold ring between thumb and forefinger, the setting encasing a sparkling gem— far larger than the diamond ring Ernie had presented her at their highly celebrated engagement.
How had her humble country-doctor husband afforded such a magnificent piece?
Joe chuckled, his joy infectious. He kissed her twice in quick succession. “May I?”
She nodded even as he slid the ring onto her third finger. A most impractical piece for a physician. She’d no doubt remove it many times a day—
Her husband loved her. And he’d given her an obscenely expensive ring she didn’t need as a symbol of that growing, newfound love. How could she not treasure it?
“It’s beautiful.” And it fit perfectly. How could he know her ring size?
“I know phalanges.”
Bones of the fingers? “Which range in size.”
“I’ve held your hand a time or two. I’m an observant man. These stones perfectly match your eyes. I saw this and immediately knew it belonged on your finger. I like the idea of a ring on your finger, so men know instantly you’re spoken for.”
She touched his jaw. “I’m yours.”
“You’re mine.”
She chuckled, meeting his gaze. “How? You know I don’t need this.” But her gaze fell to the glistening jewels, mesmerized by the fracture of light into a million sparkling rays.
“Evanston’s fine jeweler, William Parpe, heard of our marriage and called me in from the street.”
Because of his trust and generosity, she knew the state of his finances. They’d never be wealthy, not by her former life’s standards. This purchase seemed unnecessary. “It’s lovely, but you needn’t spend this much. A simple band will do.”
“It was paid for long ago.” Joe’s eyes twinkled, proud of himself for adorning her finger.
She had no difficulty imagining kindly Mr. Parpe slowly increasing a tab with the good Doc Joe and finally having an opportunity to settle the debt. Joe hadn’t use for Parpe’s wares until now.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I’ll cherish it always.”
The depth of Joe’s love, for her, shone in his hazel eyes.
Her love for him brimmed, overflowed. So much for the early attempts to prevent entangling her heart in this new marriage.
She trusted him, completely. How odd, and how completely wonderful, to trust a man again, so very soon. A miracle she’d never imagined possible. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Thank you for coming to Evanston.”
“Thank you for waiting two long years. For me.”
“I’d nearly given up hope.”
Where would she be without him? “I’m glad you didn’t.”
“Come to bed, Mrs. Chandler.” He helped her to her feet. “I’m tired.”
She couldn’t help but chuckle. The title of missus was indeed welcome. She didn’t need to be addressed as doctor. Not all the time.
Chapter Eleven
Joe jammed the stack of newspapers, periodicals, medical journals, and letters beneath his arm, shoved his bowler back upon his head, and pushed through the post office door.
Outside, he fought for air. The news had hit him with the force of a locomotive at full speed, tearing through his version of reality. He hadn’t even heard the iron beast approaching.
Did Naomi know? With all the mingling she’d done, calling on patients at their homes, visiting with the ladies at church, entertaining the women who’d stopped by the clinic to meet her— she very well might.
He couldn’t lose her.
Anxiety strangled him.
He stood in the middle of the dirt-packed street and turned in helpless circles. Hopelessness threatening to drag him under.
Where was Naomi? He’d seen her at noon, when they’d eaten lunch together. She’d kissed him goodbye, heading out to visit patients.
He must find her.
She could be anywhere by now. Hours had passed, and the only sane thing to do would be to head to the clinic and hope she returned... or go home. But the haven of their home would make him crazy.
Her scent, everywhere.
Their bed, neatly made.
Who would make the bed after she left?
It would stay made. He’d never sleep in that bed again— not without her.
He headed to the clinic, his stomach churning, heart rolling over, and thoughts out of control.
The exercise felt good, helped marginally to clear his mind, but the images of the New York paper headlines had burned into his memory.
He’d fallen in love with a woman who hadn’t trusted him.
He clutched the newspapers to his side as if wrestling the headlines into a headlock. If no one saw the condemning words, if no one found out… If Naomi didn’t know yet, he might—
