by Stacy Henrie
A full minute passed. Then two. She cursed whatever fates had brought her to this godforsaken place of tumbleweeds, heat, and dust. If she couldn’t have a photograph of her intended, couldn’t Ms. Williamson at least have given Marilyn a more complete physical description? Better yet, couldn’t she have avoided meeting the infernal Victor Hallows?
A movement in the corner of her eye made Marilyn freeze with anticipation, her senses heightened. Heavy footsteps sounded, moving toward her, probably from a man’s boots. She wanted to turn her head to get a good look at Mr. Yardley— wanted it more than a long drink of cool water.
What would she find in his face? Compassion and kindness? Or would he be a Victor of another stripe? Unwilling to appear too forward, she forced herself to pretend not to see or hear him until he drew much closer and stopped about five feet away— quite a distance, considering the fact that she was his fiancée.
“Are you Miss Marilyn Davis?” His voice sounded deep and warm, and his pronunciation sounded educated.
A literate husband is good. She lifted her head and gestured toward her beribboned hand.
Summoning every ounce of manners, she said, “Indeed I am.”
However, any sign of her good breeding was probably eclipsed by the fact that her eyes quickly locked on to the most handsome face she’d ever seen. Quite simply, she couldn’t have pulled her gaze away if the train conductor had promised her free passage to anywhere she chose. A moment passed in silence. His forehead wrinkled with apparent concern, and Marilyn tried her best to recall how one’s mouth formed words. At last she bobbed a curtsy and tried to speak.
“And you—” She cleared her throat and hoped he wouldn’t notice just how pink her cheeks were turning. They had to be fuchsia if the heat in them was any indication— the early morning warmth could not account for it. Again, all words fled from her mind. She stared at him and, in a small corner of consciousness, hoped he didn’t think her utterly daft.
She gaped because, goodness, the man was handsome, with a full head of deep brown hair, broad shoulders, and a trim waist. His shirtsleeves were rolled up part way, showing defined muscles in his forearms. Surely the sleeves hid equally defined biceps.
Farming builds nice figures.
Good thing he’d said nothing about his features to Ms. Williamson; a hundred girls if one would have clamored into her office with applications. Or was he unaware of his looks? Maybe he didn’t want such things to matter to a wife. Either way, she smiled at her good fortune. Her risky venture as a mail order bride had taken a nice turn.
“You are Mr. Yardley, I presume?”
There, she thought with a bit of triumph. Coherent speech. I’m not daft at all.
But he shifted uncomfortably. He removed his hat, wiped his brow with his forearm, and replaced the hat. “I’m Yardley,” he said, but both his tone and face were unreadable. “Or rather, I’m a Mr. Yardley, but the name’s Thomas. You’re looking for Harry, my older brother.”
“Oh.” Anticipation drained from Marilyn like water down the bakery’s sink. She hoped her disappointment didn’t show as she tried to hide it with a wide smile and a particularly peppy tone. “You are my future brother-in-law, then. Where is your brother?” She looked about the station, which seemed to have cleared rapidly.
“He’s nearby,” Thomas said vaguely. For someone who appeared as strong as an ox, he certainly seemed unsure of himself. He wouldn’t even look her in the eye. “Let’s go find your trunks and get them into the wagon,” he said. “We’ll pick up Harry then drive to the farm. It’s not far.” He turned around and took a step toward the luggage area, but Marilyn hurried forward and grabbed his arm, making him turn around.
“Wait,” she said. “Is something wrong?” They stood awfully close now. Marilyn held his bicep and could feel its warmth through his shirt. It did indeed seem to be every bit as strong as she’d guessed. A small thrill went through her as she imagined what his arms must look like without a shirt covering them. Then she had to quickly tamp down her emotions. She couldn’t let herself think or feel such things about someone other than Harry.
Harry may be just as handsome, she reasoned.
Thomas licked his lips, staring at the wooden slats at their feet as if trying to find a way to explain, so she jumped in. “Has Mr. Yardley— Harry— changed his mind? Is he ill? Has something hap—”
He shook his head, cutting her off. “Nothing as simple as any of that, I’m afraid.”
“Then what?”
“You must be tired and hungry,” Thomas said, finally looking at her with piercing hazel eyes. “Let’s get you fed and rested, and then we’ll talk.”
She nodded and walked alongside him. “We’ll talk,” she repeated a moment later, “meaning the three of us— Harry, you, and I?”
His step came up short. He glanced at her and then away. “We’ll see.”
Thomas clamped his mouth shut after that, speaking only when necessary, such as confirming which trunk was hers and that she had only one. He and a station attendant loaded the trunk into the wagon as she climbed onto the seat. Thomas said nothing more, even after joining her.
We’ll see? Marilyn thought. She looked at Thomas out of the corner of her eye. He still had his jaw set firm, and his eyes were narrowed as if he was puzzling out a problem.
She settled in, knowing that she’d have to be satisfied with his maddeningly vague response— at least until she met Harry.
Chapter Four
For Thomas, the ten-minute drive to Miss Faye’s apartment felt like an eternity. He sat on the buckboard with a pretty city girl next to him, but the poor woman had no idea what a mess she’d stepped into. He still had no idea what in tarnation he’d do about the woman— send her back, he supposed. Her single trunk didn’t give him much hope that she had many fancy silk dresses to sell, though, and he doubted he could afford another train ticket. Even if he could have, paying the bank seemed to be the higher priority.
So should he keep Miss Davis around to avoid spending the money on a train ticket? That might help him save the farm, but he doubted he could live with himself if he forced a woman to stay against her will. She’d come to marry, not to become a mother to two grown men.
Such a mess, Thomas thought as they approached the restaurant above which Miss Faye lived.
Miss Faye was a spinster who’d been friends with their mother. Every now and again, she cared for Harry when Thomas needed the help. The last two years had been hard on Thomas. He constantly worried over Harry— how best to care for him, and whether he belonged in a hospital. No wonder that Thomas had already noticed visible worry lines turning into wrinkles, especially along his forehead. He wasn’t a vain man, but, each time he shaved, the creases in the mirror seemed deeper and reminded him that life on the frontier had aged him faster than the years had passed. Thomas let the buckboard roll to a stop.
“Is this your place?” Marilyn asked, looking confused. “It’s… nice. I thought Harry was a farmer.”
“Our farm’s out of town a ways.” Thomas hopped to the ground then secured the horses on the hitching post. He reached for Marilyn’s hand to help her down. It felt soft, but not the kind of softness that came from a life of luxury. Whether it was from her firm grip, hinting at her physical strength and willingness to work, or from the feel of small calluses— slightly rough in some spots but nowhere near as leathery as his own— he wasn’t sure, but Thomas could tell that she knew how to work. This was no weak, simpering woman who expected to be pampered, as he’d assumed any woman coming west for the adventure of being a mail order bride would be. He liked how she seemed both competent and confident.
Once on the ground beside him, Marilyn smoothed her skirts, wiping away the dust from their journey. She nodded toward the house. “May I ask why we’re here?” Her cheeks flushed slightly, and he suddenly realized what she must be thinking a split second before she said, “Does the minister live here?”
“Not at all,” Thomas said. �
��Miss Faye lives up there.” He pointed at a window above the restaurant. “We’re here to pick up Harry.”
Thomas kicked a rock into a fence post, wanting to put off the inevitable. Better to tell her all now, before she sees for herself. He supposed it would be the decent thing to do. He didn’t like the idea of making a woman uncomfortable or upset, especially one who looked at him with such trusting, hopeful eyes— green, with a touch of gold. Did they change shades, depending on the color she wore?
Why am I suddenly thinking of ladies’ fashions? A fever must be coming on.
Marilyn raised her eyebrows. “Why is your brother spending the morning with this Miss Faye?”
She seemed somewhat at ease, and Thomas dreaded undoing that. The moment he explained, she’d probably tense up again. He didn’t want to see her countenance change from this hopeful expectation to sadness and disappointment.
Bet she’s every bit as pretty with tears in her eyes.
Stop that.
He cleared his throat and turned to face the restaurant so they stood side by side— and so he wouldn’t be tempted to keep looking at her, taking in every feature— then dove in without preamble.
“Harry is... well, Harry isn’t right in the head.” Blunt, but the truth. In spite of himself, his gaze slid in Marilyn’s direction without turning his head. He tried to gauge her reaction.
Marilyn let out a frustrated breath. “Mr. Yardley. You don’t really think your brother has lost his mind simply for seeking a mail order bride, do you?”
“No,” Thomas said. And he didn’t. If all mail order brides were like Marilyn, every bachelor in the county should sign up for one.
She’s strong and intelligent. Not the type to wilt into a sniveling mess at the first sign of things going awry. He sighed. This whole thing would be much easier if she would complain or if she had a temper.
“Our family moved here ten years ago— Harry and me and our parents,” Thomas explained. “We had a dream of making a comfortable living off the land. Things went pretty well until…” Why had he been about to tell her all of that? She wouldn’t be around long enough to need every bit of their history. Yet he found that he wanted to tell her everything: about the past ten years. About his own hopes and dreams. About his frustrations and disappointments. He’d never felt an urge to confide in another person, at least, not since Ma’s death.
“Everything went well… until… what?” Marilyn’s tone sounded soft and concerned, something he never would have expected from a virtual stranger.
“Until our parents died,” he said. “First our father, and then, a few months later, our mother. Harry and I managed for a few months, but then he… well, he turned to the bottle.”
Marilyn furrowed her brow as if she knew exactly what that meant. She pressed her hand to her heart and shook her head sadly.
Thomas couldn’t keep his eyes from finding the little hollow above her breastbone, visible between her thumb and first finger. He suddenly had a strange hankering to kiss that spot, which was probably even softer than her hands.
What is wrong with me? I’m trying to tell her about Harry’s problems, and I’m thinking of kissing her neck?
“Alcohol has changed many a man,” Marilyn said. Worry seemed to cloud her eyes, and Thomas knew that he’d better finish explaining so she wouldn’t grow anxious; she didn’t yet know that there would be no marrying his brother, so she needn’t worry about Harry drinking himself into oblivion or beating her while drunk.
Thomas forced his gaze away from her lithe fingers, her soft skin, her pink lips…
“One night, after drinking heavily, Harry fell down the stairs,” he said. “Hit his head hard on the way down and then against the floor— so hard the doctor didn’t think Harry would live through the night.”
“But he did,” Marilyn said.
Thomas nodded. “The physical recovery took time, but his mind… well, it’s never been the same, and the doc says it never will be. Harry’s a different man now with a different personality. He has the understanding and behavior of a child of nine or ten. And that’s not likely to ever change.”
Marilyn’s worried expression changed to one of confusion. “So how did…?” Her question hung in the air.
“How did he arrange all of this?” With a finger, Thomas made a circle, encompassing Marilyn, the town, and himself. “Every so often, Harry has flashes of maturity and insight. He must have had one of those and decided that he wanted a wife to come here to take care of him.” Thomas kicked at some more pebbles. “He thinks you’re already married and coming here to be a new mother to him.”
“Oh. I see.” Marilyn folded her arms as if closing herself off from him or, at least from the world.
Thomas wanted to reach out and pull her into a comforting embrace. He couldn’t very well do that, of course; he was little more than a stranger to her.
Marilyn went on slowly as if piecing the puzzle together herself. “Harry wired a response to Ms. Williamson’s advertisement and didn’t tell you about it?” She looked up at him then as if waiting for confirmation. Her arms were still folded, and the very hurt he’d wanted to avoid showed in her eyes, along with welling tears.
Yep, he thought. Every bit as beautiful with tears. But the pain in her eyes made him hurt too.
“I didn’t find out about any of this until yesterday,” Thomas said. He almost explained how he’d found out from the banker, but closed his mouth again. She already had enough to worry about. It wasn’t as if his financial situation mattered to her.
“So…” Marilyn pursed her lips in thought. “Will I be staying on as your housekeeper in separate quarters?”
I wish. Thomas had to shake his head. “We can’t afford to pay a housekeeper right now. Things are… well, tight.” He might have to elaborate on the bank and farm situation after all.
“I understand,” Marilyn said, and the slight rounding of her shoulders spoke volumes.
She did know about having financial worries; he could tell. She might even know something about outright poverty. What did she know about such things, specifically? What had Marilyn Davis been through?
She sighed and looked up at Miss Faye’s window. “If Harry isn’t of sound mind, I don’t suppose we could go through with the marriage, even if it’s in name only.”
“Don’t suppose so.” Although Thomas had known from the start that a marriage between Marilyn and his brother was about as likely as a coconut tree growing in Wyoming, even the mention set his teeth on edge. Why, he couldn’t say; it wasn’t as if he needed to protect Harry from women.
Because I don’t want Marilyn Davis marrying anyone else? That’s silly. Soon enough, he’d shake off the pull she had on him, and after that he wouldn’t mind if she went off and married whomever she pleased. Where this feeling had come from, he’d never know. But he did like Miss Davis. A lot.
“I can’t very well live with you if I’m not married or employed,” Marilyn went on. “Oh, goodness, the talk that would create.”
“Wouldn’t want to hurt your reputation,” Thomas agreed.
“What am I to do?” She seemed to be posing the question to herself and pondering how to solve the problem.
Marry me instead. The thought popped into his head without provocation, and the words nearly slipped right out of his mouth. Thomas forced his teeth to clamp together just in time. When he could trust himself again, he said, “I suppose you’ll want to go back to New York. But I can’t help you. Harry took out almost all of our money from the bank to get you here.”
“Oh, no.” She grimaced, groaning so quietly that he almost missed it.
“Do you have anything you could sell to buy a ticket back?”
“No.” Her face went pale, and her unshed eyes built up again and finally spilled over. She wiped at them and sniffed. “I can’t go back,” she said. “Please don’t make me.”
There is definitely more to be learned about Miss Marilyn Davis. The thought was one part thrill
ing but four parts infuriating because the idea of going back clearly terrified her. Anything— or anyone— responsible for causing that kind of fear in a gentle woman needed to be run out of town on a rail.
Marilyn gestured toward the house and faked a smile. “Maybe I could live with Miss Faye for a spell,” she said at the same moment that the very woman appeared in the window and waved.
“She has just one small room with a bed,” Thomas said. “We can ask around to see if there’s another room for rent.”
From above, Miss Faye opened the window and called out, “Thomas, there you are.”
“Thank you for sitting with Harry a spell,” he said. “I’ll take him off your hands now.”
“Oh, stuff and nonsense,” Miss Faye said, wagging a wrinkly finger at him. “Come on up, and introduce me to your lady friend. Harry has been telling me all about her.”
A brief yet powerful surge of panic shot through Thomas’s chest. He didn’t want to explain while sitting around the same table as Harry, Marilyn, and Miss Faye— not until things got ironed out. Harry’s silhouette appeared, lumbering past the window. He never had regained his coordination. He bumbled about like a baby learning to walk.
“Miss Faye,” Thomas said, “this is Miss Marilyn Davis. Marilyn, this is Miss Faye.”
The two women exchanged pleasantries, and then Miss Faye called, “We’ll be right down.” A minute later, Miss Faye appeared with Harry tagging along behind her.
He held out a hand to Marilyn. “I’m Harry.”
She hesitated for only a moment before reaching out and shaking it. She smiled at Harry. “Pleased to meet you,” she said.
“You’re really pretty.” Harry grinned.
“Why thank you,” she said. “You’re quite handsome yourself.”
Harry stumbled toward Thomas, dragging his feet in the dust. “I told you she’d be pretty and nice,” he tried to whisper, but his voice surely carried to both women. “Did you hear? She called me handsome.”
A little twinge of envy went through Thomas, although he knew logically that she’d been acting kind toward his brother and that her words meant nothing more.
