Mail Order Bride Collection (A Timeless Romance Anthology Book 16)

by Stacy Henrie

  Does she think me handsome too? He tried not to think too hard about how much he hoped so.

  “How about we go home and make supper?” Thomas suggested.

  “Yes!” Harry said with a clap. He shuffled over to the buckboard, almost bouncing with excitement, but clearly couldn’t get up by himself.

  Marilyn watched him, and Thomas wished he knew what thoughts were going through her head. At least he knew one thing: Miss Davis was, as Harry said, kind. She didn’t ignore him or brush him off as so many townspeople did, people who’d known Harry for a decade before the accident. She treated him with respect.

  For the moment, Thomas was mighty glad that there was no money for another train ticket because that meant she would, of necessity, be in town for a spell.

  “Thanks again, Miss Faye,” Thomas said.

  “I’m always nearby if you need anything,” she said, and went back inside.

  Thomas went to his brother, who was trying to climb into the buckboard but was unable to get his footing. “Let me help you, Harry.” Thomas hefted his brother and supported his weight until Harry regained his footing and sat on the bench. Then Thomas turned to help Marilyn up. In comparison, she weighed next to nothing and soon sat beside Harry.

  “Tell me about yourself,” she said to him.

  Harry picked at splinters on the bench. “Like what?”

  “Well, like your favorite foods or games or books to read.”

  Thomas watched the interchange, marveling. How did she feel so comfortable with Harry, and so quickly? How did she know that the best way to handle him was to actually speak to him?

  “I like spiders,” Harry said, a bit of drool dripping out of the corner of his mouth. Without saying a word, Marilyn pulled a handkerchief from her bag and wiped his chin as if she’d done so a thousand times.

  “Spiders,” she repeated. “I don’t know much about them, but they frighten me.”

  “Oh, I know so much about spiders,” Harry said. “And I like them.”

  Thomas laughed to himself as he untied the horses, rounded the buckboard, and got in, knowing that Harry would launch into a long speech about all spiders— ones he’d caught, the different varieties and their names, which were poisonous, and on and on.

  Once in his seat, Thomas flicked the reins, and they were off, Harry sitting between them and regaling Marilyn about all things spiderish. The moment felt right— even happy— in the oddest way. The only thing that would have made it better for Thomas was if Marilyn could have been sitting right next to him.

  Chapter Five

  All things considered, Marilyn found the drive to the Yardley farm surprisingly enjoyable. Much of that was thanks to Harry’s chattering, although she could have done without hearing about the various sizes and shapes of webs, or about the spiders he’d tried to keep as pets.

  Yet instead of such talk making her shudder and have nightmares, she couldn’t help but get drawn into Harry’s yarns and finding her heart softening toward this man who, as Thomas had said, seemed to be a child in a man’s body. How could she feel anger or hurt over something this innocent, well-meaning man had done, even if it had upended her life?

  Upended in a good way, I think. It might have saved my life. If I hadn’t left when I did, I’d have been arrested by now.

  Where she would end up from here, she didn’t know. But the raw terror that Victor had sent through her was gone. Here in the West, the sheer expanse of land and space stretched on for miles without a single building reaching higher than two or three stories. There were also no swarms of people, where you had to move among thousands of strangers in a sea of anonymity— a sea of loneliness, really.

  Since leaving the train station, she’d seen perhaps a few dozen people total and not a soul since leaving town fifteen minutes ago. But somehow she didn’t feel lonely anymore, not while sitting on this bench of the buckboard with the Yardley brothers, listening to stories about eight-legged creatures. She almost seemed to belong there.

  “Did you know that some spiders have a red picture on their backs?” Harry said. As usual, he didn’t wait for an answer. “They’re called black widows. I found one in the barn, and it was sure pretty. I wanted to be nice to it because I figgered widows must be sad and all, but Thomas wouldn’t let me.” Harry turned to Marilyn and added, “He can be strict, so ya know.”

  Marilyn couldn’t hide a laugh; she leaned forward and stole a peek at Thomas. He shook his head with a grin.

  “I’m afraid that I agree with your brother about the black widow,” she said. “Those kinds of spiders may be pretty, but they’re dangerous, too. Thomas just wants you to be safe.”

  “You think so?” Harry said in a tone that seemed to say that he’d never considered such a thing.

  She nodded. “He cares about you.”

  “Huh,” Harry said, and he pursed his lips. “Is she right?” he asked, elbowing his brother.

  Thomas edged away from the elbow but patted Harry’s back, holding the reins in one hand. “She’s exactly right. I’m not trying to snuff out your fun. Just want you to be safe.”

  Harry leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs, giving Marilyn a very good view of Thomas— something she hadn’t had since they’d all gotten onto the buckboard. She’d forgotten just how handsome Thomas was, and the sight was a welcome reminder.

  “She’s nice,” Harry declared, as if Marilyn weren’t there at all. “Told ya that Mama would send us a nice lady to take care of us.”

  Thomas turned his head and looked right at Marilyn then, his eyes softening. She felt herself flush. It was one thing to note a good-looking man, but it was quite another to have such a man look right at you with a smile that made his eyes crinkle and his cheeks dimple. Her insides felt all warm.

  “She certainly is nice,” Thomas said, keeping his eyes on her for a few more seconds as if studying her before turning his attention back to the horses.

  “Then I won’t go looking for no more black widows,” Harry said.

  “Good.” Marilyn patted his knee as if commending a schoolboy. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  As they rounded a bend in the road, a farmhouse and trees stood out in the distance. A thrill shot through Marilyn, for she knew without being told that this was the Yardley farm.

  Home. We’re almost home, she thought, though logic told her that it was not her home and never would be. Wyoming is my home now, she told herself. She might be able to make that much true.

  For the last bit of the ride, Marilyn said little. Harry talked about jumping wolf spiders, but Thomas, too, seemed to have grown pensive as they neared their home. He pulled into the drive and stopped the buckboard at the back of the house.

  “You two go on in,” Thomas said. “I’ll get the horses brushed down and fed and your trunk brought in. Harry, you get Marilyn a drink of well water and then show her the house. All right? I’ll be in soon to cook us some lunch.”

  Harry stood up quickly, nearly knocking Marilyn off the buckboard. “My room is the biggest in the house,” he said. “That’s on account of how it used to be our Ma and Pa’s room. Go on now.” He made a pushing motion with both hands, hinting for her to get down. “I’ll show you.”

  To Marilyn’s relief, Thomas shushed Harry and got down himself, then went around to her side and helped her down.

  “Wish I could say that the accident made him forget what it means to be a gentleman,” Thomas said quietly. “But Harry never did learn manners as he should have.”

  He exchanged an amused look with Marilyn then released her. She felt the loss of his strong touch immediately and wished she had an excuse to keep her hand in his.

  He’ll be back soon, she reminded herself.

  “Come, Harry,” she said, hooking her arm through his. “Show me the house.”

  As the two of them moved toward the porch, Marilyn could practically feel Thomas’s gaze on her back. She wanted to turn around to see if he really was staring at her, but she didn’t
dare. When she opened the door and stepped inside, the wagon wheels creaked as the horses moved forward again.

  Once inside, Harry did exactly what he’d promised to do— he took her on a tour of the small two-story house, an excursion that took much longer than Marilyn had anticipated. He stopped to point out every knickknack, crack, and nail and tell a story related to it. By the time they returned to the kitchen, she sorely wanted that drink of water.

  “Is there fresh water in the house?” she asked Harry, hoping he’d remember his brother’s instructions.

  He gestured toward the stove, on which, sure enough, sat a pail of water. But he didn’t move toward it. Instead, he sat on the couch and scowled.

  “Shall I get you a drink too?” Marilyn asked, slowly grasping how Harry’s mind worked— and didn’t work.

  “I don’t care.”

  “I’ll get some for both of us then.” First, she poured herself a tall glassful and drank it down in a matter of seconds. It seemed to soak into her parched throat, cooling her from the inside. She eyed the glass and then Harry.

  He’s likely to break glass, she thought. She found a metal cup in a lower cupboard, filled it with the ladle, and crossed to the couch, where he sat with folded arms, glaring at the door. Marilyn sat on the other end of the couch, holding the cup in both hands.

  She hoped to say the right thing. “Harry, is something wrong?”

  His jaw tightened, and for a moment, Marilyn worried he might strike her— intentionally or not. Though childlike, he was much bigger and stronger than she. But then his chin began to tremble.

  “I want a black widow,” Harry said. “I don’t care what Tommy thinks. I’d take care of it. I wouldn’t hurt it. He’s just mean.”

  “Here’s some water,” Marilyn said, holding the cup out and hoping she’d be able to redirect his attention as she used to do with children at the orphanage years ago. He looked at the cup but didn’t take it. “Harry,” she tried again. “Some water might make you feel better.”

  He eyed the cup suspiciously for a moment then took it from her. He just stared at its contents. Then he threw the cup across the room, spilling the water in an arc.

  “Oh!” Marilyn said in stunned surprise, unsure what to do. Should she get up, find a dishcloth, and dry the mess? Or would that only enrage Harry further?

  Harry burst into tears and leaned forward, putting his face in his hands. Marilyn’s mind raced in circles. Was he upset over the water, or over not having a black widow as a pet? Had her presence upset him, or had this simply been a long day? Was he upset over Miss Faye somehow? And what should she do?

  Again she thought back to the orphanage and to times when she’d comforted children younger than herself. She scooted closer to Harry, and, after a moment’s hesitation, put her hand on his shoulder. His hiccuping cry hesitated, and he turned his head slightly in her direction.

  “I’m sorry you’re sad.” She patted his back gently as she had comforted young Doyle long ago.

  Harry’s expression changed; he still cried, and he was still clearly upset, but the anger seemed to drain out of him. He sat up slightly, so Marilyn leaned to the side in an effort to look into his eyes. Instead of looking back at her, Harry threw himself her direction, practically draping his tall form around her as he sobbed into her shoulder.

  After her initial shock— and after righting her balance— she realized that he was indeed behaving like young Doyle had. He wants comfort, not solutions or platitudes or distractions.

  She patted his back again and whispered into his ear. “Go ahead and cry,” she said. “Let it all out. There’s a good boy.”

  He willingly did exactly that, his large frame shaking with sobs as he wailed even louder. If he could have fit onto her lap, he probably would have tried to get on it. A sense of maternal protection came over her. Harry seemed to be a child in every way that mattered, and he needed the kind of comfort his mother would have given him if she were alive. That’s what he thought Marilyn had come for.

  She found herself stroking his hair, saying things like, “Sh— there, now,” and, “that’s better.”

  After several minutes, Harry took a shuddering breath, then another, and then a third more controlled and even breath. Marilyn slipped the handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to him, still patting his back. He held the cloth with both hands, pulled back, and blew his nose so loudly that it sounded like a trumpet. Then he sat back and looked at her, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand and then the other eye, and smiled sheepishly.

  “How about you go lie down in your room?” Marilyn suggested. “I’ll get you some more water, and then you can rest for a spell.”

  “I don’t wanna take a nap.”

  She smiled at that; he really was a child in so many ways. “You don’t have to,” she said. “Just lie down and think of stories you can tell me about the farm. I’d love to hear about the kinds of things you and your brother used to do together.”

  His face lit up. “Like the time we were killing chickens, and one ran in circles, and Tommy fell on his face, and the chicken ran right over his back?”

  A light laugh escaped her. “Yes. Things just like that.” She stood and pointed toward his room. “Go lie down, and think of more stories. When you’ve remembered ten stories you think I’d like, come tell them to me.”

  “I can do that,” Harry said, standing. His face was still splotchy from crying, but he seemed happy. “Ten stories,” he said as he waggled both hands in the air and shuffled to his room. He closed the door, leaving Marilyn in silence.

  She waited where she stood in case he came back out. She had a suspicion that Harry was indeed tired, and that lying still for any amount of time would be enough to send him to sleep. She’d used a similar tactic on Doyle and others many times. The door didn’t open, so she turned and bent over to retrieve the spilled cup.

  As she straightened, she startled at the sight of Thomas standing by the open back door, staring at her.

  “Goodness, you frightened me.” She held a hand to her chest to calm her heart.

  “Sorry ’bout that,” Thomas said, stepping farther into the room and closing the door behind him with a quiet click. He looked in the direction of Harry’s closed bedroom door, clearly having seen some of what had transpired.

  “How— how long were you standing there?” Marilyn clutched the metal cup between her hands.

  “Long enough,” Thomas said in an inscrutable tone.

  Goodness, she thought, how my face insists on heating at the slightest provocation. This time, she wasn’t entirely sure whether the blush stemmed from the surprise of seeing someone at the door, or from the fact that the person at the door was Thomas, who seemed to make her blush just by being nearby.

  When Harry’s crying bout had first begun, she became so focused on calming him that she hadn’t noticed anything else. The tender, private moment between her and her charge now seemed intruded upon.

  Thomas walked to the stove and, without another word, got to work lighting it and chopping vegetables for lunch.

  Chapter Six

  Thomas stirred the potatoes, onions, carrots, and bits of bacon in the frying pan. He added salt and pepper and a little more butter, working with his back to Marilyn. He didn’t trust himself to keep his eyes away from her, and he needed to think through their situation with a clear head. Nothing about her made thinking easy for him, especially not the scene he’d walked into.

  She’d only just met Harry— didn’t know how his personality had changed since his accident. She had no reason to care about him. Yet she’d shown him compassion and kindness in a manner Thomas had never seen, save from their mother.

  Perhaps Harry was right, he thought. Maybe Ma did send someone to watch over us. If so, and if Ma intended to give her sons another mother, she might have at least sent someone older and matronly, not a young slip of a thing, whom Thomas wanted to hold and protect and maybe even steal a kiss or two from. But what was he to
do about her? She’d come from back east at great expense to marry his unmarriageable brother.

  She needs to go home. But the idea made his stomach feel as if a stone had settled somewhere inside it.

  “Lunch is ready,” he said, carrying the frying pan to the table. “It’s not much to look at, but it’s tasty.”

  “Smells delicious,” Marilyn said as she took a seat. Then she glanced over her shoulder at the bedroom door. “What about Harry? Should we wake him?”

  “Nah.” Thomas shook his head as he sat down. “He’ll be up soon enough. Best to let him wake on his own. He tends to have a decidedly unpleasant temper otherwise.”

  “I see,” Marilyn said, and she scooted closer to the table. She clasped her hands and bowed her head, eyes closed.

  Consarn it. She expects me to say grace. After Ma’s death, Thomas had fallen out of the habit of praying. But he didn’t want to disappoint or embarrass Marilyn, so he closed his eyes and rested his elbows on the table with his hands clasped like hers. He murmured what he hoped sounded like an adequate expression of gratitude then ended it with amen.

  Ma wouldn’t be pleased to know that I’m rusty at praying. He pushed away a twinge of guilt and offered to dish up some of the meal for Marilyn.

  As Thomas had predicted, Harry woke up minutes later, likely from the smells wafting into his room. He livened up the conversation considerably. Afterward, Marilyn helped Thomas with the dishes.

  Thomas would have enjoyed spending the time in such close proximity to her a lot more if Harry hadn’t talked for the duration about various scrapes and mischief he and Thomas had been involved in as children. With the last fork dried and placed inside the utensil basket, Thomas draped his dish towel on the back of a chair to dry.

  “Time for me to go out and finish up some chores,” Thomas said. “Do you think you’ll be okay with Harry for a spell?”

  “Could I come along?” Marilyn asked. “And Harry, too? I’d like to help.”