The Substitute Wife (Brides of Little Creede Book 1)

by CiCi Cordelia

  Harrison jumped down and moved to her side. “I’ll take Adeline.”

  For a frozen moment, Retta’s hold tensed, then Addie squirmed on her lap, both arms reaching out toward her new papa.

  “You, my girl,” Retta chided gently, “are a flirt.”

  Over the past week, her daughter had grown fond of the handsome man who smiled at her as if she were the most important two-year-old in the world.

  Concern for Addie’s wellbeing aside, Retta knew she had to find a way to stop borrowing trouble. Here they were, in much better circumstances, her precious baby happy and content.

  Find your trust, Retta. Especially after all Addie had been through in her short life. With a self-chastising sigh, Retta loosened her hold and allowed her daughter to clamber off her lap and into Harrison’s embrace.

  Swinging Addie to his hip, he secured her in place with one brawny arm and held out his other hand for Retta. Careful to hold down her skirt, she climbed from the wagon and gasped when he unexpectedly curled his free arm around her waist and swung her to the ground next to him. “Oh, my.”

  His breath warm against her forehead, he murmured, “That first step is a doozy. I wouldn’t want you to end up in the dirt with your pretty clothes all mussed up.”

  Studying the apparel she’d donned earlier that morning, she chewed her bottom lip. “I’m not dressed properly for a town visit.” Her serviceable blue twill skirt would look out of place anywhere but in the kitchen of her new home. She brushed at a streak of dust. “I should have worn a dress, and—”

  “Retta.” Harrison eased away and stared down at her, his thick brows drawn together. For a moment he looked so fierce, she trembled at incurring his anger. Her fear must have shown on her face, because his expression immediately softened.

  Jiggling Addie on his hip, he laid a hand on Retta’s shoulder and coaxed her toward him. “Look over there, in the doorway of the mercantile. See that lady?”

  Retta swallowed her anxiety and obediently glanced to the side. A woman stood on the wooden slat boardwalk, a squawking hen under one arm and a rough-woven basket hooked over the other. She wore a man’s duster, the heavy, oiled cloth crusted with dirt. On her gray-frizzed head sat a ragged porkpie hat, and the frayed legs of what appeared to be dungarees peeked out from the hem of the duster.

  She caught Retta’s stare and tossed a wink and a raspy, “How-do?” her way, before striding toward a line of horses tethered to a rail. The only thing remotely feminine about the woman’s apparel was the buttoned and laced-up pair of boots on her surprisingly narrow feet.

  “Now,” Harrison said near Retta’s temple, “that’s Hattie Frick, one of the Jinks’ Mining women. Her husband has a claim there and she comes to town twice a month for supplies and such. If she can walk through Little Creede wearing men’s britches, and nobody blinks an eye, then I think folks around here will say you sure look mighty pretty today.”

  The possessiveness in his tone made Retta’s heart race, her stomach twirling pleasantly at the caress of his hand on her shoulder. When he dipped his head toward her, for one breathless moment she thought for sure he’d kiss her.

  But he only studied her closely, then adjusted one of her bonnet ribbons, before offering his unencumbered arm. “Let’s see what we can find at the mercantile. Fabric, I’d wager. And those sewing gewgaws you ladies always seem to need.”

  “You mean, buttons and thread?” she asked, fluttering her lashes at him, even as her cheeks heated at her own daring. How would he react to her teasing?

  Judging by the wide grin on his face as he steered her toward the open shop door, Harrison didn’t mind a bit.

  Inside, Retta found herself amazed at the well-stocked shelves, not at all what she’d envisioned a mercantile in this wild country to contain. Barrels of pickles, potatoes, and apples rimmed the walls. Tall, wide jars of eggs in brine and pig knuckles in vinegar took up space on wooden tables along with jams and preserved meats. Overhead, slabs of dried venison and backfat hung from the ceiling. Other tables held everything from calico and linen, to ladies’ slippers and bonnets nestled next to cowboy hats, boots, and kerchiefs. She spotted a bolt of dark-red brocade, propped against the end of the table.

  She turned in a circle, trying to close her astonished mouth. Harrison crossed to her, still carrying Addie. Retta blinked up at him, dazzled by the sunlight that filtered in from the shop window, sparkling brightly over everything. “I don’t know where to begin,” she confessed, as Addie wriggled to be let down. “No, darling, settle yourself,” she admonished the restless child.

  “Mama, down,” Addie begged, squirming harder.

  “I can keep her with me,” Harrison offered. “Got to collect an order I placed for steamed wood. For the wagon wheel,” he explained, when she shot him a puzzled look. “It’ll only take a few minutes, and Missus Loman—she runs the mercantile—has a hound that just birthed a passel of puppies. They’d probably lick Addie into a stupor.” He grinned when Addie let out a squeal.

  “Oh, that would be wonderful. You don’t mind?” Retta asked, dubiously.

  “Don’t mind a bit.” He bounced Addie a few times. “What do you say, Addie girl? You want to see some puppies?”

  “Puppies,” Addie screeched, attracting the attention of a few store patrons who looked their way and smiled indulgently.

  “Guess that settles things,” he decided.

  “You aren’t actually going to get a you-know-what. Are you?” she asked anxiously.

  “Nah, I wouldn’t do that to you. Not while you’re still getting used to everything around here.” He offered a wink. “Buy what you need, all right? I have an account.” With that, Harrison carried the giggling Addie out. The door closed behind them.

  After introducing herself to Silas Loman, the proprietor, Retta selected a rather battered straw basket with a crooked handle and slipped it over her arm. It would hold the buttons and thread Harrison had teased her about, as well as the sack of meal and jar of honeycomb he mentioned wanting. Her first priority—bunting for a blanket and some calico for dresses—sent her in the direction of that table of fabric delights she had spotted when she first ventured in.

  While sifting through a bowl of whalebone buttons, she found a length of pale-blue sprigged muslin that would make a sweet little pinafore for Addie, and if she had any left over, she could fashion a few pairs of bloomers to match. Eagerly she added it to her growing pile of selections. A folded square of yellow seersucker caught her eye, and she shook it out over the surface, delighted to see several wide yards. With summer coming, both she and Addie would benefit from lightweight nightgowns made from the soft material.

  As Retta reached for a gray-stripe bolt, envisioning a new shirt for Harrison, her gaze fell on the dark-red brocade again, the rich fabric just begging to be made into a fancy gown. What an unexpected find. She stroked the beautiful material, smooth and cool beneath her palm, and visualized the style of gown this lovely bolt might create. Something with an off the shoulder drape, caught up in sweet little dropped cap sleeves with perhaps a matching spencer, the softly ruched train trimmed in black bugle beading to play up the fabric’s red sheen—

  “You should buy it. I do believe it would look lovely against your hair.” The deep voice held roguish familiarity as well as charm.

  Retta dropped the brocade and spun, coming face-to-face with a complete stranger. Handsome, well-dressed, wearing a diamond-tipped stickpin through the high starched collar of his pristine white shirtwaist. His charcoal wool morning coat, exquisitely tailored, fit his trim frame perfectly, and his pinstriped trousers boasted a precise crease. She’d never seen a man so nattily-dressed, including patrons at an opera she’d once attended with Aunt Millie in Chicago.

  The man appeared to be in his late thirties. With gray wings of hair at his temples, offsetting his dense bl
ack, pomaded locks and the mutton-chop sideburns on either side of his lean cheeks, he cut a dashing figure. Yet the pierce of his gaze, eyes so dark they appeared as black as his hair, unsettled her. Retta hastily retreated, then froze as he advanced.

  “I apologize for my forward behavior, miss. I am afraid too many days living in the uncouth wilderness of Little Creede has stunted my manners.” He swept into a graceful bow. “Slim Morgan, at your service. I own an entertainment establishment here in town.” He straightened, offering a smile. “I shall feel quite desolate until I know your name, young lady.”

  “I’m Retta Carter. And I really should finish my chores, Mister Morgan.” She clutched her basket to her chest and strove to remember her manners, flustered at the attention she was receiving from this charming man. “Perhaps we’ll meet again sometime—”

  “I am counting on it, Miss Carter.” He tilted his head, looking faintly puzzled as he stroked a finger over his waxed mustache. “I know a Carter. Two of them, in fact.” Leaning closer, he murmured, “Dare I presume you to be their sister?”

  The man looked so charmingly hopeful, Retta couldn’t help but unbend a bit. “No, sir. Not their sister. In fact, I’m—”

  “Mama,” the high, childish voice of her daughter broke in, just as Harrison strode up with a thunderous expression on his face. Curled on his shoulder, Addie held out her arms.

  Retta smiled, scooping the child out of her husband’s grasp. Though happy and relieved to see him, the look on his face gave her pause.

  Nervousness fluttered through her belly. Even though he’d assured her he’d never raise a hand against her or Addie, she still had her doubts.

  “Harrison, have you met Mister—” she began hesitantly.

  “I know who he is.” He sent the man a scowl.

  Slim Morgan didn’t utter a word, but his lips twitched, as if he found the entire situation amusing.

  “We need to go, Retta.” Harrison bit out each word, setting his hand on her shoulder. “The wagon’s ready.”

  “But—”

  “Now, Retta.” Sparing only a scant amount of time to gather up the fabric she had chosen, Harrison urged her toward the front.

  Whatever bond she’d felt earlier had shattered. Disappointment raced through her. She had a lifetime ahead of her with this man, and by God she wouldn’t be treated this way. Reaching deep inside, she finally found the courage she’d been missing since stepping off that coach in Little Creede.

  Out of earshot from the fabric table, she dug in her heels. “Harrison, please. I must pick up a few more items.” Unmoving, she faced her husband and stiffened her spine. “Whatever is wrong?”

  “I don’t want you talking to that son of—that man,” he muttered. “What did he want? Did he touch you?” His hands fisted at his sides.

  “What? No, of course not.” She broke off when he caught hold of her arm, his eyes narrowing as his gaze bore into her. “Do let me collect my things.” She eased away slowly, then tugged a bit until he finally released her, looking none too happy about it.

  Several young miners chose that exact moment to burst into the store, crowding the doorway, stomping clumps of dried mud from their boots.

  Harrison released a growling breath, plucking her daughter from her arms. “Fine. We’ll wait outside with the wagon.” Addie rested her chin on his shoulder with a yawn, and his face softened, glancing down at her. With a brief nod to an older woman standing near the front of the store, he exited the building.

  The woman held out her hand for Retta’s basket. “I’m Betsey Loman. I’ll take that, my dear. Such pretty ribbon.” She smiled gently as she lifted out the spools of ribbon Retta had chosen for trim. “I have a bag for the buttons. Ah, there it is.” She dug out a drawstring pouch made of burlap. “You know, I fancied that yellow seersucker myself.” She nodded toward the fabric, folded neatly atop the other three Retta had chosen. “Cut off a good four yards of it to make a dressing gown.” She gestured toward her ample bosom. “Though I might have been better off with five.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Oh now, you just call me Betsey. Everyone does.” She carefully counted out and set aside the needles Retta selected. “And you’re Retta. Married our Harrison, did you?” When Retta blinked in surprise, Betsey flapped a hand. “There’s very few secrets in a place like Little Creede, dear. Not to mention my store. Besides, I heard Harrison talking to you.” She bundled ribbon spools and needles together and used a corner of the seersucker to wrap the items. “And that little darlin’ of yours? Cute as can be.”

  “Thank you, Betsey,” Retta began, then jumped as Slim Morgan sidled up behind her. She thought the man had already left the mercantile. Shifting uncomfortably, she swore she could feel his hot breath on the back of her neck. Which would mean he stood entirely too close to her for propriety.

  Retta edged forward until the counter dug into her middle. It didn’t much help, for she heard the click of his boots as he moved with her, step for step.

  If Harrison looked through the window and saw the man standing nearly on top of her, what would he think? Would he blame her?

  Lord, what should I do?

  Thankfully, Betsey came to her rescue. “Mister Morgan, your wagon is stocked and ready.” The shop-owner’s tone held a not-so-polite frost. “I think you might want to get along on your way, now.” She crossed to the door and swung it open, then waited there, her hands folded at her waist.

  Hastily, Retta put needed distance between her and Slim Morgan. Offering a brief nod, she tucked her hands in her pockets. She didn’t want the man touching her.

  As if he’d guessed her thoughts, his lips thinned ominously, before he tipped the brim of his stylish black wool Slouch toward her, and strode out.

  Wondering if she’d ever understand the vagaries of men, Retta retied her bonnet and held out her hand to Betsey. “Thank you for making me feel so welcome. I’d consider it an honor if you would stop by the ranch for tea. And with Addie’s sweet tooth, I always have cakes or biscuits on hand.”

  Betsey clasped Retta’s fingers, giving them a squeeze. “The pleasure’s all mine.” She hesitated, as if pondering her next words, then blurted out, “I feel obliged to offer some caution, dear. You might want to avoid Slim Morgan. He is no gentleman. And his behavior toward women is . . . unsavory, at best.” She peered anxiously at Retta. “Do you understand what I am trying to say? You’re a married woman, and in most of society that status alone carries protection and respect. But a man like Morgan doesn’t care about such things.”

  Retta nodded. Oh, she’d had firsthand experience on the unsavory aspect of men who believed women were nothing more than a plaything for their lusts, uncaring of their feelings. All her instincts confirmed Slim Morgan was one of those men.

  “I’ll be giving the man a wide berth, Betsey. Never doubt it.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Beyond the corner of the mercantile, Slim Morgan leaned against the rough wood siding, cursing under his breath as the fine wool of his coat snagged on a splinter. Nobody in this pissant town cared about the niceties, such as sanding down the damned split logs before they built anything. Cheap was the name of the game.

  Not me. After getting a taste of the better things in life thanks to a stint on The Mississippi Empress and its floating riverfront gambling hall, Slim had no intention of going back. Certainly not to the one-room, tin-roof hovel he’d escaped years ago, when he killed his father and raided the meager nest egg the miserable geezer had hidden in his ratty old mattress.

  The coins weren’t much but they’d bought him a spot on the Empress as an apprentice to Fast-Johnnie Dawson, an aging gambler with the slickest dealing style Slim had ever seen. He’d kept his nose clean and his ears open, learning all he could, before smothering Fast-Johnnie in his sleep one night.

 
Escaping over the side of the slow-moving riverboat with his earnings—and Johnnie’s bulging coin purse—Slim had moved north for a spell, then west, where he’d won the only saloon in Little Creede, The Lucky Lady, in a card game. Sure, he’d cheated, but that was only a concern if you got caught.

  He had a knack for making investments that paid off. Too bad his gambling habit ate up his savings as fast as he could earn it. At least as owner of The Lucky Lady he had easy access to all the women he could want. And he wanted Carter’s new wife.

  What a mighty fine woman. She’d look damn good in his bed.

  All that silky yellow hair and those eyes, so wide and bluer than the sky. Her slender frame under her plain skirt and blouse made his cock leap when he’d stood close to her inside the mercantile.

  Retreating further into the shadows, Slim focused on the pretty turn of Retta Carter’s ankle as she climbed into the wagon and then held out her arms for the snotty-nosed rug rat who crawled into her lap. The girl’s sticky hands clutched her mother at breast-level, and Slim broke out in a sweat as he imagined putting his hands in the exact same place. Stroking those full globes . . . maybe pinching the nipples hidden beneath lace and linen . . .

  The sight of Harrison Carter, swinging up into the seat next to Retta, splintered Slim’s fevered daydream. Clucking at the horse—a big, strong Mustang Slim coveted for his own—Carter drove the wagon down the dusty, rutted street.

  “Goddamn,” Slim muttered, adjusting himself in his pants. First, he’d find a willing whore at The Lucky Lady to take care of his immediate problems. After all, as owner of the damned place they were as much his property as the whiskey he stocked.