His Make-Believe Bride

by Martha Hix

  Yes, indeedy, he told himself as they quit for the day and began walking toward the horizon. Life could sure be sweet.

  Chapter 10

  Life could sure get a woman down.

  In the two weeks since meeting the colorful machinery man from Murray Gin, Linnea had heard nothing more from him. She couldn’t shake her doldrums—the heat and her many chores were starting to get the better of her.

  All morning she’d worked the truck garden with Jewel—after making breakfast and starting a pot of the pinto beans that she now knew how to cook. Namely, soak the things all night before lighting a fire under them.

  “This looks like a good one,” she said to the sky, holding up a cantaloupe she’d picked from a hill of vines.

  A hawk glided through the sky, dipping a wing at the workers. Did he actually glide through the sky? Or was he a trick of nature? “I’m worried.” She leveled her line of sight on Jewel. “What if that Mr. Jimmerson was just a mirage?”

  “As I have told you a number of times, he is legitimate. And as I have also told you, when Charlie worked on the jail’s chimney, Mr. Jimmerson and the sheriff were playing dominoes with some of the jailbird regulars. Evidently—”

  Linnea interrupted with, “If he’s got time to play forty-two with the locals, he ought to be able to take time to fill me in!”

  Jewel, lopping a cantaloupe from its vine, went on as if uninterrupted. “Evidently Mr. Jimmerson and the sheriff like to get together for ‘bones’ when the Murray man is in town. Charlie overheard him tell Sheriff Alington that he’d run into a shipping delay with a gin he’d originally sold to that Hockley County fellow.”

  “I don’t remember you telling me this. I would remember. You didn’t tell me.”

  “That’s neither here nor there. Why don’t you tell Sam about the gin?”

  “I don’t want to get his hopes up, not until I see the brown of that gin salesman’s eyes. I can’t help but worry something’s happened. Mrs. Alington says rumor has it that the Hockley buyer has come up with the money he needed.”

  Jewel’s mouth flattened. “Whether that fellow is a mirage or prayers answered, if you’d told your husband you want to buy him a cotton gin, he’d be looking into the situation. But no. You never settle on honesty.”

  Rather than reply, Linnea brushed sand from the next cantaloupe.

  The Eighth Wonder of the World whipped off the bonnet she had created from a flour sack, to wipe her brow. Her mouth still looked like a pancake. “Marriage is a partnership, and a good one has two people who trust each other.”

  “I trust Sam.”

  “You could benefit from a mother’s say.”

  Rocked by the cruelty of such a taunt, Linnea replied, “If you’re wanting to injure me, lucky you! You have.”

  “I’m trying to knock sense into your head, missy girl. Like a mother would.”

  Linnea picked through the vines for dead leaves, which she tossed into a basket. “You just want to be mean, when you’re not doing everything you can to show me up in every regard.”

  “From the very start, I was trying to help you.”

  “You took my brooch to ‘help’ me.”

  “You may have the blasted thing back!”

  Linnea gawked at her antagonist. “You’d do that? Give it back?”

  “Yes!” Jewel parked her balled fists at her lack of a waist. “It may come as a surprise, Ermentrude Flanders, but I am sick to death of getting caught in the middle of your schemes. Why? Because you make me a liar with your tall tales—or worse, your saying nothing. As I said before, you are in bad need of a guiding light. Since you don’t have a mother, you need to find yourself a sister. Or a friend.”

  Linnea had always resented Jewel’s superior attitude. But what she’d said was true, even if it did hurt. “I lost my mother and sisters so long ago that I can barely remember them. So long ago that I can’t even remember the sound of my mama’s voice.”

  “Grief does not excuse your behavior.”

  “Jewel . . . the only friend I’ve ever had was Miz Myrtie. And now she’s gone, too.”

  “Oh, please.” Jewel sliced the air with the edge of her hand. “Let’s not launch yet another rehash of the sainted Myrtle Reston.”

  Almost in tears, Linnea swallowed the lump that had settled in her throat. “Then let’s launch the here-and-now. Who can I count on as a friend, if not you?”

  “Talk to one of your damn chickens!”

  As if called, Henny stepped up to inspect Jewel’s hill of cantaloupes, then turned to Russ and Lizzie to report in the lively language of fowl.

  “Maybe I will talk to them.” Linnea folded her arms beneath her bosom. “I don’t want to put you in a bind. Really I don’t.”

  Jewel replied with a harrumph, then marched off toward her dugout.

  “I’m sorry. Really I am!” Linnea called after her.

  The brunette continued to march away, leaving Linnea to her doldrums. And regrets. She couldn’t be mad over this latest chewing-out. There was truth to everything Jewel had said. “I just hope that someday soon I can measure up to her expectations.”

  * * *

  Nothing. She still had heard nothing from Mr. Jimmerson. It was now a month since they had struck a deal.

  Jewel didn’t have much to say, either. No surprise there. Nothing more was said about returning the brooch, which was just as well.

  As she thought about her relationship with her aunt-in-law, Linnea recognized that she had been on the receiving end of friendship throughout this regrettable, reprehensible charade. If Jewel wasn’t a good person she would have left Linnea to the fates.

  Rather than dwell on brooches and reproachful behavior, Linnea endeavored to be the best wife possible. She progressed to cooking twice a day, breakfast and lunch. Most days, anyway.

  At the moment, she prepared a midday meal. She was bone-weary. All this work and no play—well, one good night’s sleep would be nice. But every night, there he was, her big-peckered husband, wanting a big rub and a tickle! Not that she minded. She didn’t. She loved being loved! Loved it more every day and night, it seemed.

  Despite her weariness, she hummed, stirring the lunchtime dandelion greens and butter beans, both seasoned with bacon.

  When she heard Sam open the door behind her, Linnea dished out their food, plus the everyday portion of pintos, and carried it all to the table. Swiping the moisture from her eyes, she sat down, averted her gaze, and picked up her fork.

  Neither said a word.

  She felt his gaze on her but stubbornly refused to look at him. She didn’t wish to explain her tears—couldn’t explain her tears—and hoped he would simply eat in silence while she tried to gain some control over her emotions.

  “Linnea?” he asked, his voice no more than a whisper as he reached over to brush his fingers along her cheek.

  His gentleness was her undoing. “I . . . I’m . . . The heat is more than I can bear today, Sammy. That’s all. I’m tired. I—”

  “Of course you are,” he said softly, tenderly. “You’ve been working your fingers to the bone all day. Every day. Why, you’ve been on your feet since the crack of dawn. Here.” He bent down and removed her shoes. “You need to take a nap, that’s all. Come on.”

  When he tried to take Linnea by the hand, she said, “I have to do the washing up, Sammy. I can’t—”

  “Yes, you can. I’ll do the dishes. Later. Right now . . . I’ve got a nice, big present for you . . .”

  “Present” did it for her. “Oh, you! Stop it!” She couldn’t help but giggle. “I know all about your ‘presents.’” She dodged away, rising to her feet.

  He stood, too, and with a wink, he captured her wrist. “Do ya now? You don’t know what I’ve got for you, no, you sure don’t.”

  She grinned, rolling her eyes and dodging away again. “Right—your ‘present’ can wait until tonight, Mr. Kincaid.”

  “No, ma’am. It sure can’t.”

  Before she k
new what was happening, he’d turned her toward him and walked her backward . . . till her back was pressed against the wall. “How do you know what I’ve got for you, hmm?”

  “Maybe because it’s the same thing you have every night for me.”

  “Wrong.”

  His hands cupped the sides of her breasts, his groin growing against her. Without another thought, her mouth lifted to search for his lips. She had a hunger for her man that could only be assuaged by his “present.”

  “Maybe I’ll tell you about the present . . . another day. I’ll just let you go to your rat-killin’,” he teased.

  “Don’t you dare!”

  Her tongue made love to his as he ground his hard body against her, as he yanked at their clothing . . . as he sought her with his fingertips. She moaned against his mouth, whispering his name over and over. He reached for one of her legs and then the other, boosting her up to wrap them around his waist.

  Was it crazy, loving and being loved by Sam? Making love and a home together, and filling it—and the next home they would share—with however many children as God would entrust to them? It might be crazy. But in this wonderful moment, feeling his heartbeat drumming wildly against her own, it seemed right. So very, very right.

  He carried her to their bed, undressing her and joining her there. Later, before she drifted off to a love-sated sleep, it dawned on Linnea that even in the aftermath of that delicious ravaging of her body and her senses, she didn’t feel one bit queasy.

  You silly goose. Smiling at her unexpected revelation, she burrowed even closer to Sam’s chest. You’ve got more than the man. You’ve also got his child. That’s why you’ve been feeling puny. Now that felt even more right!

  * * *

  With a baby on the way, Linnea knew it was time for the truth. The unboiled truth. While she had known it all along, she finally accepted that ignoring her true identity was just wrong. Always had been, always would be. Children shouldn’t be reared in a circle of deceit.

  If she had it to do over again, the day she landed in Lubbock she would have said, Listen, please, Mr. Kincaid. Here’s the situation. Your Ermentrude found something better to do. She’s not looking to be your wife, but I’m in need of a husband and you’ll do. Are you interested?

  In hindsight . . . Well, that kind of thinking brought to mind nothing more than an old Indian proverb, simple yet oh-so-true: Hindsight wisdom is of no use.

  Hearing a knock at the door, Linnea smiled all of a sudden. Maybe Mr. Jimmerson was here.

  Upon opening the door, she gasped.

  “Ed . . . Edgar Philpott! What on earth are you doing here?”

  Already the wafer-thin reporter had his pencil going as he sketched information in Gregg shorthand on his narrow pad. He had bragged about his skills with the abbreviated way to write several times during their stagecoach trip west. “Afternoon, Miss . . . err . . . Mrs. Powell. Fancy meeting you here. I wish to speak with Mrs. Kincaid.”

  “Wh-why?”

  He pulled a copy of the Lubbock Avalanche from the tuck of his arm. “Says here that Mrs. Ermentrude Flanders Kincaid, her husband, and his kin are planting cotton hereabouts. That’s news.”

  There could have been as many as a hundred thoughts that raced through Linnea’s mind at that moment, but one stuck out: Thank the Lord her husband was not at home. How in the name of hell was she going to get rid of Edgar Philpott?

  “Mrs. Kincaid is in . . . she’s in . . . um, she’s in Fort Worth, visiting family.”

  “How odd.” Philpott cocked his head and screwed up one of his eyes. “You here. Mrs. Kincaid in Fort Worth. A young lady in that fair city, calling herself Miss Flanders, endeavoring for admission to a school of medicine. Hmm.” He jabbed his pencil at Linnea. “You and I both know that the true Ermentrude Flanders took a job at the stagecoach stop. We also both know that you, Mrs. Percival Powell, are running from Shreveport scandal. It does not take a mental giant to deduce that Mrs. Powell is now Mrs. Kincaid.”

  He was licking the tip of his pencil, even before he finished speaking.

  If only the earthen floor would open up and swallow Mrs. Powell-cum-Kincaid. “Mr. Philpott, please. Is a story worth ruining a person’s life?”

  He stopped writing. His eyes suddenly took on a look that appeared sympathetic. “Actually, I am pleased you have found a new start. You were the innocent in your late husband’s story, and people in Shreveport said you were a hard worker and a decent person.”

  It was unfortunate, she told herself, how the kindly thoughts of those Shreveporters hadn’t gone so far as to compensate her with a job.

  Philpott was saying, “I trust you are happy. You may be interested to hear that I have found happiness myself, with a nice little church worker in Jacksboro, Miss Prudence Stomp.”

  “I’m pleased for you.” Linnea was always pleased to hear that love conquered all.

  “Prudy and I plan to wed as soon as I can provide a decent engagement gift that will meet the approval of my lady’s dear widowed mother, Mrs. Drusilla Stomp. Alas, reporting isn’t the highest paid of professions.”

  “Sir, why are you here?”

  Just as the man had done so frequently on the stagecoach, he kept eyeing her ears. “I see you still have those nice diamond-and-cameo earrings.”

  “I do. Sir, I am expecting Mr. Kincaid any moment now,” she fudged. “Does this meeting have a point?”

  “Well, my gracious!” He closed his notebook, tucked the pencil behind his ear, and lifted up on his heels. “I certainly wouldn’t wish to discuss this matter in the company of your good husband. But I should appreciate another opportunity to chat with you. How about tomorrow afternoon at the local café in Lubbock? I believe it is referred to as the Jerry and Larry.”

  “Mr. Philpott, thank you but no thank you. My afternoons are busy.”

  “Surely you can spare a bit of time, Mrs. Kincaid. Where we can discuss what I do—or don’t—need to divulge to your husband.”

  “That’s blackmail.”

  “On the contrary! It’s just a chat for old time’s sake—and perhaps a suggestion that might help Mr. Kincaid save face in his community.”

  Never would Linnea buy into that. Philpott had to say no more. He was after the only things she had with monetary worth. In no way, shape, form, or fashion would this situation end in anything short of disaster.

  And the fact that the man would drag Sammy’s reputation down, too, broke Linnea’s heart, for she realized it wreaked havoc with her grand plan to trade her precious earbobs for her husband’s even more precious cotton gin . . .

  * * *

  “Linnea, are you all right?” Sam asked, the next morning.

  “Of course,” she answered, shrugging into her traveling-suit jacket. “I’m taking the buckboard into town. Jewel says the general store has a new supply of gingham. Mrs. Alington offered to lend me a sewing needle. I intend to teach myself to sew.”

  Sam was fine with the trip to town. So what worried him? Ever since he’d arrived home the evening before, he felt certain that something was not quite right with his wife. What, he couldn’t put his finger on. And each time he’d asked, she had changed the subject.

  Well, dealing with women was never easy. His father had said that, and his father before him. But all his life, Sam Kincaid had been told there was one sure-fire way to cheer a woman up.

  “You’ll need some money for your shopping trip.”

  Her green eyes did light up, for no longer than a second. “Thank you. That would be nice.”

  His beloved bride’s glimmer of joy, faint as it might have been, made Sam feel good. Just you wait, missus! Do I ever have something to surprise you with, and I’m not just talkin’ about another pounding up against that wall over there!

  * * *

  Linnea left the High Hopes and drove to town, stopping first at the general store. The proprietor did have a new stock of yard goods, and if her stomach weren’t knotted, she would have enjoyed looking
at the bright, fresh colors.

  At this point—after the talking-to she’d had with herself during the entire ride to town—all she wanted to do was get the fabric into the buckboard and head for the café. Linnea was relieved that the clerk didn’t wish to chat while he measured out the fabric on the cutting board.

  “Yeah,” she heard a man say from the other side of the store, “I’m in town to deliver for the Murray Gin Company in Dallas.”

  Though she knew the voice wasn’t that of Mr. Jimmerson, she also knew the speaker had to be talking about Sam’s cotton gin. Her heart seemed to skip at least one beat as she reminded herself of what she had to do.

  Chapter 11

  With her yard goods paid for and safely tucked away in the buckboard, Linnea entered the café. The only seats available, she noticed, faced the far wall instead of the door. She took the nearest chair and waited for Edgar Philpott.

  A good half hour passed and the reporter still hadn’t arrived. She tried to quell her nervousness and anxious thoughts by concentrating on her resolve . . . but she couldn’t resist ordering a slice of pie. She seemed to have a true yearning for anything sweet nowadays. Maybe it would settle her twisted stomach.

  Yet the raisin pie had about as much taste as cardboard. At the same moment she set her fork aside, she heard a commotion from the vicinity of the front door. Then she heard the sound of boots behind her.

  She heard someone say, “Uh-oh. Looks like trouble.”

  Please, dear Lord. Don’t let that be Sam!

  Linnea fought to keep from gulping air into her lungs as she pushed the plate of pie toward the center of the table. Instead, she squeezed her eyes closed and held her breath as the unmistakable thud of boot heels approached her table.

  “Let not your heart be troubled . . .”

  Not Sam. That’s not Sam.

  She looked up to her cousin-in-law the lawyer, standing by her table.

  “Don’t worry, Cousin Linnea.” Grant Kincaid, Esquire, patted her shoulder. “I will serve as your attorney.”