His Substitute Wife

by Dorothy Clark

  He grinned.

  She put the tremble in her stomach down to excitement over the trek ahead and scanned the rocks. “Where do we start?”

  “Right here.” He stepped up onto a boulder and offered her his hand.

  Chapter Seven

  Blake stopped at the beginning of the natural stone shelf that was the only way to traverse the break at the base of the mountain. The ledge was narrow, but safe. But the water was a different matter.

  He looked at Audrey, holding her long skirts out of her way and gazing at the icy, white-capped water that swirled and boiled through the gap between the soaring mountain walls. She didn’t look at all hesitant to continue on. He’d expected the hard climb among the boulders to defeat her, but she was a game little thing. And she was little, despite her protestation. Though not so much short as slender. His hands spanned her tiny waist when he lifted her to boulders too high for her to climb.

  She looked up and smiled, said something he couldn’t hear over the rush of the water and the roar of the waterfall ahead. He leaned down so his mouth was close to her ear. “We’re almost there. The waterfall is just around that outcropping.” He pointed to where the mountain wall jutted out onto the shelf. Her gaze followed then came back to meet his. She went up on tiptoes, curled her finger. He leaned down.

  “It doesn’t look as if there’s much room for walking!”

  “It’s narrow but passable if you’re careful. If you’d rather, we can turn back.”

  She shook her head, gripped her skirts and lifted the hems. “Lead on.”

  “Give me your hand. And don’t let go!” She nodded and curled her fingers around his palm. He folded his over them in a firm grip. “Watch your footing.” He faced forward, led her onto the shelf and walked ahead kicking small bits of stone out of the way and ignoring as best he could the clasp of their joined hands as she followed.

  The wall of the mountain rose sheer and rugged beside them, meeting his left shoulder with unforgiving hardness when the shelf narrowed. Sunshine glinted on the gray stone and shadowed a few stunted pines that clung to the face, their roots snaking into cracks and fissures to find purchase and sustenance. Roiling water crashed against the shelf, hurled itself in frothy rage against the mountain wall on the other side of the narrow gap. Spume flew through the air, forming damp blotches on the legs of his pants. He stopped where the wall jutted out onto the ledge, pulled Audrey close and shouted, “Watch, and do what I do.”

  He turned his back and edged sideways along the stone to round the point of the protrusion. Her hand convulsed in his when he was lost to her sight. He splayed his legs to brace himself to hold her if she slipped and signaled her to come with a tug on her hand.

  She came slowly, gripping his outstretched hand, his sleeve rubbing against the stone as she edged along the narrowest part of the shelf. Almost there. He stared at the rock, watching for her to round the protrusion into view. Her progress stopped. Her hand trembled. Had she become frightened and changed her mind? He leaned closer to the protrusion, hollered encouragement. “You’re all right. You’ve almost made it. A couple more steps and—” Her hand squeezed, released, squeezed again. Her voice came, barely audible.

  “My skirt is caught! I can’t move.”

  He stiffened but bit back the suggestion that she turn and go back the other way. To accomplish that, he would have to let go of her, and she was at the narrowest point of the ledge; with her snagged skirt hampering her it would be too dangerous. He looked down at the turbulent water, too icy, deep and fast-moving to stand in. There was only one choice. “Hold on, I’m coming!” He pulled in a breath against the sudden knot of fear in his stomach. In order to help her, he would have to let go of her while he turned around. “Audrey, listen carefully!” He took another breath, shouted his instructions. “I have to let go of your hand so I can turn around. Press back against the mountain and stay there! Don’t move! Do you hear me? Don’t move! Squeeze my hand if you heard me!”

  Her hand tightened. He released his grip and her hand slipped out of his. Air squeezed from his lungs. Lord, hold her on that ledge! Keep her safe! He turned and hugged the mountain, edged back around the protrusion, saw a bit of red dress and started breathing again. He moved close, slid his foot beneath her skirt and found solid footing. She grabbed hold of his shirt and gave him a smile at once so frightened and brave he lost his breath again.

  “I’ll hold you. See if you can tug your skirt free.” He reached his arm across in front of her and slipped his hand between her back and the mountain. She tightened her hold on his shirt and stretched her right hand down to her side. Her shoulder pressed into him; her body tensed beneath his arm. Her right arm jerked, relaxed, jerked again, and again. Her teeth caught at her lower lip. She pulled again, harder, turned her head and met his gaze, her eyes clouded, worried.

  “It won’t come free.”

  “You’re not strong enough. I’ll do it.” But how? He’d have to step in front of her to get a hold on that side of her skirt and there wasn’t enough shelf there for a solid purchase for his foot. If he fell into that icy turbulence... “Let go of me.”

  “What?” Her gaze locked on his, protesting, fearful. “Why?”

  He smiled to put her at ease. “Because that water is cold and if I slip there’s no sense in both of us taking a bath in it.”

  She slid her other hand beneath his jacket and grabbed another fistful of his shirt. “I’ll hold you.”

  He looked into her eyes, so close he could see the gold flecks darken with determination, and shook his head. “Don’t do that. I have to be able to move freely. Put your hands down to your sides and press back against the stone as tight as you can.”

  “Blake—”

  “It’s the only way to do this.”

  She snagged her lower lip with her teeth again then let go of his shirt. He slid his foot to the left. The toe of his boot touched hers—there was nothing but air beneath his heel. “Can you slide your foot back at all?”

  “No. My heel is against the stone.”

  He held back a frown, wiggled the toe of his boot into as solid a position as possible and shifted his weight to that foot. Audrey stood as still as a statue, the soft warmth of her body squeezed between him and the cold mountain wall. He murmured, “It’s all right to breathe,” took his own advice, then leaned to the side. There was a splintered section of a small broken-off tree trunk visible at the edge of her hem. He gripped her skirt as close to the snag as he could reach and shook it. It stayed caught. He shook it harder, straightened and placed his mouth by her ear. A curl at her temple brushed against his cheek. It smelled like roses. “I’m going to have to tear your skirt free.” Her face turned toward his. His gut clenched.

  “No matter.”

  Her warm breath touched his cold skin, light and soft as a feather. He sucked in a breath, locked his gaze on the mountain wall and slid his right hand over the surface seeking something to grip. The cold, flat stone defeated him. No handhold. Nothing beneath his boot heel. If he lost his balance—No, that couldn’t happen. If he were injured...or worse, she would be alone and helpless out here. Help me, Lord!

  He leaned as far toward the mountain as possible and yanked. There was a tearing sound. Her skirt hem flew upward clutched in his fist. The impetus of his strong pull rocked him backward and his heel dropped. He let go of her skirt and grabbed for the mountain, his fingers scraping over the hard stone. The toe of his boot slipped, slid backward... He threw his weight onto his right foot, let his body sag forward. The edge of the shelf pressed into the sole of his boot beneath his curled toes. The slide stopped. He pulled his dangling foot back to the shelf until his toe found a purchase, closed his eyes and sucked in air. Thank You, Lord!

  Cold, hard stone chilled his hands and the side of his face pressed hard against it. There was warmth, a soft pressure
against his ribs at his sides—fingers holding on to his shirt. When had she taken hold of him again? Anger, hot and immediate, surged. He drew a breath filled with the smell of stone, fresh water and roses, pulled his head back and glared down at her squashed between him and the protruding stone. “I told you to let go of me!”

  “And I told you I would hold you.”

  The fear for her rose again, urgent and overwhelming. “You’re not big enough to hold me!” The words exploded against the mountain inches from his face. “If my foot had slid another inch I would have fallen in that water and you with me! What would you have done then!”

  “Swim!” Her raised chin bumped against his breastbone. “Father taught me.”

  He stared down at her, fought a compelling urge to bury his fingers in her mussed-up red hair and press his lips against that sassy little mouth of hers. “Not in that water.” He growled the words and inched to the side—to safety. He grabbed her hand and edged back around the protrusion to where the shelf widened and they could turn around. The roar of the tumbling, cascading water echoed off the encompassing mountain walls and crashed against his eardrums. Air cold and wet with overspray penetrated his shirtfront, replacing the warmth of her. She followed him around the jutting stone, stopped and stared.

  “Oh, my!”

  He read her lips, watched an expression of wonder sweep over her face at the fierce beauty of this small, God-made cul-de-sac. She wiped beading moisture from her face and swept her gaze over the sheer soaring mountain walls that encased a deep pool dark with shadow and freckled with bits of white froth from the tempestuous foaming where the waterfall splashed into it. Loosened curls tumbled free of her gathered hair and spilled down her back as she tilted her head to gaze up at the top of the mountain to where the gushing, roaring cataract began. She turned her face to him and mouthed, “It’s amazing!”

  He nodded and stepped closer to her side, ready to grab her and haul her back to safety should she slip on the wet surface. She pointed down at the water and held her hand out to him. He read her intention in her eyes, and something more—trust. He took her hand in his and she knelt down and dipped the fingers of her other hand in the water, yanked them out and rose. A shiver shook her. “It’s freezing! Too cold for swimming!” Her lips curved then parted with laughter swallowed by the echoing roar. Moisture glittered on her hair and eyelashes, made damp spots on her gown.

  He dragged his gaze from the sparkling gold flecks in her eyes, shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over her, pulling it forward on her shoulders. She looked down, curled her fingers around the lapels, then tilted her head back to look at him. His pulse kicked. He pulled his hands away and motioned toward the gap behind them.

  She stood a moment looking at the waterfall, then met his gaze and nodded. He took her soft, cold hand in his and led her back onto the shelf.

  * * *

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Audrey took another stitch and looked up at Blake, who was standing by the desk thumbing through the pages of a book. “Thank you, again, for taking me to the waterfall.”

  “For the third time—you’re welcome.”

  There was an underlying tension in his teasing response and his smile looked forced. It had been that way since they had returned from their excursion. She glanced at the blue settee, wished there were some way to disguise it. But it wouldn’t make any difference. Linda’s presence permeated the entire house. She pressed on with the safe subject, hoping it might take Blake’s mind off his lost love. “I know I thanked you before, but it was just so wonderful!”

  “In spite of your ruined gown?”

  She stopped sewing, looked up at him and smiled. “Seeing that waterfall would be worth the cost of a gown, but it’s not ruined.” She resumed her work, poked the needle through the fabric, pulled the stitch taut and took another. “When I finish, you won’t even be able to see that it was torn—unless you search out the spot and look directly at it.”

  “So you are a good seamstress?”

  “Yes—if I do say so myself. Have you any mending that needs to be done?” The words fell on her ears, domestic...wifely. Her cheeks warmed. She lowered her head over her work to hide their color.

  “No. Ah Cheng takes care of that. He will pick up the laundry tomorrow. I should have told you. It would have spared you that work.” He dipped his head toward the gown she was mending, put down the book and turned to look out the window. “At least you won’t have to wash your gown.”

  There was an undertone in his voice that kept her from replying. Anger toward her sister swelled. At first it was Linda’s casual attitude toward breaking her promise to Blake and putting his inheritance in jeopardy that irritated her. Now, witnessing Blake’s pain made her ache for him. She pressed her lips together to keep from commenting on her sister’s betrayal, aligned the edges of the tear and took another stitch.

  “I’ve been thinking about selling the store.” He lifted his hand and scrubbed it across the back of his neck. “Trying to come up with a workable plan.”

  Her stomach flopped. She’d been so taken up with baking biscuits and helping in the store yesterday and with the dinner with the Ferndales and the walk to the waterfall today she hadn’t even thought about it all ending. But, of course, it must. And the sooner it happened the better it would be for Blake. “Have you settled on one?”

  “Not yet. There are details I have to consider. John Ferndale is a shrewd businessman.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned his shoulder against the window frame.

  She nodded, looking down at the dress in her lap to erase the memory of him leaning over her on the ledge—putting himself in jeopardy to protect her. Her throat constricted.

  “I just wanted you to know that I’m keeping my word and working on solving the problem. Making you stay here is unfair—not to mention selfish. I will get you home as soon as possible.”

  To never see him again... Tears threatened. She forced her voice past the lump in her throat, held it steady. “It’s a house that awaits me, Blake—not a home.” She knotted the thread, snipped it free and stuck the needle in the pincushion he’d brought up from the store. “A home is a place that is shared with someone you love.” The way you love Linda. She rose and gathered her dress and sewing supplies while she got her emotions under control. “I feel like a hot cup of tea. Would you like one?”

  “Maybe later.”

  Later. She would be going back to New York later. How long would that be? A month? Two? The tightness spread to her chest. The tears welled. She hurried from the room lest Blake notice and ask her what was wrong. She had no answer beyond this sudden hollow feeling at the thought of leaving.

  * * *

  Blake read the reversion clause a second time, shoved the contract in his desk drawer and leaned back in his chair. His plan to sell the store should work. He could see no reason why John Ferndale would hold him to that clause if the person he sold the store to was a married man. That was what Ferndale wanted—married men who would become solid citizens and raise their families here in Whisper Creek. He’d thought he would be one of those men. But that hope was dead.

  The ache he did his best to bury twisted his gut, made him fight to fill his lungs. How could he have been so wrong about Linda? He could understand how he could have been...distracted from the truth by her coquettish ways and her physical charms, but her letters... Pain flashed through him. That was when he’d really fallen deeply in love with her, when he’d read her letters. They were lively with humor, rife with interest in him and his store and Whisper Creek, and filled with warmth and love. The woman who wrote those letters was the woman he’d wanted to share his life—to mother his children. And it had all been a lie.

  He surged to his feet, twisted the knob to smother the flame in the oil lamp and strode from the room. His office was too small to contain his anger. So w
as his bedroom. He yanked open the porch door and stepped out into the darkness, drew his lungs full of cold air laced with the scent of the pines.

  Roses. Audrey’s hair smelled like roses. He scowled, replaced the thought with a memory of Linda in his arms.

  The moon slipped out from behind a cloud, its silver light glinting on the patches of water that showed between the high branches of the towering pines. The waterfall. Audrey. He jerked his gaze from the sparkling water, but the image had taken form: red curls in disarray, hazel eyes dark with determination, small chin lifted and—He shook his head, scrubbed his hand over the muscles at the back of his neck to rid himself of the memory—but he knew he would never forget how she looked in that moment on the ledge. Or the blended scent of stone, water and roses. Disgust curdled his stomach. What sort of man was he to have felt such a compelling urge to kiss Audrey when he loved Linda? His betrayer.

  The word stabbed deep. Was that it? Was that what caused that intense urge to kiss Audrey? Was he so mean-natured he wanted revenge? He cringed, sickened by the thought. Audrey did not deserve that. No matter what he felt, or how strongly he felt it, he must never demean her in that way—never.

  He leaned against the porch post and stared out into the darkness, listened to the muted whisper of the waterfall and tried to hold his mind blank, seeking to quiet the turmoil within. It was impossible. Thoughts and images tumbled and roiled in his head, crashing against obstacles and shooting off in a dozen different directions like the water forcing its way through the gap that afternoon. He tried to bring them under control, but they refused to be disciplined. The images played against the darkness: Audrey smiling up at him as he helped her climb over the boulders...holding his shirt while he tried to free her skirt...the wonder on her face as she gazed up at the waterfall...standing looking up at him with his jacket draped around her shoulders...