A Bargain For A Bride (Westward Hearts Book 8)

by Blythe Carver

  She was so tired. She could not remember a time when she had ever been this tired.

  It seemed there was always something to do. Feeding, washing the bottle, preparing a new bottle. Making certain there was enough milk available, which there normally was. Their cows produced a great quantity, yet what the baby did not drink immediately had to be chilled to keep it fresh, which meant ensuring there was enough chilled milk on hand.

  She soiled her diapers nearly constantly, requiring repeated changing before the washing of the soiled diapers.

  Then there was the walking. The constant walking. If she’d been worn a groove in the embroidered rug which decorated her bedroom floor, it would not come as a surprise. She must have walked miles in service of keeping Violet happy and as quiet as could be.

  And still, the baby had cried. Not nearly as loudly as she had at Landon’s, but she made it a point to express her displeasure often and with great force. How a small baby could manage to be so loud was beyond human understanding.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the looking glass above her dressing table and could barely recognize the girl there. Her hair hung in snarls about her face, reminders of how Violet had grabbed it by the handful and pulled when she was in a particularly angry mood.

  The circles beneath her eyes were pronounced, evidence of the mere minutes of sleep she had managed.

  The baby’s spit-up had dried on her shirtwaist in three places—she simply had not the time to change, and after the second incident had decided there was little point in changing. Why soil another shirtwaist, which Violet would invariably do the moment she changed from dirty to clean?

  “Violet, please. Please sleep. I need to sleep, too.” Her footsteps were slower than ever, yet she continued to pat the baby’s back until a nearly violent belch erupted from her lips.

  She winced, certain she would feel a rush of warmth down her back, no such sensation occurred. She looked to the baby, who now appeared to smile as she rested her head on Cate’s shoulder. Now that she was comfortable, she might take a nap.

  Cate could have wept with joy.

  Holly and Molly had made it a point to stay away, which she might have resented were she not so thoroughly exhausted. Then again, Molly would only have reminded her what a terrible idea this was, to begin with, and Cate had no desire to be reminded. She understood all too well on her own.

  Only the image of a theater which she carried in her mind was enough to remind her chin up. She could do this. She had to.

  She lowered Violet into her basket and offered up a silent prayer of fervent thanks. Now she understood what it meant to be really and truly exhausted, one more experience she could add to future characters she would play. She would call upon this someday when portraying a character who’d been through more than she believed herself capable of, who then emerged on the other side victorious.

  She was deep in thought about this as she changed her shirtwaist, even going so far as to imagine the audience before her, when the sound of voices raised in argument on the first floor got her attention.

  She was only just finishing the top buttons, and she flew down the stairs.

  “The baby is sleeping!” she hissed, prepared to claw to pieces anyone who disturbed her.

  Roan looked at her, then pointed to the young man standing on the porch. “This boy says he has a message for you from a man in town,” he muttered.

  It was clear Roan distrusted the stranger, but then again, he distrusted most strangers. He had spent far too much of his life living alone.

  The boy, for his part, looked positively prepared to die of fright. “From Mr. Jenkins,” he managed to say through chattering teeth. He held out a folded slip of paper, his hand trembling slightly.

  Of course. This would have to happen this way, would it not? She accepted the note, looking to Roan. “It is all right,” she said. “He is only delivering a message.”

  With that, she turned to the poor boy who looked as though he had not yet begun to shave. So young, and so frightened. “Thank you very much. I’m sure Mr. Jenkins will be pleased to know you have delivered the message. Would you like something warm to drink before you start back to town?”

  The boy’s head shook violently as he backed away. “No, thank you,” he whispered, glancing toward Roan and clearly frightened to death. He mounted his horse before hurrying away at a full gallop, dust rising in clouds behind him.

  “Did you need to frighten the boy so?” she asked, clicking her tongue and shaking her head as she unfolded the paper.

  “I don’t appreciate young boys speaking to me in such a dismissive manner,” he muttered. “I don’t care who this Mr. Jenkins is, though I do question how you know a man from town intimately enough that he is sending you messages this way.”

  Cate barely heard this, for the blood now rushed in her ears until nearly every other sound was drowned out.

  She had to go back. Already? How could she manage it? She had only told the girls the day before that her friend was ill. How could she convince them the illness had turned around so quickly?

  The paper shook so hard that it eventually fell to the floor, and Roan was quicker than she in bending to pick it up.

  “What does this mean?” he asked after skimming the message.

  Her cheeks flushed painfully hot as she grabbed the paper from him. “That is a private message.”

  “It isn’t anymore. What does it mean? Who is this man, and why does he tell you to hurry to him? What have you been doing that you haven’t told your sisters about?”

  She held a finger to her lips, looking around. Molly was upstairs resting, while Holly had gone visiting at one of the neighboring ranches. The Beltons had just welcomed their second child, and Holly had wished to deliver a freshly baked cake has a congratulatory gift.

  “Come with me,” she whispered before taking the stairs two at a time. It appeared as though any hope of resting should be forgotten, as she had a great deal to do now in a very short amount of time.

  “What is this all about?” Roan whispered as she pushed him into her bedroom and closed the door as quietly as she could behind her. She noticed how uncomfortable he looked, being in her room, but there was little time for modesty at the moment.

  “I need you to promise me you will not breathe a word of this.” Throwing open the doors of her chifforobe, she studied her array of gowns, shirtwaists, and skirts, wondering what she ought to bring. He had not even given her a definite length of time in which his parents would visit. Three days? Four? She decided to be on the safe side and bring as much as her bags would hold.

  “Not breathe a word of what?”

  “What I’m about to tell you. Please, Roan, you must promise me. Phoebe knows of this too, and I had not intended to bring anyone else into my confidence, but it would appear as though there is no avoiding this.”

  “No avoiding what? You must tell me.”

  So, she did tell him, as she pulled one garment after another from the chifforobe and did what she could to arrange everything nicely, so it would not wrinkle terribly during the ride to town.

  Roan averted his eyes when it came time to arrange her stockings, shifts, and petticoats.

  “You see, there was nothing I could do. I wanted to help him, and to help her. The poor thing was sleeping in bed with whichever stranger was in charge of her at the moment.”

  When she turned to him, she found him slack-jawed in amazement.

  “You married this man?” he whispered, aghast.

  “Yes, but that is hardly the problem at hand just now. His parents are coming today, when they were not supposed to be here for another several days. I do not know him. I have to pretend to be his wife when I do not even know the man.”

  “But you are his wife.”

  “You know what I mean,” she hissed. “Please, can you drive me and the baby to town? And not tell anyone, not even Holly?”

  It was clear, she gave him great deal of pain, his brow wrinkling
in distress at the thought of lying to his wife. “You’re not really lying,” she pointed out. “You are merely avoiding telling her the truth.”

  “Which is the same as lying.”

  “No, it isn’t. Avoiding the truth is not the same as lying. And it is for a good cause, at any rate. This child is better cared for right now at this moment, than she has been her entire life, I would wager. And now, she will know the love of her grandparents and her father all at once. Is that not a good thing? I believe it is for the best.”

  “Cate…” he muttered, shaking his head. He was a man of honor, she knew, with very clear ideas of right and wrong. There was no in-between for a man like him.

  She went to him, clasping his hands in hers and looking straight in the eye. Hot, stinging tears threatened to spill over, but she did her best to fight them. “Please, Roan. You’re the only one I can trust now. I need your help. I signed a contract, for heaven’s sake! And do not tell me now whether you believe that to be a good idea or not, because the deed has been done. I must hold up my end of the contract, which means going to town and pretend to be Landon’s wife and the mother of this child. No one is going to get hurt. If anything, I’m sparing this child a great deal of pain in the future. What will happen if her grandparents find out she is—”

  “You needn’t say it.” There was a note of resignation his voice. She hated knowing she was the cause of it, but there was nothing to be done about that now. She would make it up to him in the future, just as she would make it up to Phoebe.

  “Will you help me?” She searched his face for answers, knowing there was no time to waste but also knowing she needed his help, for someone would have to provide an explanation to the girls as to why she had suddenly disappeared.

  It did pain her that it would have to be him, for he had never been anything but kind and understanding toward her, but these were desperate times.

  “On one condition.”

  Who was she to protest? “What is it?”

  “You allow me to meet this man. I want to know whose house you will be living in for the next several days. Do not try to get around me on this, for I will not allow you to do so. I will sit outside the house all night—”

  She waved her hands, turning away to continue getting her things together. “Yes, yes. Fine. Whatever you want. Please, help me get these things downstairs?”

  It seemed there were always new obstacles in her way, and no sooner did she think one problem was solved than two more popped up in its place.

  She could only hope this would all end soon, and that she would have enough time to at least settle herself in before her mother and father-in-law arrived.

  13

  What was taking her so long?

  He’d already been to the station and had learned that the train from California was set to arrive at six o’clock. That would give them several hours if she hurried. She simply had to hurry.

  “Take that upstairs!” he shouted as a pair of men carried the crib through the front door. “The first room from the front!”

  Mrs. Davis hurried about the place, dusting and arranging. “Did you purchase everything in the store? Is anything left for the rest of the town?”

  He said nothing, choosing instead to pour himself a healthy glass of whiskey before downing it in one smooth, practiced flick of his wrist.

  “Be careful not to drink to excess,” the old woman reminded him before hurrying up the stairs to oversee the crib’s placement. “It would not do for you to be inebriated—”

  “I can manage myself, thank you very much!” he shouted after her, immediately feeling sorry for it. She simply did not know when to keep her thoughts to herself. As if he would allow himself to become inebriated on such an important day, with such important company on their way.

  He merely needed something to steady his nerves.

  It felt as I time was slipping away like water through his open fingers, simply pouring itself out. He suspected that where he was seated behind his desk, it would have gone much more slowly. That was usually the way of it. Just when he wanted time to slow down, it insisted on flowing away from him.

  Perhaps the train would be late, and then he would have a bit more time with his new bride.

  It was half-past-twelve according to his pocket watch. If the boy from the bank had delivered the note in a timely manner, she would by now have had the chance to gather her things and make her way from the ranch. He expected her arrival at any minute.

  And he refused to give credence to the many ugly images which insisted on rising to the forefront of his mind. An accident along the way, perhaps, for either the boy or for Cate.

  Obviously, if Cate had suffered an accident, there would be far greater consequences. His chest tightened painfully at the thought of his daughter being involved in anything of the sort, and his stomach turned against the whiskey he’d only just emptied into it. He felt as if his nerves were unraveling bit by bit, along with his sanity.

  Everything he’d ordered had been delivered, at the very least. That was something to be grateful for. He paid both men who’d driven the cart from the general store a generous show of his appreciation, leaving the two of them smiling as if they’d just discovered gold. He supposed that to them, a dollar each was quite a princely sum.

  He would have given them the entire contents of his billfold if it had meant bringing Cate and Violet to him that much sooner.

  What did she expect to do with all this? That was what plagued him now as he stood, looking over the crates of goods which had been unceremoniously left in his downstairs hall. “Mrs. Davis!” he called out, tapping his foot impatiently.

  “Yes, I am coming! Goodness gracious, I’ve never known such—”

  He had no time for her complaints now. “I need you to help me make sense of why she asked for these things. She is not yet here to arrange them, and they need to be arranged before my parents arrive. Do you understand?”

  The old woman merely sighed, wiping her hands on her apron. “There is not so much to setting up a house, I promise.”

  “You don’t know. Look at all of this!” He waved his arm, indicating a dozen crates waiting to be unpacked. Already, the crib and rocking chair and other various items had been placed upstairs, but this? He was sure Cate had a scheme in mind, but he hadn’t the first notion of exactly what it was.

  Phoebe might know.

  He turned to Mrs. Davis, hope beginning to glimmer in his mind. “Do you know where Sheriff Connelly lives?”

  Mrs. Davis nodded. “In fact, he and his wife live only several houses away from myself.”

  What a stroke of luck. “Can you get there quickly? Please, ask for Mrs. Connelly. Take her aside and promptly explain that I need her help. Her sister has not yet arrived, and it is of the utmost importance that I have assistance while arranging the goods in the house. They must be taken care of before the train arrives at six o’clock.”

  She patted his shoulder before taking her time of fetching her coat from the hook in the front hall. He bit his tongue, grinding his teeth together to keep himself from telling her to hurry up.

  She was a kind woman, patient, but he suspected she had her limit just as anyone else did. He needed all the allies he could get right now.

  Alone, he went through the crates. Why did he need so many china figurines? So many bowls and vases? Lace squares and circles which he assumed might be meant for the arms of the sofa and chairs, but he could not be certain. There was an entire tea set, which made sense, though he did not know where she wished him to place it.

  If only she had given him a list of where things ought to go, too.

  Rather than wait, he bounded up the stairs and changed into a more appropriate suit rather than one he’d worn to the bank. He could barely button his waistcoat, his hands trembled so badly.

  If only everything did not hang on this. If only he did not believe his parents would be grievously scandalized, and his mother’s health worse than every should t
hey learn the truth.

  If only he had been smarter when it came to his dealings with Ida. If only he had restrained himself as a gentleman ought to.

  He’d just finished changing into a more appropriate suit of clothes when the front door opened. How strange it was for him to hope to hear a baby’s cry, but instead he heard two women talking rapidly. This would be Phoebe.

  He ran downstairs to find a young woman who looked not unlike Cate standing, wide-eyed, looking over the crates.

  “Mrs. Connelly?” he asked.

  She nodded, unbuttoning her coat. “And I assume you’re Mr. Jenkins, my brother-in-law. For the time being.”

  His skin crawled thanks to the discomfort her words caused. “Yes, that is true. Can you help me? I don’t know when Cate will arrive, and my parents are coming sooner than expected—”

  “Your housekeeper has already explained to me. Let us begin.” Just like that, this efficient woman set about decorating his home as a wife would typically decorate it.

  He followed her around, watching as she arranged decorative bowls and vases, draping lace over the arms of nearly every piece of furniture on the first floor. The tea set sat in a place of honor on the table between the parlor’s sofa and the two chairs opposite, all of this in front of the mantle which stretched along the outer wall.

  “You might place those on the mantle,” she suggested, pointing to a crate filled with odds and ends. A music box, a set of books whose titles he did not bother to read. An ornate lamp with a silk shade, cut glass droplets dangling from the braided edging.

  He looked around and, with the room in better shape than it had been before, he recalled having seen such items in the parlors of his married friends. He’d simply never given much thought to it. Now, he understood the difference between what his home had looked like and what it needed to look like if one was to believe a woman lived there.

  For even though he had more than enough money to see to his every need, he had developed a rather simple lifestyle at an early age thanks to his mother’s impoverished background. While Oliver Jenkins had come from a great deal of money, Hermione had been orphaned at the age of eight and had gone to work to support her brothers and sisters immediately afterward.