Reluctant Brides Collection

by Cathy Marie Hake

  Eric was silhouetted against the side of the building as he leaped into his wagon. Rose paused only a moment before going to him.

  “Eric, you showed a real sense of the theater in there. I’m impressed!”

  “Thank you. I’m surprised at how enjoyable it actually was.”

  “I wanted to ask you before you left—I was hoping I could come out to your farm tomorrow. I promise I won’t be a bother. You won’t even know I’m there. Might I come out?”

  He paused so long that she thought for a moment that he wasn’t going to say anything, but finally his response was simple. “Yes.”

  She found herself smiling to the world at large as she walked the entire way back to the hotel, as she got ready for bed, and even as she picked up her Bible for her evening devotions before sleep.

  A day with Eric. The idea was teeming with possibilities.

  She opened her Bible and found her favorite verse: “For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” When she couldn’t sleep, she would lie awake and sort through her life, trying to determine what her treasure was. Over the years it had gone from being her doll to being her new shoes to being—what would it be now? It was intriguing how her interpretation of that verse had changed during the course of her life as her idea of what her treasure was had evolved.

  And maybe, just maybe, she thought as she fell asleep, her heart had changed, too.

  Eric splashed cold water on his face. He’d need all his wits about him today.

  Rose had said he wouldn’t even know she was there. What were the chances of that? Whenever she’d been around him, he’d been painfully aware of her presence.

  Last night he could have told her no, he wouldn’t be home, but he’d long ago made an agreement with God that he wouldn’t lie. Not anymore. He’d already told enough lies for a lifetime, and the last one was the worst. A lie never lived on its own. It had fingers that stretched into every part of his existence.

  He’d barely wiped his face dry when he heard the distinctive sound of Big Ole’s clopping hooves. “And we’re off,” he whispered to himself as he went out to meet her.

  At least this time she didn’t have on those worthless little shoes she’d been wearing before. Instead, sensible brown leather boots poked out from under the hem of her green-flowered skirt.

  He was going to clean out the stable today before the sun got too high in the sky. Then he was going to go back into the fields and check on the crops. If there was time, he’d weed his garden and fix the wheel on the wagon that was wobbling.

  He had the whole day planned out nicely. Without preamble, he told her the schedule, and she nodded. “Sounds good to me. I can help you, too,” she chirped happily as she headed for the stable.

  Eric contented himself with rolling his eyes. He could picture how effective she’d be with the day’s tasks.

  “How’s Downy?” she asked as soon as she got to the barn door.

  “Growing bigger, but that’s what ducks do.”

  “He’s not in his cage.” She stopped and frowned at him.

  “The duck is all right. He’s swimming down in the creek now.”

  “Do you think it’s safe for him to be out of his cage?”

  He fought back a laugh. “This is the country, and he’s a duck. The ducks go in the cage only at night, and that’s only to protect them from predators.”

  Her forehead crinkled with concern. “I’m not sure that it’s enough, but I’ll have to trust you.”

  “I appreciate it,” he responded dryly.

  Amazingly, she was a tremendous help, and she pitched in fearlessly, even when it meant digging in the dirty straw of the stable. Noon came earlier than he expected, and with it, a problem arose. What would they eat?

  “I’m sorry,” he began, “but I have to say that I don’t have much for us to eat. I usually grab what I can and bring it with me.”

  “That’s not a problem,” she said, running her hand over her sweat-stained forehead. “I’m not particular.”

  Not particular? He thought back to the day he’d met her, how she’d been so impeccably dressed and so very elegantly out of place in Jubilee. Now she was sitting in his barn, scented with the odor of the stable rather than expensive perfume, her calico dress smeared with dirt, and she was beautiful.

  He shoved the thought out of his mind. Food. That was what he needed to focus on.

  Within minutes, they were sitting on the front step of his home, eating bread and cheese.

  “That breeze feels good,” she commented as a waft of air lifted a stray lock of hair from the side of her face. “I must look terrible.”

  He swallowed. “No. Not at all. You look—very nice.”

  She smiled at him, and he felt as if he were fourteen years old again, awkward and ill at ease around women. “Why, thank you.”

  The curious ducklings waddled toward them, begging for bread.

  For a moment, neither of them spoke as Rose threw bread crumbs for the ducks; then she said, “I don’t know much about you.”

  Every muscle in his body stiffened. “There’s not much to know.”

  “Oh, I’m sure there is. Everybody has a story. If they didn’t, I’d be out of a job. I’m interested, for example, in where you lived before you got here.”

  “I already told you that I wouldn’t—”

  She waved away his words. “I was horribly pushy that day, and I’m sorry. I realized that I was trying to force you to do something. Now I’d rather that you see on your own how important it is.”

  He had to step very carefully. He had to stay with his promise to God not to lie. “I thought your story was about homesteading.”

  “It is. But my readers will want to understand what brought you out here. Was it wanderlust? A desire for a better life? Greed?” Rose leaned toward him. “Can you help me understand?”

  “People homestead for many reasons,” he said. “Those are probably the prevalent ones.”

  “And which was yours?”

  She was persistent. Either he’d have to answer her question, or he’d have to divert her attention.

  “What is yours?” he asked her.

  She stopped and stared at him. “My what?”

  “Your motivation for coming out here. Why did you do it? Why did you choose me? What do you want?”

  “I don’t see what this has to do with—”

  “I’m trying to show you that there isn’t a simple answer, not for you, not for me.”

  He stood up and tore his bread into shreds, which he tossed toward the ducks. He had to end this conversation.

  “Let’s get back to work.”

  Chapter 8

  When you feel this open to God, it is tempting to believe that all is wonderful, all is good, and all can be believed. It is not so.

  As much as we wish otherwise, it simply is not so.

  Rose groaned as she climbed the stairs to her room at the Territorial. She had never worked so hard. Every muscle in her body screamed for relief. There was nothing she wanted more than a hot bath and sleep.

  How did people do this every day? She’d be lucky if she were able to move at all the next day. Eric, on the other hand, seemed tired but invigorated at the end of the day.

  He was quite an enigma, this man of the prairie. He had adeptly deflected her attempts to discover information about his past. If he thought this would deter her, though, he was mistaken.

  She’d wanted him to answer at least a bit about his life so she could have directed the conversation toward his life as a physician—and why he’d abandoned such a noble career.

  Of course, she didn’t have to know all that for her series to succeed. But if she could find out, it would make him come alive on paper.

  A young woman bearing hot water came into her room. As she filled the small tub in the room—a real luxury in the Territorial, Rose had found out—the maid chattered away. “This must be worlds away from Chicago. What are the stores like? How full are th
ey wearing their skirts now? We don’t have much here, but that doesn’t mean I have to look like an urchin, at least that’s what I tell my ma.”

  Rose’s mind was so exhausted that the talkative young lady’s words made little sense. She opted for nods and murmurs at what she hoped were appropriate times.

  “I guess there are fancy restaurants in the big city. Have you ever eaten at one? What are they like? Do you go to the theater?”

  Rose stifled a yawn. “I don’t—”

  “You have the most glamorous job ever. Writing the society column must be lots of fun! How did you get your job at the newspaper? I don’t think anybody else here had quite as exciting a job. Well, there was an actress, Laura something, but she didn’t stay. And Mr. Johansen, of course, but it’s mainly that cloud of suspicion, you know, that makes him so mysterious.”

  “Suspicion?” Suddenly she was wide awake.

  The young woman tested the water with her elbow. “There. That should do it.”

  “You were talking about Eric Johansen?” Rose prompted.

  “I was?”

  “You said something about a cloud of suspicion.”

  “Oh, that.” She wiped up a spot of water that had dropped on the floor. “I don’t know anything for sure, just that he didn’t leave wherever he was without some question about something or the other. Something that wasn’t too good, if you get my drift, but I don’t know what. That’s all. Have a good sleep, Miss Kelly.”

  And with that, Rose was alone—and wide awake.

  Eric looked across the field warily. There was no sign of Big Ole anywhere on the horizon. Maybe Rose wasn’t coming out again today.

  It had been almost two weeks since she’d come out and worked with him. It stunned him to think of it that way, but that’s what she had done—worked with him.

  He hadn’t seen her since then. He hadn’t made it to church thanks to a latch on the ducklings’ cage that hadn’t hooked properly. Sunday morning he’d spent in a torrential downpour trying to corral them from the places they’d chosen to roost.

  His worship service had been private and very personal and heavy with thanks to God for keeping the ducklings safe during their nocturnal explorations.

  The weekend’s rains had kept him indoors, which was in its own way a blessing. One of the things he hadn’t expected in farming was how frequently things broke. Reins snapped, bolts got stripped, and wheels cracked.

  He’d taken the time of solitude to fix what he could. He’d hammered and patched and nailed until at last he’d accumulated a satisfying pile of repaired items.

  He hadn’t been able to mend everything, though. His stove was a cranky old thing, and the time had come to replace it with something more reliable. The oven door didn’t seal properly, and he tended not to use it during summer since it made the kitchen—and the rest of the house—unbearably warm.

  As the days got hotter, he’d find even less reason to cook or bake, but he told himself, as he combed his hair and checked his shirt for spots and stains, that there was no future in delaying the inevitable. He’d need a new stove come winter. He might as well start shopping for it now. No sense in putting it off.

  Plus, an annoying little voice told him he might, just might, run into a certain newspaperwoman with hair the color of the sunset and eyes as green as a poplar leaf.

  He pushed the notion from his mind. Rose Kelly was nothing to him—and he was nothing to her. He’d seen her type before: the woman who had her goals in sight and would let nothing—and no one—interfere. But more importantly, he’d seen softness in a woman, a woman who…

  Eric let the thought trail away unfinished. Some areas of the past were totally unproductive to revisit. This was one.

  He shoved his hat onto his head, but when he got outside, he took it off again. The recent rains had left the air humid and heavy. By midafternoon, the sun would have baked all the moisture out. It was looking to be a scorcher.

  Quite a crowd had gathered outside the general store when he arrived. “What’s going on?” he asked one of the children who was standing on tiptoe, trying to peer through the window.

  “It’s that singing lady,” the boy answered, bobbing back and forth in an effort to see inside.

  “ ‘Singing lady’?”

  “That woman from New York City. She’s singing tonight at the town hall, remember?” The boy craned his neck farther. “Oh, look! There she is. Wait! Here she comes!”

  Charlotta Allen glided through the door of the store like a grand ship sailing into port. Feathers plumed from her green sequined hat perched atop hair that was an unnatural shade of blond, and her purple velvet dress was crusted with thick ivory lace. Red boots peeked out from under her hem.

  “Wow,” the boy breathed in awe, “I can smell her from here.”

  Eric tried to disguise his laugh with a cough, but he wasn’t successful, and at the last moment as his laughter hung in the air, he saw the horrified face of Rose Kelly over the singer’s shoulder.

  Suddenly his laughter evaporated, and he tried to cover his embarrassment by ducking his head. Some of the townspeople trailed after the singer as she began her promenade to the town hall, while others returned to their business.

  Rose stood a moment, clearly torn as to which way to go. Finally she said to him, “For my article,” and caught up with the singer.

  He entered the store and choked as the smell of the singer’s thick perfume assailed him. Freya Trease raised her eyebrows and nodded toward the street. “I’m thinking of boiling some onions to cover that.”

  The laughter came back, this time unrestrained.

  “It’s been a pleasure meeting you.” Rose nodded at the singer as she began her vocal warm-ups in the small room at the back of the town hall. Walking as rapidly as she could without running, she fled to the door and practically fell outside, taking in great gulps of fresh air.

  Eric was standing off to the side, talking to a cluster of people, and he grinned when he saw her. He spoke briefly to the others and came to join Rose.

  “Needed a breath of unperfumed air?” he said.

  “Desperately. It wouldn’t be so bad, except I don’t think she’s bathed in weeks. There just isn’t enough perfume in the world to cover that—although Miss Allen certainly has tried.”

  He smiled. “It’ll be interesting when all of Jubilee crowds in there. It’s going to get a bit close, I suspect.”

  Rose shuddered. Just a few minutes in the store and then in the town hall’s back room with Charlotta Allen had been a few minutes too many. She’d had an idea that an interview with the singer would make an interesting sidelight with her articles, but she was more than ready to abandon that angle.

  “I can’t,” she whispered. “I just can’t.”

  “You know,” he said, “it’s going to be packed in there. They’ll probably have to open the doors to keep it fairly cool. We could sit out here and listen.”

  “What a wonderful idea! There’s even a bench there already.”

  Rose thought back to what the chambermaid had said, about Eric’s leaving under “a cloud of suspicion.” She hadn’t been able to puzzle it out. What could he have done that was so terrible?

  And was she safe—working with him at the farm? Sitting with him tonight? They would be within shouting range of the audience if something happened. At his place, she’d have to be especially careful.

  After everyone had gone into the building, they sat on the bench. “Do you think they’ll miss us?” Rose asked, quite aware of his presence beside her. In contrast to Charlotta Allen, he smelled wonderfully of soap and sun.

  “If they do, they’ll be jealous that they didn’t think of it.”

  Jealous because they’re not sitting next to Eric.

  Someone came and propped open the door. “Sorry there aren’t any more seats in here, folks. We’re plumb full up.”

  “That’s all right,” Eric called back. “We’ll enjoy it out here.”

  “Abs
olutely,” Rose added under her breath.

  The first notes of the concert spilled out of the hall into the evening air. Rose recognized the piece: It was an aria from Carmen. She had heard it performed several times in Chicago, but never quite like this. The notes wobbled and exploded as Miss Allen sang.

  “Is it supposed to sound that way?” Eric asked.

  “Not exactly,” she hedged, trying to be charitable, but the expression on his face stopped her. It was a mixture of disbelief and surprise. “The truth? Not at all.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?” She stared at him. “Why would you say that?”

  “I was afraid my ears had gone bad.”

  “They might if you had to listen to this every night.” Rose clapped her hand over her mouth. “That was mean. I’m sorry.”

  “No problem.” Eric leaned back and looked at the sky. “No more rain, I guess.”

  “That would be a nice relief. I spent the weekend in my room at the hotel, working on the articles and even reading a bit.” She didn’t tell him all she had done—which included a lot of daydreaming about a certain farmer with the brightest blue eyes she’d ever seen.

  She needed to change the subject. “Is Downy all right? I worried about him in the rain,” she said.

  “Rose, he’s a duck. He likes being wet.”

  “I suppose.”

  The aria crescendoed to a thundering end, and the diva launched right into another operatic selection. At one time, Charlotta Allen might have been a talented soprano, but her voice was past its prime, her range too limited to perform solo works.

  The thought that the woman was traveling through small towns in the Dakota Territory, reliant on heavy perfume for hygiene, saddened Rose.

  “Do you have a family in Chicago?” Eric asked.

  She sat up straight, glad for the interruption of her dreary thoughts. “What an odd question.”

  “Why is it odd? You’ve asked me.”

  “Yes, but I was interviewing you.”

  “And now I’m interviewing you.”

  “Fair enough. Yes, I have a family. My parents are still very much a part of my life—and of me. I think I take after my father. He’s big and boisterous and opinionated.”