Sasha walked her doll up Wyatt’s arm. “Katya hungry.”
“Then it’s settled,” Wyatt said. “We can’t keep Katya waiting.”
Charlotte allowed the corners of her mouth to curve. He was so good with Sasha, unlike Charles, whose size often frightened the little girl.
As Charlotte took his arm, she felt like they’d become a real family.
“By the way.” Wyatt paused at the door. “I told Mrs. Allen.”
Charlotte didn’t have to ask what he’d told the hotel proprietress. Now one of the biggest gossips in Evans Grove knew she had married Wyatt. She squeezed her eyes shut at the thought of what people must think of her. By now, the whole town would know, and it wouldn’t take long for comments to reach Sasha’s ears. Charlotte had to explain the situation to her soon, but how could she tell a little girl that her papa would leave her in a few days?
* * *
Supper had passed more agreeably than Wyatt thought possible. Charlotte had chattered away with everyone who stopped by their table, accepting congratulations on her marriage as well as compliments on her dress. Even Beatrice Ward congratulated them, though Wyatt suspected that was because she counted Wyatt on her side against the orphans.
The spinster was going to be mighty displeased come Monday.
But Wyatt had no time to waste on Miss Ward when Charlotte sat before him, afire like a brilliant jewel. That reminded him of her empty ring finger. She deserved a wedding band. She deserved a loving husband. Even if he couldn’t be the latter, he’d send her a ring once he set up shop in San Francisco.
Tonight he settled for feasting on her dazzling beauty and equally stunning gown. He was no tailor, but he could see that the precise stitching and perfect fit meant her late husband had hired an expert dressmaker. The man might not have improved his house, but he certainly spent money on her attire. Yet she’d claimed their marriage was loveless. Those two facts didn’t fit. Either she’d gotten the gown from someone other than her husband, or she wasn’t telling the whole truth about her marriage.
The idea that she was hiding something bothered Wyatt, but he had the sense not to ask questions on a woman’s wedding day. Plus, he enjoyed having her on his arm. Imagine, a man like him married to a beauty like Charlotte. No one who’d known him since the war would believe it.
The skies opened before they reached her house, soaking them to the bone. He expected Charlotte to wail over her ruined gown, but she giggled like a girl as they ran through the pelting rain. He scooped up Sasha and followed her as she danced around the puddles. Her wet and muddy skirts tangled around her legs, but she only laughed more. This was a woman after his heart.
By the time they burst into the house and collapsed on the chairs around the table, Wyatt felt more at home than he had in years.
“You look like a soggy beetle,” he joked.
“A beetle?” She feigned displeasure as she tugged the fussy hat off her head, releasing the pent-up curls that he’d longed to touch all day. The damp ringlets tumbled around her porcelain face, making her look even more like a doll. He ran a finger along her jaw, where the drips had gathered. To his surprise, she didn’t pull away. Instead, she drew in her breath and gazed right into his eyes. He couldn’t look away.
“You’re beautiful when you’re wet.” Despite every effort, his voice came out ragged.
Her lips formed a perfect O as those eyes widened.
“And when you’re dry,” he added.
She ducked her head as the compliment flushed her cheeks. “I should get Sasha dried off and changed so she doesn’t catch a fever.”
The little girl played with her doll, oblivious to what had just happened between her new parents.
Charlotte darted a quick glance at him. “Will you light a fire?”
He knew she was being sensible, but he hated to let the moment pass. It couldn’t last, of course. They both knew their marriage would never be real, no matter how tempting it was to pretend a little, just for now.
So he dripped across the plank floor and checked the stove’s firebox. A good bit of stirring uncovered a few embers. He added coal from the scuttle, opened the dampers and poked at the coals until the fire took off.
Meanwhile, Charlotte changed Sasha into a nightgown and wrapped her in a blanket. Before long, the girl’s lids drooped, and she slipped off to sleep.
To his surprise, Charlotte put her in the bed on the main floor. In most one-room houses, that bed belonged to the husband and wife. Then again, most houses these days had a separate bedroom, whereas Charlotte only had a curtain. He couldn’t understand why her late husband hadn’t built a wall for privacy.
The cabin—and that’s really what it was—consisted of a single ground-floor room with the kitchen on one side, the table in the middle and the bed on the other side. A small desk and one of those newfangled home sewing machines framed the front door. Opposite, a ladder led up to a loft. That was usually where the children slept. Sasha was probably too small to sleep upstairs, especially by herself. The open trunk downstairs and Charlotte’s mourning dress hanging on a hook by the bed meant she slept downstairs, too. But he saw no men’s clothing. Either she’d packed her late husband’s clothes away or the sleeping arrangements had changed prior to the man’s death.
Once Charlotte pulled the curtain closed and tiptoed across the plank floor to join him, darkness shrouded all but the small area illuminated by the oil lamps he’d lit while she was singing to Sasha.
“She’s asleep,” she whispered. She bit her lip as she noticed he was still in his wet clothing. “I’m sorry. I should have told you that you could change in the loft.”
So that’s where she expected him to stay. “You go first.” He motioned toward the ladder. “I’m used to being wet.”
She blushed and looked away. “How do you stay dry on the trail?”
“Find cover when I can,” he said flatly.
“And when you can’t?”
Shiver. Endure. “I get by. I’m a lot tougher than you. Go on now. I promise not to look.”
Her cheeks colored again, and she hesitated.
“I could go outside. In the rain.”
“No.” Her voice sounded strangled, just like it had in the church. “That’s not it. I—I—I can’t unbutton the back.”
He laughed before he caught himself. That’s what was bothering her? “I do know how to undo buttons.”
Her face blazed red. “I hate to ask.” Her voice quivered.
What did she fear? He wouldn’t hurt her. “I am your husband.”
After a flicker of uncertainty, she turned around.
Down the back of her dress ran a line of little round buttons inside a row of equally small fabric loops. Sweet stars, he’d never get his fingers around those delicate little things. They were so close together and so tiny.
“I knew it was hopeless,” she wailed. “I should never have let Holly talk me into wearing this dress. Why didn’t I think about how I’d get out of it?”
“It’s not hopeless,” he said through clenched teeth. “Hold still.”
Again, she obeyed.
He gingerly fingered the first button. How in blazes did these things work? He tried to get his broad, calloused fingers between the buttons and under the fabric loop to no avail.
“Maybe try a button hook?” She whisked off to retrieve the metal hook.
Wyatt didn’t see how that was going to make things easier. The hook was made for boots and shoes, not delicate wet silk dresses.
“Don’t move,” he instructed as he bent over her back. The lamp gave just enough light to pick out the fabric loop. With a little wiggling, he managed to get the button hook under the loop and pull it over the button. “Got it!”
“You did?” She sounded as amazed as he was.
That was just one button, but once he mastered the technique, he could unhook loops with relative ease—and speed. Standing this close to her, though, was wreaking havoc on his resolve to keep hi
s emotional distance. Wyatt Reed did not feel anything for anyone. Get in, do the job and get out. He silently repeated the words, trying to convince himself.
She turned when he stopped, her brow creased. “Are you done?”
He could have nodded, should have just nodded, but in that moment he had to do something to stop the feelings raging through him. So he jabbed at her the only way he knew how.
“After you’ve changed, I want the money.”
Her eyes shot wide as if he’d just leveled a gun at her.
But he couldn’t stop the cruelty. If he did, she’d want a real husband and a father for Sasha. So he hit harder.
“I held up my end of the bargain. I expect you to honor yours.”
Her color drained before anger took hold. Grabbing her shawl from the hook by the door, she wrapped it around her shoulders. “I always honor my word.”
He hated himself for hurting her, but he couldn’t let her close again. She might discover who he really was.
She strode to the small desk by the door and lifted its lid. “Please look away.”
She didn’t trust him? Annoyed, he pretended to close his eyes but kept them slitted enough to see her remove a drawer and rummage behind it before pulling out the wallet she’d shown him earlier. His irritation grew. She’d offered him all her money earlier and now she didn’t want him to see where she hid it. As if he’d steal her money!
She handed him the wallet. “Take it. Take it all.”
The leather burned against his palm. Blood money. The woman was a widow. She had no means to support herself and her child. He felt like Judas taking silver from the chief priests.
“Only what we agreed on.” He opened the wallet and removed the same amount Baxter had offered him. “Keep the rest.” He set the wallet on the desk.
She stared at it, her hand still clutched to her breast. “You’ll stay until I adopt Sasha?”
“I always keep my word.”
She slowly nodded. “Thank you.” It came out in a whisper, as if the words hurt.
They stood in silence for long minutes, the lamp flickering. In the soft, yellow glow, she looked even more lovely, and he hated himself for hurting her.
“I’ll sleep in the loft,” he blurted out.
She didn’t offer to follow him. Instead, her gaze slipped toward the curtained-off bed where Sasha slept. “That would be best.”
He wanted to put his arms around her. He wanted to promise to be the husband she deserved, but he couldn’t. His past carried too many mistakes that would eventually find their way here. For her sake he would complete this barter they’d made and be on his way.
“Good night.” He crossed the room in four steps and hurried up the ladder.
Maybe alone in the loft he could forget the woman that slept below on this, their wedding night.
Chapter Eleven
“Time to get ready for church!” The clatter of pans and the bright command pulled Wyatt from deep sleep. A woman was calling him to church. Why? Where was he?
Wyatt rubbed his eyes and gradually took in his surroundings. A plank ceiling sloped above his bed. An open trunk stood at the head of the bed with men’s trousers and shirts stuffed into it. At the foot of the bed, two shelves had been fixed to the wall. One contained half-burnt candles and a small, framed daguerreotype of a woman. The other held a few books. Beneath him, straw poked through the ticking of the mattress, which was damp from perspiration.
A girl’s giggle came from below. Sasha. He was in Charlotte Miller’s house. In the loft. And he’d married her.
Last night he’d lain awake for hours before falling into a fitful sleep, tormented with nightmares. This morning, every muscle ached. His head wouldn’t clear.
He stretched his limbs before sitting up. Sometime during the night he’d pushed the quilt and sheets off the bed. It was hot here at the top of the house. He’d shed his shirt and trousers last night. They sat neatly folded on top of his saddlebags next to the trunk. His belt, coat and hat draped over a squat stool. He checked under the pillow for his gun.
Still there.
Sunlight peeked through the vents at the roof peak and the chinks in the siding. If he was staying, he’d fill those before winter, or Charlotte and Sasha would shiver from cold. But he wasn’t. In a day or two he would wrap up the orphan business and legally adopt Sasha. Then he could leave.
He slipped into his trousers and buttoned them before taking advantage of the chance to look around the loft in daylight. From the looks of the clothes in the trunk, Charlotte’s late husband slept up here. The man must have been large, broad across the shoulders and wide in girth. He riffled through the trunk. No women’s clothing.
Odd. At least he kept a picture of her.
He put on his shirt and then crawled to the shelves. A small pewter spoon lay in front of the picture, which was ringed with the candles. It almost looked like a shrine.
As he reached for the spoon, he noticed the image in the picture was not Charlotte but another woman with a typically severe expression. Who was she? Charles Miller’s first wife, the one Charlotte had mentioned to him before? Whoever she was, she’d meant more to him than Charlotte.
“Breakfast,” Charlotte called out from below.
Her voice startled him, and he shoved the picture back onto the shelf. The aroma of bacon made his stomach rumble.
“Wyatt?” Her bright tone failed to mask fear and hesitation. “Are you awake?”
He hurried toward the ladder. “I’m almost finished dressing.”
“Good. We’ll have to eat quickly so we don’t miss Sunday worship.”
Wyatt swallowed his irritation. It’d been half a lifetime since he’d arranged his schedule to a woman’s liking, and he wasn’t about to start now. He buckled on his belt and holster. With his gun on his hip, he felt himself again. Grabbing the buckskin coat and hat, he headed down the ladder.
“Good morning.” She looked up from pouring milk into a tin cup for Sasha.
Three plates containing bacon, potatoes and eggs sat before three of the chairs. She’d placed him at the head of the table, doubtless where her late husband had presided. Charlotte wore a plain gray dress that did nothing for her sunset-kissed hair and porcelain complexion.
He set his coat and hat on the empty chair and noticed the open Bible at the empty table setting.
She offered a tentative smile. “I thought you might like to read the scripture this morning, but do pick a short passage. We’re running a bit late.”
His throat closed. Other than yesterday, Wyatt hadn’t set foot in a church since Sherman’s march. God might have spared him for the wedding, but He wouldn’t want a man like Wyatt in His house on a regular basis.
He strode past the Bible. “You do it.”
She looked startled, even a bit worried, but thankfully didn’t harp on him. With the gentleness of the biblical Ruth, she lifted the Book and read the passage about loving your neighbor as yourself.
He frowned, annoyed that she’d picked that passage. He hoped she didn’t expect him to love her, because that wasn’t part of the bargain.
He dug into the potatoes.
She softly cleared her throat. “We need to say grace.”
He gulped down the mouthful. It’d been so long since he’d eaten in a Christian home that he’d forgotten.
She had Sasha fold her hands and then turned to him. “Would you like to do the honors?”
The potatoes felt like lead in his gut. “No, ma’am.” Best she know right away that he wasn’t the praying type.
She stared at him, as if assessing why he’d refuse to say grace, before turning back to her plate. “Very well. I’ll do it.”
But she looked disappointed, and a small part of him wished he still believed in a good and generous God, full of love and mercy. As a boy, he’d believed what the Bible said, that all things turned out for good for those who loved the Lord. He’d celebrated God’s creation. That had ended in the war. He’d see
n no love or mercy there. Then came the fiery march... He fought the memories that still seared. That putrid smell of the dead and dying. That roar of flames not quite loud enough to drown the cries for mercy. That raging bloodlust of hatred that had turned him into a beast. No good and loving God would have created such a man.
She folded her hands and waited for him to do likewise.
He scowled, set down his fork and bowed his head. That was as much as he’d give her.
After a moment’s hesitation, she softly prayed for blessing on the food. The lilt of her voice mesmerized him. He could get used to hearing that every day. He even appreciated her devotion to religion. Most women needed that. But he couldn’t fit her idea of a good, God-fearing husband.
After she finished, he cleared his throat. “I have business to take care of while you’re in church.”
She stopped eating, fork in midair. “What possible business could you have on a Sunday morning? Nothing is open except the hotel, and that’s only for guests.”
He kept his focus on the plate, shoveling the food in as quickly as possible. The sooner he got out of this house, the better. “I need to ride to Greenville.”
“Greenville?” A flicker of alarm tinged her voice.
He reached for the cup of steaming coffee. “That’s right.”
“What’s in Greenville? You’re not...” Her voice trailed off as it usually did when she got to something she was afraid to say.
No, he wasn’t seeing Baxter, but he wasn’t about to explain his investigation to her, not with Sasha sitting there.
“I’m going for business,” he reiterated.
She frowned. “But everyone at church will ask where you are. They’ll all know about the wedding by now, and those who haven’t heard will learn about it the moment they arrive. They’ll want to congratulate you.”
“Accept their congratulations on my behalf.”
“But they won’t understand your absence. What do I tell them?”
“Whatever you want.” He’d finished eating. “Better they don’t expect me to be around.” He pushed back his chair.
Sasha watched him with those big, blue eyes. His conscience pricked, but it was better this way. When he left for good, the townspeople would rally around her. The people of Evans Grove were warm and compassionate. They’d deem him the villain and do all they could for Charlotte and Sasha. He’d try to send money when he could, but he wasn’t going to be tied to her or this town a minute longer than necessary.
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