“Guide this rod, Lord!” Pastor Karl drew the rod back, then thrust it forward into the snow in front of them. The other men grabbed hold and, adding their waning strength to his, pushed the rod in to half its length. They took a step forward and shoved harder, fell in a heap. They glanced at one another, untangled themselves and grabbed the rod to try again. There was no resistance. They’d found the cave. But what of Minna? Was the little girl alive? The thought hung in the air, heavy and unspoken.
“Please, Lord, spare my Minna’s life.”
Konrad Karl’s words spurred them to action. Garret pushed his shovel into the gathering box and tossed the snow in it to the side of the tunnel. One way or another, they would use the sled to move the little girl out through the tunnel. Please, Lord... He didn’t believe in it, but he couldn’t stop the silent prayer.
“Minna! Minna, my child...my dear child...”
They’d found her! His stomach knotted. He grabbed the sled’s pull rope and watched Konrad Karl turn from the dark hole, his small daughter in his arms. Leaves tumbled from the hole, clung to Minna’s clothes. Trace Warren ripped off his glove, raised the child’s eyelids, felt her neck.
“She’s alive, but barely. Thank God for that pile of leaves! Get into the sled, Konrad, and hold her close. We need to get her warm.” Trace pulled off his jacket and covered the child. Blake gave the sled a shove.
Garret gripped the rope and hurried toward the light at the end of the tunnel.
Chapter Six
Garret raised a hand to bid Blake farewell, winced and lowered it to his side. Every muscle in his body reminded him he’d been shoveling snow since long before dawn. And it wasn’t over yet. He had to shovel out the woodpile and coal bin before he could stop. And then he would have to do what he could to repair any disasters his bride had caused while he was gone. Including making Mrs. Fuller’s bed—if the woman hadn’t left in a huff.
Weariness dragged at him. He frowned and turned onto the path he’d shoveled that morning to the hotel. What had Virginia done about the fires without him to bring in wood? The place was probably as cold as an icicle. And supper—what had she done about supper if Mrs. Fuller had stayed? He gripped his shovel tighter and glanced at his hotel looming in the darkness ahead of him. At least she hadn’t burned it to the ground. And she’d kept the lamps lit in the lobby. That was more than he’d expected.
He trudged up the steps and across the porch, stomped the snow from his boots and opened the door. Warmth hit him like a sledgehammer. He shot a glance toward the fireplace, blinked, shook his head and blinked again. Mrs. Fuller was sitting in a chair by the hearth, and a portly man was playing Patience at the game table. Another guest! He met their startled gazes, hid his surprise at their presence and dipped his head in greeting.
Soft footsteps blended with the hiss and crackle of the fire. “Oh! You’ve returned.”
There was accusation, irritation and a wealth of relief in the voice. He figured the last would overcome the others. At least he hoped so. He was in no mood for a sparring match with the spoiled Miss Winterman. Correction, the spoiled Mrs. Stevenson. He shifted his gaze to his bride standing in the dining room doorway with her arms full of wood. Stove wood. She was more industrious than he’d thought. And obviously desperate to keep the guests warm. He nodded, quickly wishing he hadn’t when a twinge of pain shot from his neck into his shoulders. “Yes, Minna is safe.” He stepped around Mrs. Fuller’s chair, leaned his shovel against the fireplace and took the wood from his wife.
“Minna?” Delicate eyebrows arched over shadowed blue eyes.
“Sorry. I forgot you don’t know her.”
“Or anyone else in town but the pastor and his wife.” She followed him to the hearth and brushed clinging bits of sawdust off her dress, annoyance in every quick flick of her hand. Her message of disgust with him was clear. Not that he could blame her. He’d left her in a tough situation.
He knelt in front of the fire. Steam rose from his wet pant legs. “Minna is Pastor Karl’s daughter. The oldest one. She’s six or seven...” He laid the wood on the fire and reached for the poker. “The doctor thinks she’ll be all right.”
“She is ill?”
“What? Oh, no—not exactly.” He brushed his hands off and rose, looked down. He was so close he could see tiny dark flecks deepening the blue in Virginia’s eyes. He stepped back. “She was trapped in a cave by an avalanche. We’ve been shoveling all day to get her out.”
“The poor child!”
The compassionate whisper brought the tightness back to his chest. He glanced over at Mrs. Fuller. The woman looked down at the book in her hand.
“She must have been terribly frightened.”
He turned back to Virginia. “I’m sure she was at first. But she was sort of...sleeping when we reached her. Dr. Warren says it’s because of the cold. There was a pile of leaves in the cave Minna huddled in. Trace—that’s the doctor—thinks they helped keep her alive. He thinks she’ll be all right once she gets warmed up.”
He rubbed the sore muscles at the back of his neck, rolled his shoulders and stole another look at his bride’s eyes. The shadow of annoyance was gone. They looked like two bright spots of summer sky. “I’ll bring in a load of firewood as soon as I clear the snow off the pile.” He grabbed his shovel and headed for the dining room doorway. Her skirts rustled behind him.
“I’m afraid we’ll need more than one load.” She rushed by, turned and faced him at the kitchen doors. “I used all of the wood for your setting room and kitchen fireplaces to keep the lobby and dining room warm—until after supper. Since then, I’ve been burning the stove wood in the lobby.”
“Ours.”
“What?”
“Our setting room and kitchen. We’re married.”
“Oh. Well, yes...” Her face went taut. “But not really.”
“Real enough.” He frowned, stretched out his arm and placed his hand on one of the doors. “I’m sorry I had to leave you in such a trying situation without any explanation, but there wasn’t any time to spare for talking.”
She nodded and stepped aside. “I understand...now.”
He studied her tense posture, listened to the underlying strain in her voice. Did she think he was angry with her? “You did a good job of keeping the guests warm and comfortable today. I was concerned over how you would manage with no wood supply. Thank you. It was very resourceful of you.” He didn’t have the courage to ask what she had done about supper. He shoved open the door and took a surreptitious sniff. There was no odor of burned food in the air. Only a hint of something spicy. His stomach growled. He frowned and stalked the length of the cold kitchen, shoved open the back door and kicked his way through the piled snow onto the porch.
* * *
Virginia slid behind the dining table and peered out the window. Light from the kitchen lit the center of the porch, glittering on the snow that flew off of Garret’s shovel into the darkness. Frosty air issued from the window. She frowned and drew back a little. Curtains would stop some of that chill, but there was no seamstress in town. No wonder all the windows were fitted with shutters.
She shivered and rubbed her upper arms to create warmth. Garret’s pant legs were wet. Were his socks wet, too? The thought sent another shiver coursing down her spine. How cold he must be! And strong—shoveling snow all day to save the pastor’s young daughter. That was a noble thing to do. And...surprising.
She leaned back against the table, lifted her hand and ran the curls dangling behind her ear through her fingers. Was she being unfair to Garret Stevenson? Was he an honorable, decent man? Dare she stop looking for hidden meanings in the things he said and let down her guard around him? Yet how could she when he said things like their marriage was “real enough”? Emory Gladen had acted honorable, too. In public.
She straightened, leaned close and squinted out the window.
Garret had disappeared into the darkness at the other end of the porch. How could he see to work? She inched out from behind the table and hurried into the pantry she had explored earlier. There had been a lantern on the shelf by the door. And matches beside it. Yes, there it was. She lit the wick, adjusted the flame and lowered the chimney back into place.
A gold circle appeared on the floor, swung beside her as she went back and stepped out onto the porch. The cold penetrated her wool dress and prickled her flesh. The lantern shook with her shivering.
“What are you doing out here?” Garret rushed toward her out of the dark. “Get back inside before you catch your death.”
“I thought a l-lantern would h-help.”
“It will. Thank you.” He grasped the handle and opened the door. “Now go and sit by the fire to get warm.”
She needed no coaxing. She stepped back into the kitchen and rushed toward the dining room to go to the lobby. The overhead lamplight threw her shadow on the cooking stove as she hurried by. She stopped, glanced back toward the porch. Garret had been out in the cold all day. What if he took sick? The least she could do was make certain he had hot food to eat when he came in.
She touched the cold stove, lifted the front plate and peered in. A few embers glowed among the ashes. She slipped in some kindling and opened the draft and the firebox door as Mrs. Fuller had done. The embers flickered, turned red. Small flames licked at the new fuel, caught hold and flared into a fire. She added the few pieces of stove wood left in the box, waited until they caught fire, then closed the door. She’d done it! All by herself! She put the stove plate back in place and smiled. If only she could tell Millie of her newly acquired skills. How surprised her maid would be.
She pulled down the door of the cold warming oven and lifted out the covered plate of food Mrs. Fuller had put in there after supper. “In case Mr. Stevenson comes home cold and hungry,” the woman had said. A frown stole her smile. She should have thought of that herself. It was her wifely duty to see to her husband’s comfort—even if theirs was not a real marriage. And it wasn’t. But it was real enough for them to require and to expect certain...considerations of one another. That must be what Garret had meant earlier. Well, he’d not find her wanting. She knew what was required to run a household efficiently; she simply didn’t know how to do it. But she would learn the skills she was lacking.
She set the plate of food on the stovetop to warm, and eyed the granite pot sitting at the back. An image of Garret cradling a cup of coffee in his hand flashed into her mind. A hot drink would be welcome to him, she was sure. How hard could it be to make coffee?
She whirled and headed for the lobby, her long skirts billowing at her quick movements. Hopefully, Mrs. Fuller had not retired for the evening...
* * *
Garret turned sidewise and fumbled for the doorknob. It pulled away from his groping fingers, and light flowed over him.
“I thought I heard you.” Virginia swung the door wide open.
He stepped into the kitchen, stopped and sniffed. “Coffee!” He shook his head and sniffed again, looked over his shoulder. “Do I smell coffee, or have I been wishing I had a cup for so long my imagination is playing tricks on me?”
Virginia laughed and closed the door. “It’s real coffee. I thought you might like something hot to drink when you finished shoveling snow.”
She had made coffee? “Smell’s good. But it will have to wait until I carry in enough firewood to warm it up in here and see us through the night.” He stomped his feet and headed for the sitting room, dumped the wood in his arms into the cradle and hurried back outside for more.
The coffee smelled better with every trip he made in and out, carrying the firewood. And there was something else. That faint spicy smell he’d noticed earlier was stronger. He was practically drooling by the time he had all the fires going. He rose from starting the kitchen fire, brushed off his hands and tugged off his hat. “I’ll be right back for that coffee. I need to get out of these wet clothes.”
His bedroom was cold. Not that he expected any different, but had she thought to add coal to her own bedroom stove throughout the day? He didn’t want another disaster if she tried to light one. He yanked off his boots, changed into dry pants and socks, and hurried back to the kitchen, his taste buds begging for that coffee and his stomach demanding food.
“Virginia, did you keep your bedroom fire going or—” He stopped, stared at the table. “What’s this?”
“I thought you would be hungry, so I heated your supper for you.”
He gazed at the plate of potato pancakes nestled against slices of ham with pieces of pineapple clinging to them. “You made this?”
“Yes. With help, of course.”
“Help?” He watched her hurrying toward him with the coffeepot in her hand. His pulse quickened. There was no denying the woman was beautiful. He jerked his thoughts back from that direction. “I don’t understand. Who—”
“Mrs. Fuller.”
“Our guest?” He caught back his words, looked down and watched her fill his cup. “Why don’t you join me at the table? I’d like to hear the story of how this came about.” And make certain it doesn’t happen again.
“Very well. Let me get a cup.”
He stood by a chair and waited to seat her. But she gave a little wave toward the table. “Please sit down and eat before your food gets cold. I’ll be right back.”
He sat, picked up his coffee and took a tentative swallow. The dark, rich brew washed over his tongue, slid down his throat. Perfect! He took a full swallow, put down his cup and picked up his knife and fork. If the food was as good as the coffee...
“I don’t blame you for being displeased about my asking Mrs. Fuller for help, Garret. But I assure you, it all came about accidentally.”
What was on the ham? He took another bite and all but smacked his lips at the delicious taste.
“She was so kind to me when she taught me how to make her bed this morning, that when—”
His head jerked up. “Mrs. Fuller taught you how to make her bed?” Well, that was one job he wouldn’t have to do tonight. But his hotel’s reputation! He scraped back his chair, shoved his hands through his hair. “Virginia, if you have a problem, I want you to come to me, not some strange woman who happens to be a hotel guest!”
“I would have, but when she said her bed was undone, and I apologized and told her it was my fault, that we were newly married, and that you didn’t know I had no housekeeping skills, she came to the bed and showed me what to do. She was most kind and understanding about it.”
“Nonetheless...if she mentions your incompetency to others—”
“I am not incompetent!” Her eyes flashed blue sparks. “Ask Mr. Anderson. I made his bed the way Mrs. Fuller showed me, and he’s very pleased.” Her shoulders stiffened like a soldier’s at attention. “And with his supper, too!”
“Which you made with Mrs. Fuller’s help?”
“Yes.”
He pulled in a breath, looked down at his plate and picked up his fork. “And that came about accidentally?”
“Well, I did ask her, but I didn’t intend to. I was...distraught over everything.” She looked down, traced the rim of her coffee cup with her fingertip.
“Everything?” He took a bite of potato, cut off another.
“Yes. Mrs. Fuller had stayed, which was good. But then you ran out without a word—and she saw that.”
Busybody. He scowled, took another bite of ham and potato.
“And then Mr. Anderson came. And the firewood was almost gone. And I didn’t know where it was outside or how to find it in the snow, so I used yours—I mean ours—and these rooms got colder and colder. And I kept thinking about the disaster I had caused at dinner and worrying about what I was going to do about supper. The mere thought of it made me feel ill.”
Me, too. But
all his worrying was a waste of time. The food was wonderful. He took the last bite and reached for his cup.
“I kept hoping you would come home in time, but the clock kept ticking and it got dark, and though I tried my best to keep my distress hidden, Mrs. Fuller sensed that I was upset and said she wished she could help.”
And what business was it of hers?
“And that’s when I blurted out, ‘Would you?’”
Her cheeks turned pink. Her gaze dropped to the table. His irritation sputtered and drowned. He really had left her in an untenable situation.
“Mrs. Fuller thought I was worried about you, but when I explained it was dinner that concerned me, she agreed to help.” Her teeth caught at her upper lip again. “I told her you would be happy to pay her. I’m sorry. I know I have no authority to do that, but I was desperate.”
He nodded, took another swallow of coffee and focused on her words. “I’ll pay her. But no more help from Mrs. Fuller.” He didn’t want the woman involved in his life. And he sure didn’t want to be embroiled with his bride any more than necessary—it was dangerous. “Unless there’s another emergency, I’ll be here. You come to me.”
“Very well.”
She rose and gathered his dishes.
He clamped his mouth shut to keep from asking what she was doing, and watched in silence as she carried them to the sink and slipped them into the dishpan. She was washing them! Was that more of Mrs. Fuller’s teach—
“I shall meet you here in the kitchen at dawn.”
“What?” He stared at her over the rim of his cup, grappling with the twinge of unease seeing her being so...housewifely caused. “Why?”
“Mrs. Fuller made dough and put it in the fireplace oven for overnight. She was going to show me how to bake bread and rolls in the morning.” She rinsed and dried his dishes, then glanced over her shoulder at him as she carried them to the large corner cupboard. “You do know how to bake bread?”
Mail-Order Bride Switch Page 8
