Wolf Creek Wife

by Penny Richards

  A Marriage of Inconvenience!

  After a storm strands her overnight in Will Slade’s cabin, Blythe Granville’s reputation is in shambles. The townspeople doubt that she was innocently nursing him back to health after saving his life. Now Blythe must accept Will’s proposal: a marriage in name only to save her good name. But the former socialite is determined not to fall for her new husband...even if she’s drawn to the gruff stranger who’s vowed to stand by her, in sickness and in health.

  Will never wanted to remarry after his ex-wife betrayed him. But now he finds himself hitched to a city girl who has no idea how to keep a house...but is somehow chiseling her way into his heart. As Blythe melts Will’s crusty facade, though, they’re discovering that this most unexpected union might just lead to true love.

  Will wasn’t prepared for the little tingle of awareness that sizzled through him at the feel of her small, warm hand in his.

  Their gazes clung. “One more thing,” he told Blythe, without releasing his hold.

  “Yes?”

  “Regardless of what we’ve done or been or what’s happened in the past to bring us to this point, I’ve always believed that marriage is forever. Once we say ‘I do,’ there’s no going back. Whatever happens, we talk it out, work through it.”

  Even as he said the words he heartily believed, he wondered if he could stick to them. What if she was another Martha, a snooty, snotty, spoiled rich girl who expected him to wait on her hand and foot and give her whatever her heart desired? He suppressed a shudder. Well, whatever the future held, he’d just have to keep his end of the deal. They’d already shaken hands.

  Penny Richards has been publishing since 1983, writing mostly contemporary romances. She now happily pens inspirational historical romance and loves spending her days in the “past” when things were simpler and times were more innocent. She enjoys research, yard sales, flea markets, revamping old stuff and working in her flower gardens. A mother, grandmother and great-grandmother, she tries to spend as much time as possible with her family.

  Books by Penny Richards

  Love Inspired Historical

  Wolf Creek Wedding

  Wolf Creek Homecoming

  Wolf Creek Father

  Wolf Creek Widow

  Wolf Creek Wife

  Love Inspired

  Unanswered Prayers

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  PENNY RICHARDS

  Wolf Creek Wife

  “I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord.

  “Plans to prosper you and not to harm you,

  plans to give you hope and a future.”

  —Jeremiah 29:11

  This book is for my good friend and favorite librarian, Ginny Evans. I can’t thank you enough for your support and all the hard work you do to “get out the word” about my books.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Make-Believe Beau by Keli Gwyn

  Chapter One

  Wolf Creek, Arkansas, Early March 1887

  Blythe Granville vaulted into the saddle and settled herself astride the horse, even though the action hiked up her skirts to show a shameful portion of ankle. Without so much as a glance at the scandalized young man who’d saddled the rented mare, she kicked the animal into a trot and headed out of town.

  The Arkansas winter had been long, cold, wet and filled with shame, anger and melancholy. Today, Saturday, was the first day to hint at the promise of spring, the first to offer an escape from the strictures of her new life.

  The feelings of unrest were new and totally unlike her. She’d always been the shy, quiet sister to her two brothers, Philip and Win Granville, and her half brothers, Caleb and Gabe Gentry—all self-assured, confident individuals who were successful in a variety of ways. She was the embarrassment of the family. The failure.

  Even her mother, Libby Granville, was following her dream of opening a library. And to cap the climax, she’d recently accepted retired doctor Edward Stone’s marriage proposal. Her mother was marrying a man who adored her, while Blythe’s fledgling dreams of finding love were reduced to ashes and she was teaching school in a little town in Arkansas.

  Her mother, who had been living in Wolf Creek for a while, and Win, who had moved there permanently near the end of December, had settled into their new lives just fine, but the slow pace of Wolf Creek was smothering what little spirit was left in Blythe after the recent debacle that destroyed her life and any future she’d hoped to have. Wolf Creek was a nice, quiet place to live and raise a family if you liked small, leisurely paced places, but she’d grown up in Boston and loved the hustle and bustle of the big city.

  Nevertheless, here she was and here she’d stay, thanks to Devon Carmichael, with whom she’d eloped just after Thanksgiving, finally giving in to his constant pleas to marry him. Three days later, on the afternoon after they’d returned from their wedding, Philip, who’d hired a Pinkerton detective to look into Devon’s background, had confronted her with the news that her new husband was not Devon Carmichael, but one Wilbur Delaney. Not only had he lied about his background, he already had a legal wife hidden away somewhere. Devon, the man who had promised to be faithful to her for the rest of his life, was a bigamist, not to mention a liar and a thief.

  Blythe was beyond mortified by the scandal that ensued, and worse, she was horrified that she had consummated her marriage to a man who was not actually her husband. The ever-practical Philip was more concerned that the wedding had given Devon control of the inheritance she’d received from her father on her twenty-first birthday. Hoping it was not too late, she and her brother had gone immediately to the bank, only to find that the money was gone, moved to heaven only knew where, and so was Devon, alias Wilbur.

  As news of the scandal spread throughout Boston society, her friends had turned their backs on her one by one, and Philip had suggested—no, insisted—that she move to Arkansas with Win, who would be making his permanent home in Wolf Creek. Philip told her that it would be a good place to let her heart and emotions heal and to make a new life for herself.

  The problem was that Blythe did not want a new life. She liked her old one just fine, thank you very much! And even if she did want to start over, she wasn’t sure how to go about it. Though her two Granville brothers were scandalized that she wanted to go into trade, she’d always dreamed of owning her own boutique where she would style and sew gowns for the socially elite.

  Part of her wondered how she could have been so naïve as to fall for Devon’s lies. The realistic part of her knew it was in part because she was inexperienced and innocent and also because, at twenty-three, she was on the shelf and overly anxious to find a husband and be married. Simply put, she’d been in love with the notion of
being in love rather than the man himself, and that made her easily swayed.

  Devon’s betrayal had dashed that dream and crushed her girlish fantasies. According to her brothers, her chances of ever finding a husband who would overlook her lack of common sense was almost nonexistent, so, at Philip’s insistence, she’d come to Wolf Creek with no plans beyond lying low and licking her wounds.

  She’d been surprised when, within days after her arrival, Mayor Homer Talbot had come to plead with her to take the job as schoolteacher for the remainder of the year, since he would be losing his prize instructor, Allison Grainger, when she married Sheriff Garrett on New Year’s Eve.

  Blythe realized teaching was a noble calling, but it wasn’t hers. Her mind wasn’t filled with letters and numbers and geography lessons. It was overflowing with images of bolts of fabric in every color and texture, delicate laces and satin ribbons, pearl buttons and faux flowers. Even so, she’d agreed to finish out the year. As her mother said, at least it would help pass the time.

  Feeling the tension on the reins, the mare tossed her head, bringing Blythe back into the dreary present. She slowed the horse to a walk. At least the wild ride had soothed her smarting pride. She turned the mare down a narrow lane and rode for several minutes, praying as she went, asking God’s forgiveness for being so headstrong, asking Him to help her settle into her new life, to find happiness in Wolf Creek, and if not happiness, something worthwhile and satisfying to fill the emptiness she saw stretching out forever.

  Stopping to get her bearings, she spied a pretty white house in the distance. As she sat wondering who lived there, she became aware of the chuckling of a nearby creek and the barking of a dog. Deciding to investigate, she dismounted and headed toward the sounds. She’d no more than reached the edge of the creek bank when the dog—very huge and very black—approached and began barking at her.

  Blythe stood stock-still, her hand clenched around the horse’s reins. She hadn’t been around dogs much and had never seen one the size of this creature. It was big and raw-boned and as black as night. As she stood there, uncertain what to do, the hound came closer, barked and then turned and started back the way it had come. When she only stood there, he repeated the gesture twice more. Realizing that he didn’t intend to tear her limb from limb, she began to understand that he was trying to get her to follow him.

  After tying the reins to a bush, she trailed after the dog to a spot about twenty yards farther down the creek, where she found him licking the face of a man lying on the damp ground.

  Blythe’s heart began to race. Who was it? What had happened? Should she go for help? Even as the questions raced through her mind, she was running to his side, taking in impressions as she went. Whoever he was, he was a big, burly man. Young.

  Kneeling beside him, she realized that despite his size, he was very fit and clearly no stranger to hard work. She couldn’t tell the color of his eyes, but his just-a-bit-too-long hair was a rich chocolate brown, a little curly and a lot unruly...as the man himself looked. His nose was bold, straight and well-formed. Several days’ growth of beard covered his lean cheeks.

  Sudden recognition caused her to draw in a shocked breath.

  Will Slade.

  And she knew exactly what color his eyes were. Black. As black as sin.

  Will, the owner of a small sawmill, had been one of the favored subjects of town prattle, all because his pretty wife had run away with a bigwig from Springfield and divorced him. After that, he was rumored to hit the corn pretty regularly. Those same gossips claimed that he’d sobered up and was once again walking the straight and narrow, though he’d grown bad-tempered and moody. She’d also heard that his wife wanted him back.

  All Blythe really knew about him was that he’d intervened on her behalf when a pushy reporter who’d followed her from Boston had made a scene at the train station the day she and Win arrived in town.

  She stared down at Will, wondering what she should do. His breathing was heavy, labored. Had he fallen off the wagon, got drunk and passed out? She was almost afraid to try to wake him, since she’d heard that some people got mean when they were liquored up. She leaned down to see if she could smell alcohol on his breath.

  Nothing she could discern. She did notice, though, that there was a rattling in his chest. Alarmed, she pressed a palm to his forehead. He was burning up with fever. He wasn’t drunk; he was sick. What should she do? she wondered as she chewed on her lower lip. The testy Mr. Slade was not her favorite person, even though he had come to her rescue, but it would be criminal to leave him here to develop pneumonia—if he didn’t already have it.

  She glanced up through the still-bare trees. The day and the temperature were falling fast, and the clouds moving in looked swollen and rain-filled. The sunny springlike afternoon was fast reverting to winter, and the man lying on the cold, wet ground needed to be in a warm bed being spoon-fed chicken broth with Doctor Rachel Gentry attending him.

  Genuinely worried, Blythe grabbed his shoulder and gave it a rough shake. The dog barked. “Mr. Slade, wake up!”

  Nothing. She tried several more times with the same results while the dog stared at her, drool collecting at the corners of his drooping lower lip. Uncertain what else to do, she lightly slapped Will Slade’s whiskery cheeks. Before she had any inkling of what he was about, his eyelids flew upward, his heavy brows drew together and one hand had grabbed her wrist in a hard clasp.

  The dog growled and the man on the ground barked a hoarse, “Stop it!”

  Blythe gave a little yelp of her own and stared from her captured wrist to the dog and then to Slade’s face. The expression in his eyes was murderous, but she had enough wits about her to realize that fever dictated his actions.

  “I was only trying to wake you. You need to be inside, out of the damp air,” she explained, trying to pull free. “If I help you, can you stand?”

  “Stand? Of course I can stand,” he snapped.

  Then he looked around and frowned when he realized he was lying on the ground. If Blythe didn’t know better, she’d think she saw a hint of panic in his eyes.

  “What happened?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” she told him. “I was out for a ride when your dog—” she glanced at the beast sitting near his master’s shoulder “—led me to you. All I know is that you’re sick, and I need to get you to the house and go for the doctor.”

  She might as well have been talking to the dog. Will Slade’s eyes were closed and the tenor of his breathing told her he was unconscious again.

  Blythe pushed to her feet and stared down at him. She had no idea why he was out in the middle of the woods when he was so ill, but common sense told her that the house she’d seen must be his. How could she get him from here to there? She certainly couldn’t carry him! The sensible thing to do was to ride into town and bring back someone with a wagon, but a foggy mist was settling in and she feared that if she left him and the rain started in earnest, his condition would worsen.

  Think, Blythe.

  She recalled a piece she’d read in the newspaper a few months earlier about how the Plains Indians moved the sick, wounded and elderly on a contraption made with two long poles and pulled by an animal. She didn’t have any poles, but maybe she could fashion something comparable. She had designed an intricate and detailed wedding gown, for heaven’s sake. How hard could it be to take a quilt and make something to drag an unconscious man through the woods?

  Telling Will Slade that she would be back as fast as possible, knowing he didn’t hear her, she gathered her woolen skirt in her fists and ran back to the lane toward the house and barn in the distance. She heard the dog barking at her and, when she turned, she saw that he was still sitting beside his owner. The canine’s devotion was admirable; she’d give him that.

  Twenty minutes later she’d assembled a makeshift travois from a quilt she’d dragge
d from one of the beds and a couple of long pieces of rope she’d found in the barn. She tied the riggings to the saddle horn and let them trail along the horse’s sides, then attached the other ends to the corners of the quilt. The dog barked at her at regular intervals, and she was struck by the uncanny notion that he was urging her to hurry.

  “I’m going as fast as I can,” she grumbled. By the time she finished, her fingers were numb with cold.

  Back down on her hands and knees, she shoved with all her might until she’d rolled the sick man onto the quilt. With a little prayer that he wouldn’t fall off or the knots give way, she led the mare out of the clearing while the dog trotted along beside his master. Thank goodness the rain had held off.

  Her good fortune was short-lived. By the time the little caravan reached the front porch and she’d tied the horse to the hitching post, it had begun to drizzle. She was chilled to the bone and wanted nothing more than to be out of the weather in front of a fire.

  The problem was how to get the unconscious man inside.

  Unable to come up with another idea, she undid the ropes from the saddle horn and tied them around her waist. Using the muscles of her legs and arms and every bit of strength she could muster, she inched her way up the porch steps and shuffled across the painted porch boards and through the doorway that led to a combined kitchen and sitting area.

  Once they were inside, she closed the door and untied the ropes from around her middle. Rain fell in sheets. A crack of lightning rent the sky, followed by a boom of thunder. Blythe cringed. She hated storms, and this one was gaining strength by the minute.

  The dog barked from the other side of the door. Did he want in? She gnawed on her lower lip in indecision. Would Will be furious at her if she let the creature inside? And did she want the huge animal in the same room with her, when she wasn’t sure he liked her much?

  When he began barking again, she grabbed a flour-sack towel from the tabletop and jerked open the door simultaneously as another boom of thunder hit. The mutt almost knocked her over in his haste to get inside. Despite the situation, she almost laughed. The big baby was as frightened of the storm as she was. So much for his bad-dog act.