David told him the story, making sure to include all his very logical reasons. Wallace didn’t seem to buy into any of them, however, and shook his head when David had finished.
“You’ve gotten yourself in deep, haven’t you?
“I’m afraid I have, and the stakes are higher than I would have imagined. You know me, Wallace—I’m not the sort who goes around telling lies and trying to deceive people. It was momentary insanity, that’s what it was. And my first task on Monday will be to tell Miss Waterford the truth.”
Wallace leaned forward and fixed David with his gaze. “You’re going back Monday?”
“I am. I have to. I can’t leave this situation hanging like it is. I only came home long enough to make sure everything was going all right here at the ranch, and it looks like Henry’s doing a good job. I’m going to stop by his house, give him some generous wages, and ask him to keep on another week. Do you think a week is long enough for me to confess, repent, make it up to her, propose, get married, and bring her back here?” David chuckled as he spoke, realizing the absolute impossibility of the situation.
“I’m not even sure a week’s long enough to do the confessing, let alone all that other stuff.” Wallace sat back and shook his head. “I’m conducting the morning train to Topeka Monday. I’d love to come along to the hotel with you, say hello to my wife, and catch another look at this young woman who has you acting so crazy.”
“Crazy is an excellent way to describe it.”
Wallace nodded, then rose and shook David’s hand. “I’ll see you on the platform, then.”
***
Camille had been told that for those waitresses who liked to attend church on Sundays, the Brody Hotel had worked out a rotation so the girls with fewer religious inclinations served the morning train during the sermon. She thought that was a generous way to handle things—the waitresses who didn’t care for church didn’t mind letting the others go, and there wasn’t any pressure to conform to either schedule.
As she walked down the road toward the white-steepled chapel with Giselle, Grace, and Mrs. Dupree, Camille took a deep breath and exhaled. “I believe it smells like spring out here,” she said.
“I don’t think we’re going to get off that easily,” Giselle replied. “I think we’ve got another month of snow at least before the warm weather really hits.”
Camille lifted her arms to the sky and twirled around. “But it’s so warm out here! I’m not even going to think about the snow still on the ground. It doesn’t exist—not in my world.”
Grace laughed. “I think someone’s in a good mood.”
“I think someone has met a man,” Giselle replied.
Camille pretended to scowl. “Can I be in a good mood without a man being involved? Things don’t always have to come back to men, do they?”
“You can most certainly be in a good mood without a man,” Mrs. Dupree said. “I did it for years. However, now that I have one, I must say, there are advantages to it.”
“How long have you been married, Mrs. Dupree?” Camille asked.
“Oh, not very long at all. Not even a year.”
Camille was startled. “Not even a year? Were you single that whole time?”
“I was, and I was very happy. I enjoyed my work here at the Brody, I had family and friends, and I felt complete. Meeting and marrying Wallace was a very nice surprise, but I believe I would have been happy if I’d never married.”
Camille thought on that for a moment. It was so contrary to everything she’d ever heard or been taught—her mother had been very much of the opinion that it was a girl’s duty and obligation to marry as soon as she could so she’d be provided for throughout her life. Perhaps that’s why Camille had gravitated toward becoming a mail-order bride—she believed that she needed a husband before anything else.
She took a step around a puddle, her thoughts in a jumble. True, there hadn’t been any jobs in her community in Kentucky, but what if she’d chosen a different community or even crossed the border to a different state? What opportunities might have presented themselves to her then? If the world was changing, and indeed, it seemed that it must be, wouldn’t there be more chances for a woman on her own in the world to care for herself?
“Mrs. Dupree, you said you were happy being single, that you enjoyed your work. Is that kind of life possible for every woman? Can she really take care of herself and have that sort of fulfillment?”
Mrs. Dupree looked at her curiously. “Are you saying you don’t want to get married, Camille?”
“I . . . I don’t know what I’m saying. I suppose I just want to know what’s possible.”
Mrs. Dupree seemed to consider that. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing—the fact that my nephew owns the hotel where I worked was a big benefit to me. I’m not sure I would have found work so easily otherwise. I do, however, believe that women are capable of doing whatever’s necessary for their own survival. I have a friend who’s a very talented seamstress, and while her living isn’t elegant by any standard, she’s comfortable. It can be done.”
Camille nodded a few times. She appreciated the different perspective, the chance to think about things in a way she hadn’t considered before.
“I would have thought, though, that with this attention Mr. Baxter has been paying you, you’d be thinking about marriage and a family,” Mrs. Dupree said.
Camille slowed her steps and allowed the other girls to get a little ahead. Mrs. Dupree lingered behind with her, which was what she hoped would happen. “I wonder if I may speak with you very bluntly, Mrs. Dupree. I realize I have no right to it whatsoever, and you’re not at all obligated to give me an answer.”
“I would much rather have a blunt conversation that means something than one filled with politeness and lacking in depth. Please feel free to say whatever’s on your mind.”
Even with this permission, Camille felt awkward about what she wanted to say. “I noticed that you and Mr. Baxter seemed to be getting along rather well, and I just . . . well, I realize it sounds completely ridiculous, but I just wanted to make sure that my attentions to him . . . oh, please forget that I even brought it up. I shouldn’t have.”
Mrs. Dupree chuckled. Camille liked the sound—it was deep and filled with genuine humor. “I assure you, Camille, that I’m not interested in Mr. Baxter in the slightest. He’s an interesting fellow to be sure, but I’m very much in love with my husband, and I have no intention of ever jeopardizing that relationship.”
“And he’s a train conductor?”
“That’s right. He’s conducted the Wichita to Kansas City line for a number of years now,” Mrs. Dupree replied as they neared the church steps.
“That reminds me,” Camille said. “I need to ask you a question as soon as services are over.”
“All right.”
The pastor was a rather young man, which surprised Camille. The pastor in her hometown must have been at least sixty, and he had an impressive white beard that hung below his necktie. Pastor Osbourne was blonde and handsome, and clean shaven as well.
“His wife used to be a waitress at the Brody,” Mrs. Dupree whispered in Camille’s ear.
As soon as the meeting was over and the congregation was exiting the chapel, Mrs. Dupree turned to Camille. “You said you had a question for me?”
Camille wondered if she should even ask it, but after insinuating that Mrs. Dupree could have feelings for Jem and being so horribly wrong, she supposed that from here on out, everything she could possibly ask would be easy. “The man I was supposed to marry was from Wichita. Do you happen to know David Johnson? He’s a rancher.”
Mrs. Dupree paused for a moment. “Yes, I do know him,” she said at last, making Camille wonder why the pause. “I had no idea that he’d sent away for a mail-order bride, though.”
“What sort of man is he? Do you think I’ve hurt him very much, or do you think he’ll find someone else quickly and be very happy with her?”
“Well, knowing
what kind of man he is and guessing about his future happiness are two different things,” Mrs. Dupree said. “Mr. Johnson is a good man. He’s a hard worker, a real gentleman, and has a quiet sense of humor. He’s not the sort who fills up a room with his personality, but he’s dependable and constant. I believe he’d make a very fine husband. As far as his future happiness, those sorts of things can’t be predicted, can they?”
“No, I suppose not.” Camille liked this summation of Mr. Johnson very much. It told her that at least she hadn’t made a horrible, immature decision in agreeing to marry him. “What does he look like? You’ve said good things about his character, but nothing about his appearance.”
“Yes, appearances are helpful, aren’t they?” Mrs. Dupree smiled. “He’s a very nice-looking man. I’m not terribly good at describing people, but he has kind eyes, and he stands a few inches taller than my husband, who’s six feet tall. He’s clean shaven, and his hair is dark brown.”
Camille nodded. “Thank you. I’ve been curious about him, and I didn’t want to wonder for the rest of my life. It sounds to me like he’s the sort of man who would attract another girl easily, and my decision not to come shouldn’t hurt him too badly—perhaps he’ll be married soon.”
“I hope so, for his sake,” Mrs. Dupree said, and with that, they had returned to the hotel.
Chapter Eleven
When Camille descended the stairs the next morning, she saw Tom White entering the lobby through the front door, his blond hair standing straight up on end. Mrs. Dupree was coming into the lobby from the dining room at that moment, and Tom gasped with relief when he saw her. “Caroline, I was just coming to get you. Harriet says it’s time.”
“Wonderful. Put another kettle of water on to boil and gather up some clean linens.”
Tom looked at her as though she’d spoken to him in another language.
Mrs. Dupree paused and put her hand on his shoulder. “Everything is going to be all right, Tom. Please do as you’re asked, and I’ll head out to see Harriet right now.”
He gave a quick nod and hurried off.
Camille smiled. The poor man looked so nervous.
The train came a moment later, and the first passenger through the door was Jem. He stepped forward to the line of waitresses and took Camille’s hand.
“Jem! You came back.”
“I said I would. Are you disappointed to see me?”
“Not in the slightest. I do need to work, though.”
“Of course. May I talk to you after the meal?”
“Yes. Meet me here in the parlor.” She was trying to sound calm, but she was even happier to see him than she’d said. Her heart was still pounding. Gracious—she was like a little girl on Christmas morning.
She took her first order, then went into the kitchen to have it filled. Mrs. Dupree was in there, collecting the hot water and a few other items.
“Caroline!”
All the women turned at the sound of the voice. Camille saw a train conductor in a dark blue uniform stepping into the kitchen, waving his arm.
Mrs. Dupree set down the kettle, and the man scooped Mrs. Dupree up in a hug, right there in front of all the waitresses. He didn’t seem to think there was anything inappropriate about that at all—he just swung her around, set her down, and then gave her a kiss.
“I’ve missed you,” he said.
“And I’ve missed you. I wish I could sit and visit while you eat, but it’s Harriet’s time.”
“Oh! Well, give her my best, and I’ll get out of your way.” Mr. Dupree gave his wife another kiss, then stepped back into the dining room. Camille thought they were an adorable couple.
As soon as the meal service was over and the dishes were done, Camille sought out Mr. Baxter in the parlor. They sat across from each other, and she grinned. He’d come back. He’d really come back. But where had he gone? No matter where he went, the train travel alone must have taken several hours—just how far had he gone, and just how long had he stayed there? One night? What kind of business could he possibly have done in such a short amount of time?
“Thank you for meeting me. I wanted to see you again as soon as possible,” he said. That was exactly what her heart wanted to hear, and it gave a little leap in her chest.
“You say that, but I think you’re just eager to go horseback riding,” she teased, not sure how she should respond. She was tempted to throw herself in his arms and tell him how much she’d missed him, but that wouldn’t be appropriate at all.
“And there’s something else,” he said. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Is this room private?”
She glanced around just to be sure they were alone. Was he about to propose? They’d only known each other a few days—was she ready to make the same promise, but to another man? “Yes, it is. It’s very difficult to overhear conversations from the hallway, especially when the fireplace is crackling like it is now.”
“Good.” He gave one nod, but he didn’t say anything else for a moment, and she wondered if he was screwing up his courage or if he’d changed his mind about it altogether.
“Camille . . . Miss Waterford . . . I need to tell you something.”
“Yes, you did indicate that,” she said lightly. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
He chuckled, but it sounded pained. “I . . . well, may I tell you a little about myself?”
“Of course.” Gracious, if it would help him get to the point a little faster . . .
He interlocked his fingers and rubbed his thumbs together. “For the last year or so, I’ve thought a lot about getting married, but none of the young ladies I knew seemed to be a good fit. I admit, I probably wasn’t their most exciting option, and I also could have tried a little harder. Regardless of all the reasons, I never found anyone who suited me, and so . . . I decided to send away for a mail-order bride.”
“Well, those can be kind of dangerous,” Camille said with a laugh.
“True,” he acknowledged. “But only some of the time. I’ve heard many stories of men and women who meet that way and end up very happy together.”
Camille smiled. She was enjoying the warmth of the fire and the attention of a handsome man. “And so how did your story end? I don’t think you’re secretly married, are you?” She chuckled. Of course he wasn’t.
“It ended in a rather tragic way, at first glance. The girl I’d sent away for didn’t come.”
“She . . . didn’t come? Oh, no. And then when you met me, I must have reminded you of that disappointment. I’m sorry, Jem. I must have been hurting you all this time without even knowing it.” She felt awful—just awful. Why hadn’t he said anything before?
“That’s just it. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” He took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. “You don’t remind me of her, Camille—you are her. My name is David Johnson. My real name.”
For a moment, Camille couldn’t draw a full breath. She felt as though something heavy had just punched her in the chest, something four times her size, something that could pin her to the wall and hold her there, never letting her go.
“I don’t understand,” she finally managed to gasp out.
“Are you all right?” He came to her side and put his hand on her shoulder, but she brushed it off.
“Just explain.”
He took his seat again, his face a mask of agony. It exactly matched the way she felt. “I couldn’t just let you go after I got your letter. I needed to make sure that you were all right, so I came here and saw you, saw that you were happy, and saw how beautiful you are. When I introduced myself, I thought it would be kinder to you if you didn’t know who I was. I wasn’t expecting . . .”
“What? What weren’t you expecting?”
“To fall in love with you so immediately. But I did. I’m in love with you, Camille, with all my heart.”
She closed her eyes. This was too much—it was simply too much. He wasn’t Jem Baxter at all . . . he’d lied to her . . . but
he loved her . . . How could she be expected to sit there one more minute and listen to this? She couldn’t.
She rose from her seat. “I need . . . I need air.”
He stood too. “Of course. But please, Camille, come back and talk to me. We need to work this out.”
“I don’t know what we need. I just can’t do this right now.” She’d never felt so confused, so bewildered.
Grace strode through the lobby just then, buttoning her coat as she walked. She glanced over, then stopped and came into the parlor. “Harriet’s run into some complications, and Mrs. Dupree is sending me for the midwife. Can you go out and help?”
“Yes, of course.” Camille turned away from Jem—Mr. Johnson—and almost blindly went out to the small cottage behind the hotel where Harriet and her husband lived. She took a deep breath before entering. Yes, she needed time to think about what she’d just learned, but she had another task just then.
Harriet’s face was whiter than anything Camille had ever seen, and her rich auburn hair was damp with sweat. Mrs. Dupree was holding both her hands. “It’s all right, Harriet. Goody Smith will be here in a few minutes, and if she can’t help you, we’ll send for the doctor.”
“But Dr. Wayment is out of town,” Harriet said, gritting her teeth.
“We’ll send for Dr. Pettigrew,” Giselle replied from the corner. “He returned yesterday. Everything will be fine.”
“What can I do?” Camille said, feeling utterly helpless. The only birth she’d ever witnessed was that of a newborn foal, and while there were bound to be some similarities, there were also bound to be a great many differences.
“Come here and put pressure on the small of her back,” Mrs. Dupree instructed.
Camille did as she was told, making her hands into fists and pushing into the clenched muscles of Harriet’s back. Harriet cried out when Camille first touched her.
“I’m so sorry,” Camille said. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No. It hurts worse when you’re not pushing.”
And yet she’d cried out? That didn’t make any sense at all to Camille, but logic didn’t matter—she’d do whatever Harriet asked.
A Begrudging Bride (Kansas Crossroads Book 11) Page 8
