The Substitute Bride Read online

  He cleared his throat. “I thought it better to marry for convenience rather than marry someone who’d expect love.”

  Obviously Ted held no illusions that this marriage would lead to love. Good. Love wasn’t her goal, either. She only wanted a happy home for Robby.

  “Would you be marrying anyone if you didn’t have two children to care for?”

  The reins hung limp in his hands. “No.”

  “That makes you as desperate as I am.”

  He flashed some teeth, pearly white in his tan face. “Reckon so. So why did you decide to take Sally’s place?”

  That quickly Ted gained the upper hand. Unaccustomed to feeling out of control with beaux, too young, too old or too self-absorbed to be taken seriously, Elizabeth’s brow puckered.

  “I came to Iowa to…” She took in a deep breath. “To get away from a marriage my father arranged…to a much older man, a man I couldn’t stomach marrying.”

  “Why would your father insist you marry someone like that?”

  “Money. The man’s rich.” She sighed. “So I ran.”

  “Into marriage with me. Guess I should be flattered you consider me the lesser of two evils.”

  “To be honest, I’d planned to find a job here, not a husband. But one look at the town destroyed that strategy.”

  He chuckled. “No danger of getting a swelled head with you around. Not sure I’ve ever met a female like you.”

  Ted’s tone held a hint of awe. Did he understand the tedium of propriety, the yearning for something she couldn’t name? “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  He reached across the space between them and brushed a tendril of hair off her neck. “You know, Mrs. Logan, this marriage might just be fun.”

  His wife scooted about as far from Ted as she could get without tumbling from the wagon. Not a typical bride. But then not a typical wedding, either.

  He stood over six foot tall. Hard work had broadened his shoulders and strengthened the muscles in his arms, an ox of a man, some people said. Was she afraid of him?

  Well, if so, she needn’t worry. He was far more afraid of this slip of a woman from Chicago. If she smelled any sweeter, he’d need to sleep in the barn instead of the children’s room, his plan for tonight.

  The decision made, he felt an odd sense of relief. Elizabeth might be his wife, but she was a stranger. A charming stranger at that. She made him laugh, something he hadn’t done in far too long. And as now, he could barely tear his gaze away from the curve of her neck, her tiny waist—

  “What happened to your wife?”

  Her question doused his interest like a glass of cold water in his face. “Rose died of nephritis.” He tightened his hold on the reins. “Her kidneys began shutting down after Henry’s birth.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Nodding an acknowledgment, he turned the horses into the lane leading up to the house, relieved to reach his farm. And avoid the topic of his deceased wife.

  As they bounced over the ruts, he remembered his citified wife’s complaints about the condition of New Harmony’s streets. He made a mental note to haul rocks from the creek to level the surface after he’d finished planting.

  The road curved around to the back of his house. They passed the garden plot. In the barnyard, he stopped the horses and set the brake. Tippy bounced into view, barking. Ted climbed down and gave the dog a pat.

  Night was falling, putting the farm in shadow, but Ted knew every building, fence and pasture. He’d earned all this off others’ pain. A straight flush had paid for the house, a full house repaired his barn and a four of a kind had bought his livestock.

  Yep, the best poker player on the Mississippi, that had been him. Not that he’d planned on being “Hold ’Em” Logan when he’d joined the crew of that riverboat.

  He’d seen men die over a game of cards, women toss their hearts after gamblers who loved their whiskey and the hand they held more than any female. He’d watched men and women lose everything they owned. Not a decent life. A life he now detested.

  He’d started over here. Put his mark on this land. Everywhere he looked he saw evidence of his hard work, his daily penance for his past.

  Shaking off his dreary thoughts, Ted walked to Elizabeth’s side. Even in the dim light she looked tired, worn to a frazzle, as his mother would’ve said. He encircled her waist with his hands and she laid a gentle hand on his shoulder for balance. Light in his arms, she surely needed fattening up if she hoped to handle the chores. Her hand fell away and he quickly released her. A strange sense of emptiness left him unsteady on his feet. Must be the strain of this eventful day.

  Elizabeth bent and ran a hand along his dog’s shaggy back. His white-tipped tail wagged a greeting.

  “Tippy is gentle as a lamb,” Ted said, “and the best sheepdog in these parts.”

  While Elizabeth got acquainted with Tippy, Ted retrieved their purchases from the back of the wagon. When he returned to her side, she gave the dog one final pat, like she’d met a good friend and didn’t want to say goodbye.

  “Go on in. The door’s unlocked.” Ted handed her the packages. “I’ll be along as soon as I bed down the horses and feed the stock.”

  She turned to face him, hugging the bundles close. “I’ve got to ask…”

  He waited for her to say whatever she had on her mind.

  “Where will you be sleeping?”

  Ted gave her credit for asking him straight out. “In the children’s room. If that’s agreeable with you.”

  “That’s fine. Perfect.” She released a great gust of air, her relief palpable in the soft night air. “You’re a good man, Ted Logan.”

  Would she still say that if she knew about his past?

  Chapter Six

  With the sleeping arrangements settled, Elizabeth walked toward the house with a light step, suddenly curious about her groom’s home. At the back door, a whiff of lilac greeted her, transporting her to the ancient, mammoth bush behind the Manning carriage house. To the gigantic vases Mama filled to overflowing, giving off the heady fragrance of spring. Home.

  Tears stung her eyes but she blinked them away. Refusing to dwell on what she could not change, she whistled Tippy inside. She’d found a friend and had no intention of leaving him behind.

  The door led into the kitchen, a huge room that ran the entire depth of the house, from back to front, cozy, if not for the chill in the air. A stack of newspapers all but covered the faded blue cushion of a brown wicker rocker.

  In front of the chair, Elizabeth spied dried mud in the shape of a man’s boots. Didn’t Ted shed the footgear he wore in the barn before entering his house? Well, if he expected her to clean, that would have to change.

  A large table, legs sturdy enough to support an elephant, dominated one end of the kitchen. Its porcelain castors sat in a sea of crumbs. “Come here, Tippy.” The dog made quick work of the tidbits. Elizabeth patted her personal broom.

  A high chair was set off to one side of the table. A spoon was glued to the wooden tray with oatmeal and, from the smell of it, soured milk. On the back of a chair, a garment hung haphazardly.

  “Oh, how cute.” Elizabeth picked up a tiny blue shirt that stuck to her fingers. “Uh, maybe not.”

  She put the oatmeal-painted apparel back where she found it. Tippy sat on his haunches watching her every move, as if he wanted to oblige her by licking her hands clean.

  At this preview of marriage to Ted, her knees wobbled and she slumped into a chair.

  She should leave. Maybe Reginald Parks wasn’t so bad after all. Well, no, he smelled like sour milk. Far worse.

  She surveyed the smudgy oilcloth covering the table. Over the center Ted had tossed a blue-checked square, covering whatever lay underneath. Hide it and run—a cleaning plan she could relate to. She lifted the corner of the lumpy cloth, exposing a sugar bowl, a footed glass filled with spoons and one nearly empty jar of jam.

  In the sink, a pile of oatmeal and egg-encrusted dishes filled
a dry dishpan. As if waiting for her. Welcome home, little wife.

  Obviously Ted needed help. Well, she might not know the first thing about housekeeping, but she could handle this clutter better than Ted. Couldn’t she?

  A mirror hung over to one side of the sink. An odd place for it. She unpinned her hat and then couldn’t find an uncluttered spot to lay it.

  Carrying her hat, she climbed the two steps leading to the living room. Nothing fancy here—two rockers around a potbelly stove, a kerosene lamp in the center of a round table stacked with Prairie Farmer magazines. On either side of the table a navy sofa, chair and ottoman looked comfy. A sloped-top desk stood under the window with a ladder-back chair tucked beneath. Not so much as a lace curtain to soften the glass.

  Nothing like their parlor at home with its lavish velvet curtains, brocade sofa, wing chairs and prism-studded chandelier. Well, that room had been stuffy and suffocating.

  Now it stood empty.

  Shaking off the maudlin thought, she walked to the four-paned side door that opened onto a covered porch. The shadow of some kind of a vine blocked her view of the lawn and sheltered a wooden swing at the far end. A pleasant place to read. Though farmer’s magazines hardly interested her.

  Well, she’d see about changing that on her next trip into town. Surely New Harmony had a library.

  She crossed the room and opened a door. A small rumpled bed clung to one wall. A crib hugged another. Anna and Henry’s room—the place where Ted would sleep tonight. He’d surely be uncomfortable curling his massive frame onto that small space.

  A bureau filled the niche between the beds. Tiny clothing dangled from three open drawers. Elizabeth stuffed the garments inside. As she pushed the drawers closed, her gaze rested on a framed photograph on top of the dresser.

  She recognized Ted immediately. Wearing a suit, face sober, he looked vaguely uncomfortable, as though his collar pinched. In front of him sat his bride, her dark hair covered by a gauzy veil, gloved hands clasped in her lap. Rose. Elizabeth studied the mother of Ted’s children. She read nothing in her expression but quiet acceptance.

  Along the opposite wall a rocker was positioned next to a washstand. A cloth floated in a bowl of scummy water and a still-damp towel hung from the rails of the spindled crib. Her new husband couldn’t be accused of fastidiousness.

  When her father no longer had the money to pay servants, Martha had gladly taken over all the duties in their house. She’d be in her glory here. Elizabeth cringed. Now she’d have to play Martha. Well, she’d spiff this place up in a matter of hours. Show Ted she could handle the job of wife.

  Back in the kitchen, she shivered. How long did it take to bed down a pair of horses? She should start a fire. She bent toward the black behemoth. Home Sunshine in raised letters on the oven door hardly fit her mood. She took hold of a handle and opened a door. Ah, ashes. Must be where the fuel should go.

  She grabbed a couple of small logs from a large, rough-hewn box, then squealed when a bug crawled out of one of them. She tossed the infested firewood into the stove.

  Where were the matches? Her gaze settled on a metal holder hanging high above little hands. A flick of the match against the side and it flared to life. She tossed it on the wood and stepped back in case of sparks.

  The match went black. She needed something smaller than that log, something more flammable. She crumbled a big wad of newsprint, lit another match and tossed the whole thing into the stove. The paper lit and blazed. Soon the log would ignite.

  She glanced at the dog. “See, nothing to it.”

  Tippy whined.

  Elizabeth shut the stove’s door. “You’re a worrywart.”

  Once the fire took off, she’d heat water and wash these dishes. That would show Ted his new wife could carry her weight, and his, by the looks of this place.

  The acrid odor of smoke reached her nostrils. Tippy barked. Elizabeth dashed to the stove and flung open the door. Black smoke poured out of the gaping hole, enveloping her in a dark, dirty, stinky cloud. She coughed and choked, waving at the smoke hanging stubbornly around her, stinging her eyes.

  The screen door banged open. Ted raced to the stove, tossing his suit coat on the rocker as he passed. He turned a knob in the pipe and slammed the door shut. “Didn’t you know to open the damper before you lit the stove? You could’ve burned the house down!”

  She sniffed and swiped at her burning eyes. “Are you going to yell at me on our wedding day?”

  The sour expression he wore turned troubled. “No, I don’t suppose I should.” He met her gaze. “I’m sorry.”

  He yanked up the windows over the sink and opened both doors, then cleared the smoke with a towel. She watched the muscles dance across his broad back. When he turned around, he caught her staring.

  “Ah, thanks for taking care of the smoke,” she said weakly.

  With a nod, he inspected the kitchen, as if trying to get his bearings. “As soon as the fire gets going, we can have a cup of coffee. Or tea, if you’d prefer.”

  “Tea would be lovely.”

  He swiped his hands across his pants, and then filled a shiny teakettle with water. “Sorry about this mess. I wanted the place to look nice.”

  “It’s, ah…homey.”

  “I meant to get the dishes done before we left, but things kept happening.” Ted set the teakettle on the stove. “Henry spilled his milk. Anna tried to wipe it up but slipped and bumped her head on the high chair. They both needed holding before it was over. Everything takes more time than I expect.”

  Elizabeth smiled at the look of dismay on Ted’s face. This father cared about his children, loved them. Like Papa loved Robby and her. A nagging unease settled over her. Could Papa love her when he’d tried to use her to discharge his debts?

  But of course he did. Hadn’t he always told her so?

  “What’s the dog doing in here?”

  Tippy hung his head, appeared to shrink into himself. “Doesn’t he live here?”

  “Not inside, he doesn’t.” He opened the back door. The dog gave one last pleading glance at Elizabeth. “Out you go, boy. You know better than to come inside.”

  “I don’t see why he can’t stay.”

  “He’s a working dog, not a house pet. And the way he sheds and attracts mud, you’ll be glad of it, too.”

  “Then that must be his mud in front of the rocker?”

  He harrumphed.

  She smothered a smile.

  The teakettle whistled. Ted gathered two cups and a blue willow pot, then rummaged through a cabinet, mumbling. His broad shoulders filled every inch of space between the wall and table. Elizabeth squeezed past him as if she thought he would bite, then pulled a container marked Tea from behind a bag of cornmeal.

  Her gaze lifted to his. She swallowed hard. “Here it is.”

  He reached for the tin, his fingertips brushing hers. “I…ah.” He blinked. “Thanks. I spend half my time searching for things.”

  She smiled, remembering Papa’s inability to find something right in front of his nose while she could spot a sale on gloves from three stores away. She picked up the kettle and filled the teapot with water, dividing the rest between the two round pans, then added dippers of cold. She chuffed. And Martha said she didn’t have a domestic bone in her body.

  Ted waved a hand at the mess. “They’ll wait till morning.”

  “No time like the present.” She sounded smug even to her own ears. But keeping busy meant avoiding her new husband.

  The sink hung in a wooden counter supported with two legs at one end and a cabinet at the other, the space under the sink skirted. What an odd arrangement.

  “What’s the mirror for?” she asked.

  “I shave there sometimes. And it helps me keep track of Henry.” He smiled. “Like having eyes in the back of my head.”

  In no time, Elizabeth worked up some suds by swishing a bar of soap in the pan, then dipped a plate through the bubbles, but dried yellow food still clung to the
plate. She scrubbed with the dishrag. Still there. Running her thumb over the hardened mess, she crinkled her nose as the nasty stuff filled the space beneath her nail. Well, she wouldn’t let dried-on egg yolks defeat her. She rubbed harder. Her thumbnail gave way and tore. She dropped the plate into the pan. It hit bottom with an ominous clunk.

  Ted stepped up behind her. “What was that?”

  Elizabeth brought up the plate. It looked fine. Fishing beneath the water, she found a cup, a handle-less cup. “Oh, my.”

  Ted didn’t say a word, merely turned away, but from the tight expression around his mouth, she imagined he blamed her for squandering his possessions.

  “The cup isn’t the only thing that’s broken. My nail is practically down to the quick.”

  “Around here nails take a beating.”

  Obviously she’d get no sympathy from Ted. Well, she’d finish washing these dishes if it cost the nails on both hands.

  Careful not to let them slip between her fingers, she attacked bowls of dried oatmeal. The fork and spoons ranked the nastiest. Finally she’d laid the last utensil to dry and dumped the water down the drain, smiling at her achievement.

  Then she shrieked. Water gushed over her shoes—her only shoes, and formed a puddle of water and debris on the planks.

  Pulling himself away from staring out the back door while she killed herself in his kitchen, Ted grabbed two towels off the hook alongside the sink and mopped up the mess.

  “The drain leads to a bucket under the sink. Reckon it needed emptying.”

  “What kind of a drain does that?” she wailed, looking at her shoes.

  His brow creased into a frown. “My drain,” he said in a want-to-make-something-of-it tone.

  He gathered the drenched towels and draped them over the lilac bush out back. She stepped aside so he could return to the kitchen where he heaved the large bucket out from beneath the skirted sink.

  “The other bucket under here is a slop jar for the pigs. They eat most anything so you can dump table scraps and peelings into that one. Don’t mix them up. Pigs aren’t partial to soap.”