Читать книгу Unclaimed Bride - Lauri Robinson - Страница 11

The wood man, Thomas Ketchum, turned out to be a bulk of a man with a cheerful disposition. Upon his arrival, he’d not only cleaned out and set fires in the fireplaces but had refilled all of the wood boxes—which totaled over a dozen—shortly after Ellis had left the house. During the morning hours, Constance had explored the home thoroughly, making notes of things that needed immediate attention, such as cobwebs in hidden corners a child or man wouldn’t notice. She’d noted other things that could use slight adjustments in the future—rugs showing wear and curtains that had become sun-faded—but overall the home was in excellent condition and was well run.

During that quiet, early morning time, the expanse and elegance surrounding her had childhood memories dancing in her head like a figurine on a music box. Matter of fact, part of her had wanted to skip along the halls and slide down the wide banister. The house, the surroundings, produced a contentment she’d never found in England, one she already cherished.

Curiosity had led her to ask Angel why the home was so large, for just her and her father. “Pa said he promised my mother the exact home she’d left behind in the Carolinas—only bigger,” Angel had said.

Now, several hours later, Constance listened with one ear as Angel explained the upcoming holiday party. The other ear was tuned into the doors of the ranch house, both the front and back. Ellis had yet to return. Noon would soon be upon them, the roast a ranch hand had delivered to the back door which she’d seasoned and set to bake was nearly done. She’d gone to the door several times, wondering if she heard something, but the blizzard created a whiteout that made seeing the edge of the front porch impossible.

She and Angel were settled in the large yet cozy front parlor, where the fire roared with warmth and the wide windows, despite the blizzard, filled the room with light.

“Last year, I made divinity. I found the recipe in a cookbook, but it didn’t turn out very well.” The girl scrunched up her face. “Not even the animals would eat it.”

Constance focused her waning attention on Angel and smiled. “We’ll make it again. It’ll help with two people. Whipping the egg whites becomes tiring for one.”

“It certainly did,” Angel admitted. “And turned out as hard as rocks. Good thing Pa didn’t break a tooth. He was the only one brave enough to try it.”

“That sounds like something my father would have done,” Constance admitted.

“Oh? Where does he live?”

“He used to live in Virginia, but he passed away many—” A thud outside the front door had Constance jumping to her feet. Regardless of Angel’s earlier assurance that Ellis was fine, was used to working in such extreme conditions, Constance couldn’t help but fret for his well-being.

The noise came again, and Angel ran from the parlor, pulling the front door open as Constance turned the corner.

The bitterly cold wind swirled into the house, stinging Constance’s face and eyes, but it was her heart that froze. The blizzard had made her compliant. Let her believe travel would be hampered. The man lying on the front porch wasn’t Ellis. It was a complete stranger. Could he be the authorities? All the way from New York? Who else would travel through a blizzard? Though fretful, concern for his lifeless state flared inside her. “Help me get him inside.”

Between the two of them, Angel tugging and Constance pushing, they managed to roll the man over the threshold. His face was beet-red and ice hung on his eyelashes.

“Mr. Homer?” Angel patted the man’s ruddy cheeks. “What are you doing here?”

The man groaned, and Constance sighed with relief he was indeed alive. “Mr. Homer?” she asked, brushing aside the snow covering his clothing.

“One of the men from town. He works at the bank,” Angel explained as she pushed the door shut.

Constance now recognized the man as the one she’d compared to a rain barrel yesterday. “What’s he doing out here?”

Angel, with her long blond curls bouncing about, shook her head ruefully. “My guess would be to claim you.”

Constance pressed a hand to the alarm thudding in her chest, recalling the men outside the stage. “In a storm like this? He must be crazy.”

The man groaned again.

For a few hours the reason for her being at the Clayton home had escaped her. The panic in her chest turned into annoyance. It was a dismal situation she found herself in, but in all circumstances there was a solution, and she’d find one now, too. As soon as she saw to the tasks at hand. Constance huffed out a puff of frustrated air. “Help me drag him into the parlor so he can thaw out. The poor man’s lucky he didn’t freeze to death.”

Along with much tugging and pulling, she and Angel managed to get Mr. Homer in front of the fireplace in the parlor. Pressing her hands against her muscle-strained thighs, Constance took a moment to catch her breath from the laborious job before she began removing the man’s coat by rolling him from side to side while Angel went upstairs for a blanket.

After a few minutes, the man regained consciousness. “Oh, thank you, thank you,” he mumbled several times as he flopped closer to the fireplace. “Heat. Heat.”

“Not too close, Mr. Homer,” Constance warned, glad the grate kept the man from climbing into the flames.

A rap sounded on the front door. She and Angel stared at one another for a brief moment before they rose and went to the door again. This time the man was upright on the porch, but he leaned heavily on the door frame, shaking and shivering from head to toe. “G-g-g-goo-d-d-d d-d-d-ay.”

Constance ran a hand over her aching forehead. This was too absurd to be happening. Surely these men didn’t believe she was so destitute she’d—A lump formed in her throat. She was destitute. Lord knew where she’d be right now if not for Angel and Ellis.

Angel grabbed the man’s arm. “Good day to you, too, Mr. Aimes. Get in here before you freeze to death.”

Constance took his other arm as the man stumbled in, mumbling and leaving a trail of snow on the rug.

After that, there was barely time to get one man settled when another would be knocking, or in some cases, falling against the door. The final count was five. Mr. Homer, Mr. Aimes, Mr. McDonaldson, Mr. Westmaster and Jeb. Angel said she didn’t know Jeb’s last name, and the way his teeth chattered, Constance couldn’t understand what he’d said.

Constance had just removed Jeb’s frozen coat when the front door slammed shut. “Oh, no, not another one,” she groaned, much louder than intended, but she was quite exasperated. Was every man in the Wyoming Territory without a lick of sense?

“Not another whaaat the hell?” Ellis stared into the front parlor from the doorway, his gaze making a full circle of the room.

Constance held her breath. It was quite a scene. Men wrapped in blankets, some holding hot water bottles on their frozen heads, others soaking their feet in tubs of warm water. Some had water dripping from the ice chunks still clinging to their hair, and most were groaning with shivers or their teeth were chattering loud and uncontrollably.

“They came,” Angel said, squeezing around her father to enter the room, “to claim the bride.” She walked over and flipped the blanket in her arms around Jeb. “I knew they wouldn’t wait. I should’ve made a post with the date we’d start the interviews and left it with Link.”

Constance’s heart sank, and then jolted. Quickly, she stepped around and between the men. Though his face held an astonished look, Ellis must be furious. Rightfully so. This was all because of her. Stalling until she could come up with an appropriate explanation, she asked, “Mr. Clayton, can I get you some hot coffee?”

He glanced at the steaming cups set beside some of the men. “Is there any left?”

“Yes, I just put on a fresh pot.” Constance froze midstep. His broad frame filled the doorway and she didn’t dare squeeze around him as Angel had. “It should be about done,” she offered, glancing toward the kitchen door on the other side of the arched opening.

He stepped aside, providing the space she needed to slip through the doorway. His attention remained on the parlor. “This explains the horses that showed up at the barn door.”

Constance scrambled across the foyer to the swinging kitchen door. Once beyond it, she took a breath and slowed her pace, wishing she could slow her pulse as easily. The pot was perking loudly on the stove, and she grabbed a cup from the cupboard along the way. The last thing she’d expected was a horde of men traveling through a blizzard to claim her hand in marriage. A heavy foreboding once again pressed on her chest. Besides being overly disconcerting, it gravely added to the long list of debt she owed Ellis. He’d probably send her back to town with the men—tired of the problems she caused in such a short span of time. Heat stung her palm and she pulled her hand away from the hot pot.

“Did you burn yourself?”

Shy of jumping out of her skin, Constance shook her head. How had he come to stand right beside her and she not hear him? Ignoring the smart in her palm, she grabbed a towel before attempting to lift the pot this time.

“Thanks.” He took the cup and moved a few steps away to drink the coffee.

Constance sought solace in the space separating them.

His silence lasted several minutes. “How many are there?”

Her relief was short-lived, if it had existed at all. “Five.” She set the pot on the back burner, wishing she could make the unexpected visitors disappear as fast as they had arrived. An apology seemed trivial, and the justification she hadn’t expected the men sounded like a flimsy excuse.

His gaze was on the door. “At least all their horses are accounted for.” He spun around. “Unless there are more?”

Despondent, she shrugged. The action made the weight on her shoulders grow heavier. “I have no idea”

He held out his empty cup. She filled it. Flimsy excuse or not, it was all she had. “Mr. Clayton, I …” Another sigh left her chest. “I apologize. Please understand I had no idea—”

“I know you had nothing to do with this.”

Shocked by the gentle undertone of his voice, she glanced up.

His gaze was on the coffee in his cup. “You didn’t invite them. I was there yesterday. You have nothing to explain.” He set the cup down and shrugged out of his coat. “It appears there’ll be a few more than just the three of us for lunch, and supper.”

Constance pressed a hand to the fluttering in her stomach. She could have sworn there had been humor in his voice, and from his profile, it appeared a smile sat on his lips.

The most remarkable thing happened then. He laughed. A sincere, deep baritone. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen anything quite like it,” he said, still staring at the closed door.

The image of the packed parlor flashed before her eyes. It could appear rather comical to some, Constance had to admit, through trying not to. An unexpected giggle slid up her throat. She pressed a hand to her lips, but it was too late. He’d already heard it.

The fine lines around his eyes deepened as his smile grew. “Don’t upset yourself, Miss Jennings. It’s truly not your fault.” Shaking his head, he laughed harder. “They are a sorry looking bunch, aren’t they?”

The giggle in her throat escaped, and along with it went some of the tension eating at her insides. His reassurance felt good. Really, really, good.

As their laughter died down, she chided herself, “Oh, goodness. It’s not funny. I shouldn’t be laughing. Those men could have perished.”

“Yes, they could have,” Ellis agreed. “But they didn’t.” He picked up his cup, emptied it in one swallow, and then set it back down on the counter.

Constance grasped he was an understanding man, his relationship with his daughter was proof of that, but she couldn’t help but admit, “I was afraid you’d be upset.”

“I could be, and I hope no one else is out there in this storm.” He folded his arms and leaned back against the table. “But my wife was a very wise woman. She taught me years ago not to get angry over the little things. To save it for the things that matter. Angel is a lot like her.” He glanced to the door again, as if he could see beyond the wood and into the parlor filled with men. “Besides, I expected it. I didn’t think they’d arrive in the middle of a snow storm, but I knew they’d come.”

It dawned on Constance that Ellis used his dead wife as a shield. The past affected him as much as it did her. Maybe there was no hope she could get beyond it. If he couldn’t, how could she?

She pushed the coffeepot to the very back of the stove. “How did you know they would come?”

“Miss Jennings, surely you’ve noticed the lack of women in Wyoming. Or heard of it. Out here a woman is worth more than her weight in gold. The ad you saw from Ashton, that’s just one of hundreds that have been posted places. Very few are responded to, and if they are, not many women actually show up after the man sends her money.”

The thought of keeping Ashton Kramer’s money and not upholding her end of the bargain had never crossed her mind.

His gaze was apprehensive. “You didn’t know that?”

She shook her head.

“Where did you see Ashton’s post?” There was a touch of skepticism in his voice.

She bit her lip, wondering just how much would be revealed by her answer. Several explanations rolled in her head, she chose one. “Someone in New York gave it to me.”

His brows furrowed. “Gave it to you?”

“Mmm hmm,” she murmured, trying to sound indifferent. His silence waited for more, so she added, “I traded some used clothes for it.”

“Traded used clothes?” The doubt in his voice increased her apprehension.

She folded her trembling fingers together, squeezing them tight. Though she wasn’t lying, the bubbling in her stomach made it feel like she was. “Yes, I had several things I no longer needed, and a woman offered to sell them for me. She gave me Mr. Kramer’s letter for a dress she wanted to keep for herself.”

“Was she wanted by the law?”

His question knocked the air right out of her lungs. She couldn’t breathe, let alone respond.

As her ears buzzed, he said, “More than one woman’s become a mail-order bride instead of going to jail.”

She had to breathe or she’d faint. Sucking in enough air to get by, she managed to answer, “Stella wasn’t wanted by the law.”

Just then the kitchen door opened and Angel strode into the room. Constance had never been happier to see someone. “They’ll all live,” Angel said offhandedly. “I do wonder about Jeb’s toes though, they’re already turning black.”

Ellis pushed away from the table. “I’ll go take a look.” He chucked Angel under the chin. “We even fed your animals, so don’t consider going out there today.”

“I won’t, Pa. I figured you’d remember them.”

Before he went out the swinging door, his gaze settled on Constance again. The silence grew thick and heavy. She stared back as long as she could, but shame made her lower her eyes before he looked away. He must know there was more to her story, just as he’d known there were more details to her past than she’d shared last night. An ugly glob of regret settled in her stomach. Stella hadn’t been wanted by the law, that much was true. The girl couldn’t be more than a few years older than Angel. She’d stolen Ashton’s letter from a stack of others that had been delivered to Rosalie’s—the large home down the street from the New Street Boarding House where Constance had first purchased lodging. Later, when her funds had become depleted, she’d washed laundry for room and board.

Stella had said Rosalie had dozens of letters from men who’d paid her to post notices for them. Rosalie never posted the advertisements. Instead she sold the letters to girls who thought becoming a mail-order bride would be better than working in one of Rosalie’s second floor rooms. Constance had no doubt as to what went on in those upstairs bedrooms even before meeting Stella. The young girl had stolen the letter, thinking she might like to travel west, but upon reading Ashton’s description of Wyoming, changed her mind. Stella said she didn’t dare replace the opened letter, but wasn’t going to part with it free of charge, either.

Constance had read the description, and though it didn’t sound rosy, it did seem like a brighter future than washing sheets until her hands bled the rest of her life. She’d responded to the letter the morning after seeing Byron’s headstone. A gravesite didn’t completely convinced her he was dead, but it did make her believe the inheritance from her aunts was gone, and when she was told the authorities would soon be after her, she’d known she had to leave New York.

“Constance? Are you all right?”

The concern in Angel’s voice had Constance twirling around, and searching for an answer. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. I’m just wondering what we should fix all those men for lunch.” Could it be true? That a woman could choose being a mail-order bride over jail? Maybe, but what if the crime was murder? Not that she’d murdered anyone. But if Byron really was dead, they’d have to blame someone.

“Well, you could turn the roast you have in the oven into stew. Stew goes a lot further and will warm them up at the same time.” Angel walked toward the pantry off the side of the kitchen. “I’ll peel potatoes.”

The girl’s common sense was astounding, and the way she flashed those big brown eyes had the ability to catch Constance’s heart off guard. “How did you get to be so wise?” She followed Angel into the pantry. Shelves went from the floor to the ceiling and held more provisions than Link’s store had back in Cottonwood—not to mention it was better organized.

Angel handed Constance a big pot. “I don’t know. Living out here maybe. But I think it’s just one of those things you either have or you don’t. Like good horse sense. Some folks know a good horse when they see it, others get swindled every time.” Angel gathered items as she talked, plopping potatoes, carrots and onions into the pot. “There are times when I see an injured animal, and I just keep riding. I know no matter how hard I try, I won’t be able to help it. Not because of its kind or the size of their injury, but because of their will to let me help.”

There was truth in Angel’s unabashed philosophy. Sometimes a person just had to keep riding. Ignore what they’d seen, where they’d been. Focus on the here and now—like a house full of hungry people.

Constance set the kettle on the table. Angel was a lot like her father. That explained why they got along so well, and how they’d occasionally butt heads. Ellis not only loved his daughter, he respected her, and because of that others did, too. It was evident in how the men responded to Angel, both yesterday in town and today at the ranch.

“I saw it in you,” Angel said as they transferred the vegetables onto the table. “I knew you’d let me help.”

Constance caught the authenticity in Angel’s admission, and a tender wave of warmth, similar to how a morning fire warms a room, spiraled inside her chest. Moved by the genuine fondness blossoming inside her, Constance wrapped her arms around Angel’s shoulders. “Thank you. I appreciate your willingness to help me. And I treasure your friendship.”

Angel snuggled in for an extended hug. “I knew we’d be friends right off. We’ll forever be friends.”

Constance rested her chin atop Angel’s head. Though their age difference was great, she felt a kinship to the girl like no other she’d ever known. Something else wafted over her, a sense of protection. Of keeping Angel safe. Perhaps if she wrote a letter to the authorities in New York, not necessarily telling them where she was, but explaining everything to them—again. When she’d gone to them before, they’d said without a body there wasn’t a crime. This time she could tell them where Byron’s headstone was. Surely the undertaker could identify who was buried there. Her heart balled itself inside her throat. Maybe that wasn’t a good idea. That might be the proof they needed.

In the crowded front parlor across the hall, Ellis lowered Jeb’s darkening toes back into the tepid water. “They’ll be fine, Jeb. Sore for a while, but they didn’t freeze all the way through.”

“Thanks, Ellis. They sure do sting.” Jeb spoke through clenched teeth.

“I’m sure they do. It was foolish to leave town in the middle of a blizzard.” Ellis sat back on his haunches, and included all of the men in his gaze. His frustration at the disaster that could have been laced his voice as he spoke, “Why would any of you do such a thing? You all know better.”

Every man started talking at once, pointing fingers at each other and creating excuses. Ellis crossed his arms and waited for the commotion to die down. When it did, he pointed to Buford Homer, the one man he’d been shocked to see huddled beneath a quilt. The banker had more sense than the rest of the room put together—or should, leastwise. The man lowered his head, clearly unwilling to speak. Ellis turned instead to Fred Westmaster, the blacksmith, and maybe the second smartest man in the bunch.

“Well, Jeb there said the storm was lifting and that he was gonna ride out to talk to Ashton’s bride.” Fred glanced around. “Word got out. We all want a chance at asking for her considerations.”

“Are there any others?” Ellis hated the thought, but if there were, he’d have to see about finding them.

Fred shook his head. His cheeks, burned from the elements, were now redder than the man’s hair and beard. “No, not that I know of.”

The rest of the men shook their heads. “Well, gentlemen,” Ellis used the term lightly, “I’m afraid your trip was useless. Miss Jennings hasn’t decided if she’ll stay in the Territory.”

“Not stay?”

“Why not?”

“Says who?”

Ellis held up his hand, stopping the onslaught of questions. He’d dealt with men for years. They were by far easier to deal with than women. Not that he’d had much experience with women—but that’s what he’d always heard. Christine had been the only woman he’d ever dealt with, and her tender and kind heart had never been a challenge. Matter of fact, there were times he wished she’d have been less amicable; it would have better prepared him for raising Angel. His daughter definitely had a mind of her own. So did Constance, traveling all the way from New York City on little more than the promise of marriage. There was more to it than that, and his mind tumbled with what he should do about it.

“Whatcha mean, Ellis? Not staying?” Jeb asked. His young eyes looked as sad as his frostbit toes.

“She’s had a shock, fellas, in learning about Ashton’s death.” He seized all of their attention. “Miss Jennings needs time to catch her breath and then decide what to do. Running her down like a rabbit won’t speed up her decision-making.”

The room filled with low grumbles as his statement hit home.

“Sorry, Ellis,” Mr. Homer offered. “We should’ve thought before we acted. Now, it appears we’re indebted to you to let us stay until the weather breaks. I have no desire to venture back out in that storm, as I’m sure is the case with the rest of the men.”

The men nodded, gladly agreeing with what the banker said.

“You’re welcome to stay, but don’t expect Miss Jennings or Angel to wait on or entertain you.” Ellis wanted the ground rules laid out, and followed. Every man on his ranch knew their position when it came to his family. His mind tried to dart in another direction, telling him Constance wasn’t family, but he brought the thought to a halt, and glared around the room. “Understand?”

“Yes, sir, we understand,” Fred Westmaster assured. The man was the size and shape of a grizzly, and the gaze he shot around the room said he’d be enforcing the ground rules. “Don’t we?”

Agreeable nods and comments guaranteed everyone understood.

Ellis gave a single head bob, accepting their responses. “Good enough, then. I’m sure lunch will be ready shortly.” He rose, prepared to seek some thinking time in his office.

“Mr. Clayton,” Sam McDonaldson said. “Are you interested in claiming Miss Jennings?”

The man owned a farm between Heaven on Earth and Cottonwood. Ellis didn’t know him well, but had no reason to dislike him. Prior to this moment, that is. Ellis didn’t answer right away, not because he didn’t have one, but because he didn’t think anyone needed to know his business.

McDonaldson must have made his own conclusion from Ellis’s silence. “It seems a bit unfair to the rest of us, if you are, with her living here and all.”

Ellis met the man’s stare. McDonaldson had to be well over forty, and it appeared the man had less sense than he had hair. “Do you have a daughter, Sam?”

“No, you know I don’t,” Sam answered. “I ain’t never been married.”

Ellis turned, making a wide sweep of the room with a steady stare. “What about anyone else? Does anyone have a daughter or a female that could befriend Miss Jennings?” The room was full of negative gestures. “Then wouldn’t you agree the most appropriate place for Miss Jennings is here at the ranch—with Angel?” Some of the men nodded, while others simply stared at him. His throat wanted to swell up, as if it, too, wondered about his explanation. “Besides,” he added, “I’ve hired Miss Jennings to be a tutor to Angel for the time being. You all know the girl needs some formal education.”

No one dared argue that point. His daughter—as much as he loved her—could be considered a little rough around the edges at times, not to mention a bit domineering.

Ellis spun on his heels and left the room, not willing to answer the array of questions his last statement might conjure up.

The fire in his office needed to be stoked. Understandably, he’d told Thomas not to worry about the house fires after his morning visit, and Angel and Miss Jennings had their hands full with unexpected guests. Ellis crossed the room, threw in a couple of good-sized logs, and then strolled to the window. The blizzard raged on. The hands had been prepared for it. Most of the cattle had been brought close to the ranch and a good supply of hay had been laid out. The brunt of the morning chores had been for the homestead animals, including Angel’s flock. He’d stayed outside as long as he could—contemplating his house guest all the while.

Ellis made his way to his desk. Every time he encountered her, Constance said or did something that had his mind and guts rolling with questions. A smile played on his lips. She certainly had a sweet laugh. It hadn’t been funny—those men could have died—but once it was known everyone was fine, there probably wasn’t a person around who wouldn’t have broke out laughing upon seeing his front parlor. It resembled a Civil War infantry, a comical looking one.

He’d told her the truth: he had known they’d come. Once word got out that there was an available female in Cottonwood, men from as far away as Montana would descend on the town. He’d have to prepare for it, but hadn’t thought it would start today, in the middle of a blizzard.

There was also the consideration of how to prepare her for the onslaught of suitors. He’d expected to someday have this chore ahead of him, but assumed it would happen in a few years, when Angel became of age.

That thought lurched his stomach to his heels. When melancholy hit like this, he grew more thankful he’d only been blessed with one child. He’d have loved them all as much as he did Angel, of that he had no doubt, but the older she grew, the more he understood why his mother had cried when he and Christine had left the Carolinas.

He could only hope the man Angel would eventually fall in love with would be interested in living in Wyoming. Maybe not right on Heaven on Earth, but close by would be the next best thing.

Someone tapped on his door. He glanced at the mantel clock and was surprised by the length of time he’d been wallowing in thought. “Come in,” he instructed.

Angel stuck her nose in. “Lunch is ready.”

“Enough for everyone?”

She grinned, entering the room. “Yes. Constance could out-cook Beans.”

“Oh?” He slapped shut the notation book he hadn’t made a mark in. “She could, could she?”

The door closed behind her. “Yup,” Angel said confidently. “You already tasted her breakfast. She knows how to make fancy holiday candies and cookies, too, beside lots of other stuff.”

“How do you know that?” He rose and pushed his chair in, but didn’t move to the door.

“She told me.” Angel skipped across the room and jumped up to sit on the edge of his desk. “We were planning the holiday party when Mr. Homer arrived.” She rolled her dark eyes to the ceiling. “Followed by the rest.”

“You like Miss Jennings, don’t you?” He held in his other thought, that of asking his daughter if she was looking for a mother. The thought clung to the back of his mind like a pesky cobweb.

“Yes. And you will, too, once you get to know her. She’s lived in England and has lots of recipes from there. And she promised to teach me all about the kings and queens over there.”

“Kings and queens?” He ruffled her hair. “You’re interested in that kind of stuff?”

“I suspect.” She gave a nonchalant shrug. “I promised to teach her all about Wyoming, and in exchange she said she’d teach me about England. It would have been rude to not accept her offer.”

“I suspect it would have been.” He’d already spent too much time mulling thoughts, so took a hold of Angel’s hand. “Come on, scamp, let’s go get some lunch before our guests eat it all.”

“Why do you think she goes by Miss Jennings instead of Mrs. Jennings?” Angel asked as they walked to the door.

The question brought Ellis to a skidding halt. He planted a hand on the wood, keeping Angel from pulling the door open. “Because she’s not married?” It was a question, but he hoped it sounded like a statement.

“Not now, but she was.”

“No, Ashton died before she arrived,” he argued.

“Not Mr. Kramer.”

“Who then?”

“I don’t know. But when I helped her unpack there was a ring in one of her trunks. She said it was a wedding ring.” Angel stared up at him with open, honest eyes.

“Maybe it was her mother’s or grandmother’s. Women often pass their wedding rings down in the family.” The bubbling in his stomach said no matter how plausible that sounded, he didn’t believe it.

Angel shook her head. “Nope. She said it was hers, but that her husband died.”

His hand slipped from the door.

“I don’t think she meant to tell me though, since she clammed up right afterward.” Angel had pulled the door open and was crossing the threshold when she spun about to whisper, “Oh, and if any of the men ask, I cooked lunch. Constance doesn’t want to encourage them. Something about the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach.”

Ellis rubbed at the invisible hammers pounding against his temples, drumming up a headache like he’d never known. Constance Jennings was becoming more than he’d bargained for. Much more. What kind of woman keeps a dead husband a secret?