Читать книгу Wolf Creek Wife - Penny Richards - Страница 11

Chapter Three

“She talks like she isn’t going to do it,” Libby told her son as he ate the breakfast she’d fixed for him while he returned to his house to get ready for Sunday services.

“She’ll marry him,” he said, pinning his mother with a determined look. “We have to do something to stop this insane course she’s on.”

Libby sat down across from him and rested her forearms on the table. “What insane course is that, Win?” she asked with a lift of her shapely eyebrows.

Win frowned. “She’s obviously not very good at making the right choices. She needs a strong man to keep her in line.”

“Oh, good grief!” Libby cried, losing all patience with her stepson. Having borne the brunt of a man’s controlling nature herself during her first marriage, she had little tolerance for some of the ridiculous moral codes one was expected to live by. “She helped a sick man, Win! She didn’t run off with him.”

“Not this time,” he reminded.

“That isn’t fair. You know as well as I do that she had no idea who Devon Carmichael was or what he was up to, just as I had no clue about the kind of man Lucas Gentry was when I married him. Any young woman might have done the same.”

“Maybe,” Win acknowledged.

“There’s no maybe to it. You know I’m right. Your poor sister was almost destroyed when she found out the truth about Devon, and she’s a long way from being over it. I know time can change things, but I fear she may never trust another man with her heart.”

Win’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “She’ll be the better for it, believe me.”

Libby looked aghast at the comment. “I cannot believe you’ve become so cynical. Please tell me you don’t mean that, that you haven’t given up on finding love again.”

Seeing the concern in her eyes, he sighed. “To tell you the truth, Mother, I don’t know if I have or not. Love can be extremely painful. I’m starting to think that marriages of convenience are the best way to go.”

“I’m sure there are advantages, but there is nothing like the love of a devoted spouse and a good marriage to bring you happiness.”

“Like Blythe found?” he quipped with a mocking lift of his eyebrow.

“Are we back to that?” When Win didn’t answer, Libby said, “I guess her choice does play a huge part of her future, doesn’t it? I just thank the Good Lord that we found out the truth about Devon before she had a baby or two.”

“That is a blessing,” Win said. “And you’re right. Her past does have a direct bearing on her future. You know as well as I do that finding a decent husband in Boston was out of the question, and the selection of suitable men around here is slim at best. If you factor in what happened last night—which will be all over town by noon—I think you’ll agree that an arranged marriage is an ideal solution. There are no expectations beyond the basic, no broken hearts.”

Libby’s narrowed eyes told him that she did not agree with his assessment at all. “Sometimes I wonder if you even have a heart. You flirt with every female who crosses your path and flit from woman to woman, but all you’re doing is toying with them. It’s almost like you buried your heart when we buried Felicia.”

“Maybe I did,” he told her. “She may have been the love of my life.”

Libby saw the sorrow in his eyes. “Even so, it’s been a long time, Win. There are different kinds of love, and it’s time you started thinking about a wife and a family.”

He didn’t reply.

“What about Ellie Carpenter? I know you feel something for her.”

“She’s a very special woman,” he said, nodding in agreement. “And she won’t give me the time of day.”

“Well, her situation is complicated.”

“Her situation could be fixed with a visit to a lawyer’s office. A notice in some major newspapers and a couple of legal papers filed at the courthouse and she could have the scoundrel who abandoned her declared legally dead. She hasn’t. Why do you think that is?”

“I have no idea.”

“Neither do I, but the most logical thing is that she still cares for him, lowlife though he certainly is.”

“Or,” Libby offered, “maybe she’s afraid there’s no one out there who’s willing to take on a woman with a background like hers and a child like Bethany. It’s something few men would assume willingly. On the other hand, maybe she uses her husband as a way to keep from getting too close to anyone for fear she’ll be let down again, the same way you use your flirting.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Win confessed. “Which is all the more reason that love should be left out of the equation. It simplifies everything if you go into a marriage as a business arrangement.”

“You’re impossible,” she said with a shake of her head.

“I’m serious. Everyone says Slade was devastated when his wife walked out, so it would be a perfect arrangement for him and Blythe. Two brokenhearted people bound only by a marriage license.”

The expression on Libby’s face was almost comical. “Win, this isn’t some struggling business that you think you can fix. We’re talking about two people’s lives here. You can’t treat this like a merger.”

“I don’t see why not.”

Seeing that she was getting nowhere with him, Libby asked, “When do you plan to pursue this ridiculous course of action?

“As soon as Slade is well enough to be reasoned with.”

Libby stood and reached for his empty plate. She’d done all she could do for the moment. “If he’s as hardheaded as you say he is, this could get interesting.”

After his mother left him, Win recalled the things Blythe had said during their conversation on the way home. She’d asked if he really wanted her to marry someone like Will Slade, and Win admitted it was a valid question. He didn’t want his sister legally bound to just anyone, especially someone who had a problem with alcohol. He’d see the results of that mistake too often.

As for Slade being divorced, unlike most people, Win had no problem with that; after all, Martha was the one who had cheated and done the divorcing. Libby was a divorcée and there was not a better person alive. She’d been a great mother to him and Philip, and a wonderful, caring wife to their father, who’d been left paralyzed after her first husband, Lucas Gentry, had given him a severe beating.

Win hadn’t gone through life without realizing that things often happened that no one could control, but he was a man who liked fixing things. He picked up his coffee cup and stared at a hazy-looking landscape across the room. He really did want Blythe to be happy. He didn’t want to force her into a disastrous marriage. On the other hand, she just kept getting into scrapes that caused her to look foolish. Of course, there was no sin in that. Almost everyone fell into that category at one time or another.

* * *

When her mother left her, Blythe undressed, leaving her dirty clothes in a pile next to the bed. It was Sunday and she knew she should have a bath and get ready for church services, but under the circumstances, she thought she would stay at home. She wasn’t ready to face the town gossips or the condemnation she knew she would see in Brother McAdams’s eyes.

She slipped between the muslin sheets and wished she never had to leave the comfort and anonymity of the bed. She heard the occasional clatter of silver against a plate and the muted sounds of her mother’s and brother’s voices. Rolling to her side, she curled into a ball of misery.

There was little doubt that they were talking about her and what to do about her latest fiasco. Her brother would push for marriage, believing that it would solve everything, when all it would really do is tie two already-unhappy people together for a lifetime. Her mother would be her advocate, but Blythe wasn’t sure how long Libby could hold out against Win’s incredible ability to sway others to his way of thinking. It was, after all, what made him such a success in the business world.

Despite the dozens of emotions that raced through her mind one after the other, Blythe finally escaped her newest predicament by drifting off into a sound sleep. Her last coherent thought was that maybe she could be like Rip Van Winkle and sleep for years and years and years and wake up to find this all behind her.

* * *

Blythe woke sometime in the afternoon. She pulled on a flannel robe and went down to find something to eat, her footsteps dragging. Her mother had returned from church and was probably in her room taking her Sunday-afternoon nap.

She took the platter of ham Libby had baked from the pie safe and placed a generous helping on a pretty floral plate, adding some potatoes and green beans. She was starving. Other than the small chunk of cheese and piece of stale bread she’d shared with the dog the evening before, she hadn’t eaten in more than twenty-four hours.

She tucked into her cold meal and let her thoughts wander over the events of the morning. Recalling the shock on everyone’s face when they’d walked into the house and seen her in her petticoats almost robbed her of her appetite. Other than making a mistake in judging Devon’s true character, she’d had no excuse when it came to the fiasco, but this situation was far different. Even now, she didn’t know how else she could have handled things.

Her thoughts drifted to Will Slade. Will. Somehow, even though some might condemn her for being so familiar, it seemed fitting that she should think of him by his given name. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought in defiance. She wondered how he was doing and if he was as sick as she’d thought he was. Would he be all right? In spite of everything, she prayed he would be.

She was cleaning up the kitchen when she remembered Will’s dog. Like her, he hadn’t had much to eat, and with Will gone, there was no one to feed him. She didn’t fool herself into thinking Win would ride out there and feed the beast. Gabe or Caleb might if she asked them, but it was Sunday and they always had visitors over.

She sighed. There was nothing to do but to take care of the animal herself, though the very thought of facing the drooling creature sent a shiver down her spine. She looked at the ham and reached again for the butcher knife. Working carefully, she cut all the fat and meat from the bone. When she was finished, she had a nice bone and lots of scraps that she knew the dog would enjoy. She wrapped it in waxed paper and tied it up in a dish towel.

After dressing in a much-worn skirt and shirtwaist, she donned a coat and headed for the carriage house, telling Joel, her mother’s stable hand, to hitch up the covered buggy. He complied, though he didn’t seem happy about it. She told him where she was going, so he could report to her mother, and said she would be back before suppertime.

The ride to Will’s place was a chilly, muddy trek. The afternoon sunshine gave no hint of the torrential rains of the evening before. Blythe found peace in the knowledge that there was no one out here to stare or point accusing fingers at her. No one to whisper speculations about what had happened between her and Will Slade.

As soon as the house came into view, the dog sensed her approach. Leaping up from his place on the porch, he ran to the bottom of the steps, lifted his head skyward and began to bark and growl. When his racket failed to make her stop or go away, he broke into a loping run toward the buggy. Trembling, but determined not to let him intimidate her, Blythe kept going.

When she reached the hitching post, she pulled the mare to a stop. Immediately the dog put his massive paws on the floorboard of the buggy and barked once, almost as if he were trying to tell her something, the way he had the previous day.

Though her hand shook, Blythe held it out toward him and crooned in a trembling voice, “It’s okay, boy. It’s okay. Are you hungry? Hmm? I’ve brought you something to eat.”

He barked again, as if to say yes.

She leaned over, untied the dish towel with the ham leavings and turned back toward him. “If you want to eat, you’ll have to move,” she said. As if he understood, he backed up a couple of steps. Thank the Good Lord, he wasn’t barking anymore!

Taking her courage in hand, she climbed down from the buggy. The brute began to jump up and down in excitement. Fearful that he’d snatch the food from her hands and rip off an arm in the process, she took another few cautious steps.

Not two yards from the carriage, the dog, impatient for her to deliver the food he smelled, reared up on his hind legs and placed his massive paws on her shoulders. Not expecting such a thing, Blythe staggered backward beneath his weight. Before she knew it, she was on the soggy ground, flat on her back.

It happened so fast that she didn’t see it coming. Even if she had, there was nothing she could have done about it. The dog outweighed her by several pounds. She was lying there with her eyes closed, trying to catch her breath, when she felt hot, doggy panting on her cheek and a rough tongue make a long swipe from her chin to her ear. She opened her eyes and saw brown eyes gazing down at her. A wet nose was pressed against her ear.

The hound licked her face again.

“Aarrgh!” she said, suppressing a shudder. Without a thought as to how he might react, she shoved his head aside with one hand while using the other to push herself into a sitting position. Undeterred, the hound gave her another swipe across the cheek.

At least he wasn’t attacking her! Determined to do what decency and compassion dictated she should for Will’s mutt, she pushed to her feet and scrubbed at her slobbery cheek with her skirt tail, shuddering at the memory.

Anxious to be done and be gone, she unwrapped the leftovers, picked up a juicy hunk of fat with her fingertips and tossed it to him. It vanished in a single gulp. She shook her head in amazement. The rest followed in short order. Last, she threw the ham bone in his direction.

She was wiping her fingers on the clean edges of the messy towel when an image of how she must have looked lying on the ground flashed into her mind. She started to laugh. What would her snobbish friends in Boston think if they knew that the woman who had such high hopes of owning her own boutique and could have had any number of wealthy young men for a husband was instead teaching children in a one-room country schoolhouse, driving around in the country alone...dressed like a cleaning woman and carrying on a conversation—of sorts—with a dog?

Without warning the laughter turned to a sob. She dropped the dish towel to the ground, leaned against the hitching post and covered her face with her cold hands. She cried for the trouble she’d caused her family and for her ridiculous longing for a husband and her silly naïveté. For loneliness and lost dreams and the loss of her identity. For love and those crazy, pulse-pounding moments she’d experienced with Devon...something she was certain she would never again experience.

After a moment a whining sound drew her attention from her misery. She lifted her head, wiped at her wet eyes and opened them. Through the haze of her tears, she saw that Will’s dog stood in front of her, his head cocked to one side, looking at her with those sad brown eyes that seemed to say, “What’s the matter?”

Good grief! Was she so desperate for compassion she thought she could see it in the eyes of a massive dog? Knowing that her tears were in vain and would solve nothing, she drew herself up straight, sniffed and wiped her eyes and nose on the hem of her skirt. Take that, Bostonians! she thought, glancing back at the hound, who was demolishing the waxed paper she’d wrapped the scraps in.

“Stop that!” she cried.

He looked up at her, a piece of paper hanging from the corner of his mouth. Blythe watched in amazement as, with an unconcerned flick of his tongue, he slurped it into that massive cavern. He chewed a couple of times and swallowed. Licking his chops one final time, he gazed at her, obviously wanting more.

“That’s all,” she told him, grateful that he no longer looked as if he’d like to have her for dinner. There was plenty of water in the creek, so she’d done all she could for the moment. With a sigh, she gathered the dish towel from the ground and headed back to the buggy. The dog watched as she untied the rig, climbed in and backed it up. Then he picked up the bone in his mouth and began to trot alongside.

She halted the horse. “Git!” she yelled, waving her hand at the dog. “Go on! Go back!”

He just stared at her. She clucked to the horse and off she went. The mutt followed. She increased her speed. He stayed beside her, loping along as if the pace were nothing. Surely he’d get tired and turn back, she thought.

She stopped and tried again to make him go away, but he only dropped the bone, sat down and looked at her with his tongue hanging out, panting. Blythe took off at an even faster clip, bouncing over ruts and holes, certain that the next time she looked the big black hound would be nowhere in sight.

She was wrong. Every time. Since she had no idea how to make him go home, he was still behind her when she rolled into the carriage house. He followed her through the wide doors, dropped his bone and sat down on a pile of straw, watching her warily.

“What’s that?” Joel asked, casting a wary glance at the dog as he helped Blythe down.

“The biggest dog I’ve ever seen,” she told him.

“Me, too. Where’d it come from?”

“It’s Mr. Slade’s dog. I took some scraps out to him, and he followed me home. I didn’t know how to get rid of him.” Wearily, she turned and started toward the house.

“What am I supposed to do with him?” Joel asked.

She faced the hired hand and held out her hands, palms up. “I’m open to suggestions.”

Joel shrugged and shook his head.

Blythe mimicked the gesture. “I guess he’s here until his owner gets better or I figure out something else. Let him sleep out here. I’ll see to it he has something to eat every day. He’s huge, but he seems harmless. If he gives you any trouble, I’ll have Colt or Dan come over and see if they can do something with him.”

“Okay,” Joel said, but he didn’t sound happy.

Neither was Blythe.