Dorothy Clark - Mail-Order Bride Switch

She stared after him, wanting to tell him she didn’t know how to make a bed or cook. But the thought of the anger that shadowed his face and eyes whenever he mentioned Millie held her silent. What if he annulled their strange marriage? She had nowhere to go. And she was indebted to him for the ticket and money she had used.

Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away and squared her shoulders. She wasn’t helpless. Surely she could make a bed. She would worry about the cooking later.

She opened the cupboard in the hall, stared at the shelves piled with sheets and blankets and pillowcases. She closed her eyes and thought about her bed at home, then filled her arms with the items she needed and carried them to bedroom number one. She dropped them onto the seat of a chair and faced the bed. What did Millie do?

Tears welled again. So did her anger. One thing was for certain—Millie didn’t cry. Was her maid more capable than she? Of course not! It was only a matter of applying oneself. She blinked the tears away, pulled the coverlet off the bed and tossed it over the chair back. First she needed a sheet for the guest to lie on. She pulled one from the pile, laid it on the bed and unfolded it. It was too big. She folded the extra length out of her way at the bottom, but that did not work on the sides; they simply fell down. She let them hang, and unfolded the second sheet on top of the first and repeated the process.

It looked quite good.

She smoothed out every crease and wrinkle, unfolded and placed two blankets on top of the sheet. A smile curved her lips. This wasn’t so difficult. She stuffed the pillow into the case, remembered Millie pummeling hers, and punched and fluffed it. The blue-and-white coverlet finished her job.

She stood back and examined her work. There was not a wrinkle showing anywhere. She let out a long, relieved sigh and hurried to the cupboard in the hall to get the linens for bedroom number two.

* * *

Garret stomped the snow from his boots, wiped them on the rag rug and hurried across the lobby. Finally, he was through shoveling for possible guests. With all the narrow connecting paths, the town looked like a rabbit warren. But at least people could get around. He opened the door to his private quarters and froze. Smoke! He bolted for the kitchen.

“Oh...oh...” Virginia stood in front of the stove waving a towel through the air. Smoke billowed and curled from a large pot sitting on the front burner plate. The smell of burned stew mingled with the stringent odor.

He leaped forward, snatched the towel from her hands and lifted the pan off the hot surface.

“Oh!” She whirled around, bumped into him and rebounded toward the stove.

“Careful!” He grabbed her with his free hand, pulled her against him and backed toward the sink, bringing her with him. He set the pan in the sink and turned on the tap. Cold water rushed out and covered the burned stew. The pot hissed. The smoke stopped. He looked down into her watering eyes. Tears? Or stinging smoke? “What happened?”

“I—I don’t know.” She placed her hands against his chest and pushed away. “I—I put wood in the stove, then found the refrigerator and the stew in it.”

She found the refrigerator?

“I put the stew in a pan and was heating it as you asked. I stirred it with a big spoon the way I’ve seen Martha do, but it started bubbling and splashing out of the pan.” Her eyes watered more.

Tears. He held back a frown and waited for her to finish her explanation. “Some landed on my hand and I went to wash it off and put lotion on it. When I came back the stew was burning and smoking, and I couldn’t make it stop.” She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t know which was more pathetic, the way she looked or her story. “Who is Martha?” He had a sinking feeling he knew the answer before she spoke.

“Our cook.”

“And Millie helped her in the kitchen.”

“Yes. Garret—”

He shook his head, set his jaw and looked at the scorched mess in the pot. There went the possibility of stew for today’s dinner or supper for any guests...or them. “We’ll talk later. First I’ll...” He lifted his head, looked toward the sitting room. “There’s the bell. I have a guest.” He looked down at his rough clothes and scowled. “The way I’m dressed, it would be best if you register him and show him to his room to make certain everything is satisfactory. Can you do that?” She seemed capable of that much.

She straightened, brushed back a curl that had fallen free to dangle in front of her ear. “Yes.”

“All right then. I’ll tend to the fireplace, to stay close in case you need my help.” He snatched up the towel he’d dropped and handed it to her. “Wipe your cheeks and eyes.” The bell rang again. He waved her forward and hurried through the sitting room after her, hoping he wasn’t making another mistake in trusting her to handle the guest. He eyed her golden-brown curls falling from her crown to her shoulders, the way her expensive gown fitted her slender form, and the graceful way she moved even when she hurried. She certainly looked the part of a successful businessman’s wife. But he needed help, and there was no one to hire. Maybe she could learn.

He opened the door and Virginia swept through it, her long skirts floating across the floor. She smiled as she moved behind the desk. His pulse skipped. He’d never seen her look so composed, so capable, so... beautiful.

“May I help you, madam?”

Madam. He’d assumed the guest was a man. He stepped into the lobby, glanced toward the woman standing in front of the desk. The woman looked his way and stared. Great. He probably had soot from the pan on his face. And his clothes! He sure didn’t look like a successful hotel owner.

“Madam?” Virginia’s soft voice called the woman’s attention back to her.

“Yes, I’m sorry, I—” The woman covered her mouth with her gloved hand, coughed. “I’d like a room, please.”

He strode to the fireplace and squatted to add wood to the fire and scrape at the ashes. He’d clean up as soon as he’d shoveled the snow from the back porch.

“Would you like a room here on the first floor, madam? It’s very convenient to the sitting area and the dining room. But if you would prefer a room upstairs, that can be arranged, also.”

What was Virginia doing? He’d told her to assign the two down—

“The downstairs room sounds convenient.” The woman coughed again, cleared her throat. “I’ll take it.”

“Wonderful.” Virginia smiled and turned the register around. “Sign your name and write your address here, please.”

“I don’t have an address at the moment. I’ve been traveling.”

Traveling? The woman didn’t look that prosperous. Her cloak and hat were worn. So was the old carpetbag sitting on the floor at her feet. Of course, he didn’t look like a hotel owner in the clothes he had on.

“No matter. Just write ‘traveling.’”

He sneaked a look over his shoulder at Virginia. She was doing a good job handling the registration. He glanced back at the woman, noted the awkward angle of her hand while she signed in.

“And how long will you be staying with us, Mrs. Fuller?”

“I don’t know. It depends...on the weather. At least two nights.”

“That will be three dollars, please.”

The woman ducked her head, pulled the reticule from her wrist. There was the dull clunk of coins hitting against one another.

“Here you are.”

“And here is your key. If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you to your room, Mrs. Fuller. I’ve put you in room number two. I think you’ll find it quite comfortable.”

The woman bent and reached down.