Dorothy Clark - Mail-Order Bride Switch

He stood, shook his head, gestured at the bag, then pointed to himself.

Virginia gave a small nod of understanding. “Leave your bag, Mrs. Fuller. It will be brought to your room.”

He waited until she stepped out from behind the counter and led the woman to the short hallway off the lobby, then moved to the desk and picked up the woman’s bag.

“The sign says the Stevenson Hotel. Is that the proprietor’s name? I always think it’s nice when people call their businesses by their name.”

The woman’s quiet voice floated out of the hall. He stepped to the edge of the arched opening and waited for them to enter bedroom number two.

“Yes, it is. My husband is Mr. Stevenson.”

Husband. His heart jolted. He’d never wanted that word applied to himself.

“Here we are. This is your room, and that is the dressing room. You will share it with the occupant of room number one, if I rent it out tonight.”

Good! Virginia had thought to tell the guest about the dressing room. He hurried forward, stepped into the bedroom doorway. “Madam’s bag.” He set the patched carpetbag on the floor and backed out.

“What a lovely room.”

He paused to listen, pleased by the woman’s approval.

“I’m looking forward to sleeping in a bed that doesn’t rock back and forth beneath me.”

The bed springs squeaked.

“I’m sure you’ll find it quite comfortable. I’ll—I’ll send someone by later to tend the fire.”

It was the first time Virginia had hesitated. His fault. He should have told her—

“No need, my dear. I see there’s a coal box. And I’ve been tending fires all of my life. But I’m afraid there is a problem with the bed. It’s...undone.”

Undone! He’d told her—

“I’m so sorry. Let me fix it for—”

The door closed, shutting off Virginia’s voice. Fix it! What—? He stared at the knob, clenched and unclenched his hands, then spun on his heel. He stalked to his office, strode straight through it to the door that led to the hall by their bedrooms, and yanked it open. Three long strides took him to her bedroom door. He opened it, stared at the quilt in a pile on the bare mattress. The woman couldn’t even make a bed!

He drew a deep breath, clamped his lips closed on the words scorching his tongue and strode back down the short hall. Going back to the guest’s room would only make things worse. And he hadn’t time. The woman would expect dinner to be served and, thanks to his bride, the stew he’d prepared was an inedible burned lump! He’d have to apologize to the woman, go to her room and make her bed while she was eating her midday meal. If he could even feed her! He was no cook.

He stomped through the sitting room into the kitchen, grabbed the ruined panful of burned stew out of the sink and threw it out the back door with all his fury propelling it. He watched it arc into the air, then stared at the dark hole in the snow where it landed.

If only he could get rid of his bride as easily! He wanted no part of her! Even if she was beautiful. If it weren’t for that contract...

He left the door open to get rid of the smell and headed for the pantry. He had to find something to feed his hotel guest. It would have to be cold food. He had no time to make more stew.

And his bride would be of no help. That was certain. He’d be better off with a cookbook!

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