The Substitute Bride. Janet Dean
bride glanced from side to side, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. From the dismay plain on her face, the town disappointed her. Ordinarily he wasn’t the edgy type, but this woman had him feeling tighter than a rain-soaked peg.
Not that Ted thought the town paradise on earth, but he hoped she didn’t look down her aristocratic nose on the good people of New Harmony.
Silence fell between them while she plucked at her skirts. “I’m…I’m sorry about my clothes.”
“No use crying over spilt milk.”
Though money was always a problem. Because of her carelessness he’d have to spend more. Would he rue the day he’d advertised for a wife?
No, if Sally was kind to Anna and Henry, he could forgive her most anything. From what she’d said in her letters, she liked children and would be good to his.
If not, he’d send her packing.
His stomach knotted. He hoped it didn’t come to that. Since Rose’s death, his well-planned life had spun out of control.
Every day he got further behind with the work. Every day his children got less of his attention. Every day he tried to do it all and failed.
To add to his turmoil, he’d felt the call to another life.
A life he didn’t seek. Yet, the unnerving summons to preach was as real, as vivid, as if God Himself had tapped him on the shoulder.
Him.
He couldn’t think of a man less qualified. Yet the command seared his mind with the clarity of God speaking to Moses through the burning bush.
As if that wasn’t enough to leave a man quaking in his boots, his bride, the answer to his prayers, now harbored second thoughts.
Lord, if this is Your plan for our lives, show us the way.
Up ahead, Lucille Sorenson swept the entrance of the Sorenson Mercantile. The broom in her hand stilled as she craned her neck to get a look at the woman sitting at his side. He tipped his hat as they rolled past, biting back a grin at the bewildered expression on her face.
They passed the saloon. Mostly deserted at this hour.
“Does that tavern foster gambling?”
Ted’s breath caught. “Reckon so. Never been in the place.”
“I’m glad.” Sally smiled. “I’m sure I’ll like…the town.”
“I’ve lived a few places and the people here are good.”
“Good in what way?”
“Folks pitched in after Rose died. Insisted on caring for the children and doing my chores. They’ve kept us supplied with enough food to feed an army of thrashers. I owe them plenty.”
“People like that really exist?”
He raised a brow. “Aren’t farm folk the same in Illinois?”
A flash of confusion crossed her face, but she merely shrugged. A prickle of suspicion stabbed at Ted. Something about Sally didn’t ring true. Before he could sort it out, they reached the parsonage.
Ted pulled on the reins, harder than he’d intended. No reason to take his disquiet out on his team. “Here we are.”
“Already?”
“Doesn’t take long to get anywhere in New Harmony.”
He set the brake, climbed down and walked to her side, reaching up a hand to help her from the seat. She took it and stood, wobbly on her feet. Was she sick? He looked for signs she’d be depositing her lunch in his hat brim. But all he saw was clear skin, apple cheeks and dazzling blue eyes.
He’d never seen bluer eyes, bluer than the sky on a cloudless day. His attention went back to her skin—smooth, fair with a soft glow about it. He’d have no trouble looking across the table at that face.
Or across the pillow.
Why had he thought she wouldn’t suit?
He wrapped his hands around her waist, so tiny the tips of his fingers all but touched, and lowered her with ease. With her feet mere inches from the ground, their eyes met and held. Ted’s heart stuttered in his chest. His gaze lowered to her mouth, lips slightly parted…
“Are you going to put me down?” she said, color flooding her cheeks.
“Sorry.” He quickly set her on her feet.
She sneezed. Twice. Three times. Then motioned to the road. “This dust is terrible.”
Ted looked around him, took in the thick coat of dust on the shrubs around the parsonage, further evidence of the drought that held the town in its grip. Unusual for New Harmony.
“Is it always dusty like this?”
“’Cept when it rains, then the streets turn to mud.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Can’t something be done?”
“Like what?”
She waved a hand at the road. “Like paving it with bricks.”
“No brickyards in these parts.”
“Hmm. If the dust turns to mud, why can’t that mud be made into brick?”
An interesting point, one he hadn’t considered.
“Well, I shall have to think about the problem,” she said, tapping her lips with her index finger.
Thunderation. She sounded like the governor. Did she mean to send him out with a pickax and set to work making a road before sundown? “What are you, a reformer?”
She raised a delicate brow. “Would that bother you?”
“Hardly think you’ll have time to reform much more than my kitchen.” His gaze swept Main Street, mostly deserted at this time of day. Folks were working either at home, in the fields or the town’s businesses. All except for Oscar and Cecil Moore lazing on a bench in front of Pete’s Barbershop, whittling. “Even if you did, you’ll find nothing much gets done in New Harmony.”
“Why? Are people here lazy?”
“For a farmer’s daughter, you don’t know much about farming. Farmers don’t have time to fret about roads and such. We work and sleep. That’s about it.”
“What do you do for fun?”
“Fun?” He opened the gate of the picket fence and offered his arm. They strolled along the path to the parsonage door.
“Don’t you have socials? Parties?”
“Some, but this isn’t the city. We’re a little…dry here.”
The breeze kicked up another cloud of dust and she sneezed again. “That I believe.”
He chuckled and rapped on the wooden door, which was all but begging for another coat of paint. Jacob kept his nose tucked in the Bible or one of the vast number of books he owned. And let chores slide. Maybe Ted could find time to handle the job on his next trip to town.
Lydia Sumner opened the door, neat as a pin and just as plain, wearing a simple brown dress with a lace-trimmed collar, nut-brown hair pulled into a sensible bun. She had a heart of gold and, like now, a ready smile that she turned on Sally.
“Lydia, this is Sally Rutgers. My mail—Ah, fiancée.”
“Hello, Miss Rutgers. Please come in.” She stepped back to let them enter the small vestibule, then motioned to the closed door of Jacob’s study. “My husband’s working on Sunday’s sermon. He’ll only be a moment.”
Ted doffed his hat and they followed Lydia into the parlor, where dollies and doodads covered every tabletop. “Glad we didn’t hold him up.”
“Can I offer you a spot