Книга - Wolf Creek Wife

Wolf Creek Wife
Penny Richards


A Marriage of Inconvenience!After a storm strands her overnight in Will Slade’s cabin, Blythe Granville’s reputation is in shambles. The townspeople doubt that she was innocently nursing him back to health after saving his life. Now Blythe must accept Will’s proposal: a marriage in name only to save her good name. But the former socialite is determined not to fall for her new husband…even if she’s drawn to the gruff stranger who’s vowed to stand by her, in sickness and in health.Will never wanted to remarry after his ex-wife betrayed him. But now he finds himself hitched to a city girl who has no idea how to keep a house…but is somehow chiselling her way into his heart. As Blythe melts Will’s crusty facade, though, they’re discovering that this most unexpected union might just lead to true love.







A Marriage of Inconvenience!

After a storm strands her overnight in Will Slade’s cabin, Blythe Granville’s reputation is in shambles. The townspeople doubt that she was innocently nursing him back to health after saving his life. Now Blythe must accept Will’s proposal: a marriage in name only to save her good name. But the former socialite is determined not to fall for her new husband...even if she’s drawn to the gruff stranger who’s vowed to stand by her, in sickness and in health.

Will never wanted to remarry after his ex-wife betrayed him. But now he finds himself hitched to a city girl who has no idea how to keep a house...but is somehow chiseling her way into his heart. As Blythe melts Will’s crusty facade, though, they’re discovering that this most unexpected union might just lead to true love.


Will wasn’t prepared for the little tingle of awareness that sizzled through him at the feel of her small, warm hand in his.

Their gazes clung. “One more thing,” he told Blythe, without releasing his hold.

“Yes?”

“Regardless of what we’ve done or been or what’s happened in the past to bring us to this point, I’ve always believed that marriage is forever. Once we say ‘I do,’ there’s no going back. Whatever happens, we talk it out, work through it.”

Even as he said the words he heartily believed, he wondered if he could stick to them. What if she was another Martha, a snooty, snotty, spoiled rich girl who expected him to wait on her hand and foot and give her whatever her heart desired? He suppressed a shudder. Well, whatever the future held, he’d just have to keep his end of the deal. They’d already shaken hands.


PENNY RICHARDS has been publishing since 1983, writing mostly contemporary romances. She now happily pens inspirational historical romance and loves spending her days in the “past” when things were simpler and times were more innocent. She enjoys research, yard sales, flea markets, revamping old stuff and working in her flower gardens. A mother, grandmother and great-grandmother, she tries to spend as much time as possible with her family.




Wolf Creek Wife

Penny Richards







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


“I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord.

“Plans to prosper you and not to harm you,

plans to give you hope and a future.”

—Jeremiah 29:11


This book is for my good friend and favorite librarian, Ginny Evans. I can’t thank you enough for your support and all the hard work you do to “get out the word” about my books.


Contents

Cover (#u2050d0e2-e02a-5049-8d47-da77777fb879)

Back Cover Text (#u81374dee-438b-52af-9ff8-79f1e6da5dd9)

Introduction (#uccd1a0e4-0881-5d09-97d2-450ced3b98f5)

About the Author (#u722b4c33-432c-5e69-beb9-381fc6b3da84)

Title Page (#u94a7fbb8-6058-55df-9091-de2d5b8a19d1)

Bible Verse (#u412b174c-afec-50f6-a68a-bed88e1c0d25)

Dedication (#uf09d2408-ab95-5b01-a561-fdf0264307af)

Chapter One (#u3755100a-bba4-57d1-869b-2135e418b2f6)

Chapter Two (#u93e11307-c46f-5e5d-bd70-164e17c7411e)

Chapter Three (#u3f3bfe19-cb93-548a-82fb-6e2b9655bcf7)

Chapter Four (#ua14921e5-f060-58ef-bc3e-69beeced19d1)

Chapter Five (#ua1caecc1-cbcc-5da0-b939-baabfe2d56ae)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#ulink_5df03596-3547-52be-91fd-7c21e892c274)

Wolf Creek, Arkansas, Early March 1887

Blythe Granville vaulted into the saddle and settled herself astride the horse, even though the action hiked up her skirts to show a shameful portion of ankle. Without so much as a glance at the scandalized young man who’d saddled the rented mare, she kicked the animal into a trot and headed out of town.

The Arkansas winter had been long, cold, wet and filled with shame, anger and melancholy. Today, Saturday, was the first day to hint at the promise of spring, the first to offer an escape from the strictures of her new life.

The feelings of unrest were new and totally unlike her. She’d always been the shy, quiet sister to her two brothers, Philip and Win Granville, and her half brothers, Caleb and Gabe Gentry—all self-assured, confident individuals who were successful in a variety of ways. She was the embarrassment of the family. The failure.

Even her mother, Libby Granville, was following her dream of opening a library. And to cap the climax, she’d recently accepted retired doctor Edward Stone’s marriage proposal. Her mother was marrying a man who adored her, while Blythe’s fledgling dreams of finding love were reduced to ashes and she was teaching school in a little town in Arkansas.

Her mother, who had been living in Wolf Creek for a while, and Win, who had moved there permanently near the end of December, had settled into their new lives just fine, but the slow pace of Wolf Creek was smothering what little spirit was left in Blythe after the recent debacle that destroyed her life and any future she’d hoped to have. Wolf Creek was a nice, quiet place to live and raise a family if you liked small, leisurely paced places, but she’d grown up in Boston and loved the hustle and bustle of the big city.

Nevertheless, here she was and here she’d stay, thanks to Devon Carmichael, with whom she’d eloped just after Thanksgiving, finally giving in to his constant pleas to marry him. Three days later, on the afternoon after they’d returned from their wedding, Philip, who’d hired a Pinkerton detective to look into Devon’s background, had confronted her with the news that her new husband was not Devon Carmichael, but one Wilbur Delaney. Not only had he lied about his background, he already had a legal wife hidden away somewhere. Devon, the man who had promised to be faithful to her for the rest of his life, was a bigamist, not to mention a liar and a thief.

Blythe was beyond mortified by the scandal that ensued, and worse, she was horrified that she had consummated her marriage to a man who was not actually her husband. The ever-practical Philip was more concerned that the wedding had given Devon control of the inheritance she’d received from her father on her twenty-first birthday. Hoping it was not too late, she and her brother had gone immediately to the bank, only to find that the money was gone, moved to heaven only knew where, and so was Devon, alias Wilbur.

As news of the scandal spread throughout Boston society, her friends had turned their backs on her one by one, and Philip had suggested—no, insisted—that she move to Arkansas with Win, who would be making his permanent home in Wolf Creek. Philip told her that it would be a good place to let her heart and emotions heal and to make a new life for herself.

The problem was that Blythe did not want a new life. She liked her old one just fine, thank you very much! And even if she did want to start over, she wasn’t sure how to go about it. Though her two Granville brothers were scandalized that she wanted to go into trade, she’d always dreamed of owning her own boutique where she would style and sew gowns for the socially elite.

Part of her wondered how she could have been so naïve as to fall for Devon’s lies. The realistic part of her knew it was in part because she was inexperienced and innocent and also because, at twenty-three, she was on the shelf and overly anxious to find a husband and be married. Simply put, she’d been in love with the notion of being in love rather than the man himself, and that made her easily swayed.

Devon’s betrayal had dashed that dream and crushed her girlish fantasies. According to her brothers, her chances of ever finding a husband who would overlook her lack of common sense was almost nonexistent, so, at Philip’s insistence, she’d come to Wolf Creek with no plans beyond lying low and licking her wounds.

She’d been surprised when, within days after her arrival, Mayor Homer Talbot had come to plead with her to take the job as schoolteacher for the remainder of the year, since he would be losing his prize instructor, Allison Grainger, when she married Sheriff Garrett on New Year’s Eve.

Blythe realized teaching was a noble calling, but it wasn’t hers. Her mind wasn’t filled with letters and numbers and geography lessons. It was overflowing with images of bolts of fabric in every color and texture, delicate laces and satin ribbons, pearl buttons and faux flowers. Even so, she’d agreed to finish out the year. As her mother said, at least it would help pass the time.

Feeling the tension on the reins, the mare tossed her head, bringing Blythe back into the dreary present. She slowed the horse to a walk. At least the wild ride had soothed her smarting pride. She turned the mare down a narrow lane and rode for several minutes, praying as she went, asking God’s forgiveness for being so headstrong, asking Him to help her settle into her new life, to find happiness in Wolf Creek, and if not happiness, something worthwhile and satisfying to fill the emptiness she saw stretching out forever.

Stopping to get her bearings, she spied a pretty white house in the distance. As she sat wondering who lived there, she became aware of the chuckling of a nearby creek and the barking of a dog. Deciding to investigate, she dismounted and headed toward the sounds. She’d no more than reached the edge of the creek bank when the dog—very huge and very black—approached and began barking at her.

Blythe stood stock-still, her hand clenched around the horse’s reins. She hadn’t been around dogs much and had never seen one the size of this creature. It was big and raw-boned and as black as night. As she stood there, uncertain what to do, the hound came closer, barked and then turned and started back the way it had come. When she only stood there, he repeated the gesture twice more. Realizing that he didn’t intend to tear her limb from limb, she began to understand that he was trying to get her to follow him.

After tying the reins to a bush, she trailed after the dog to a spot about twenty yards farther down the creek, where she found him licking the face of a man lying on the damp ground.

Blythe’s heart began to race. Who was it? What had happened? Should she go for help? Even as the questions raced through her mind, she was running to his side, taking in impressions as she went. Whoever he was, he was a big, burly man. Young.

Kneeling beside him, she realized that despite his size, he was very fit and clearly no stranger to hard work. She couldn’t tell the color of his eyes, but his just-a-bit-too-long hair was a rich chocolate brown, a little curly and a lot unruly...as the man himself looked. His nose was bold, straight and well-formed. Several days’ growth of beard covered his lean cheeks.

Sudden recognition caused her to draw in a shocked breath.

Will Slade.

And she knew exactly what color his eyes were. Black. As black as sin.

Will, the owner of a small sawmill, had been one of the favored subjects of town prattle, all because his pretty wife had run away with a bigwig from Springfield and divorced him. After that, he was rumored to hit the corn pretty regularly. Those same gossips claimed that he’d sobered up and was once again walking the straight and narrow, though he’d grown bad-tempered and moody. She’d also heard that his wife wanted him back.

All Blythe really knew about him was that he’d intervened on her behalf when a pushy reporter who’d followed her from Boston had made a scene at the train station the day she and Win arrived in town.

She stared down at Will, wondering what she should do. His breathing was heavy, labored. Had he fallen off the wagon, got drunk and passed out? She was almost afraid to try to wake him, since she’d heard that some people got mean when they were liquored up. She leaned down to see if she could smell alcohol on his breath.

Nothing she could discern. She did notice, though, that there was a rattling in his chest. Alarmed, she pressed a palm to his forehead. He was burning up with fever. He wasn’t drunk; he was sick. What should she do? she wondered as she chewed on her lower lip. The testy Mr. Slade was not her favorite person, even though he had come to her rescue, but it would be criminal to leave him here to develop pneumonia—if he didn’t already have it.

She glanced up through the still-bare trees. The day and the temperature were falling fast, and the clouds moving in looked swollen and rain-filled. The sunny springlike afternoon was fast reverting to winter, and the man lying on the cold, wet ground needed to be in a warm bed being spoon-fed chicken broth with Doctor Rachel Gentry attending him.

Genuinely worried, Blythe grabbed his shoulder and gave it a rough shake. The dog barked. “Mr. Slade, wake up!”

Nothing. She tried several more times with the same results while the dog stared at her, drool collecting at the corners of his drooping lower lip. Uncertain what else to do, she lightly slapped Will Slade’s whiskery cheeks. Before she had any inkling of what he was about, his eyelids flew upward, his heavy brows drew together and one hand had grabbed her wrist in a hard clasp.

The dog growled and the man on the ground barked a hoarse, “Stop it!”

Blythe gave a little yelp of her own and stared from her captured wrist to the dog and then to Slade’s face. The expression in his eyes was murderous, but she had enough wits about her to realize that fever dictated his actions.

“I was only trying to wake you. You need to be inside, out of the damp air,” she explained, trying to pull free. “If I help you, can you stand?”

“Stand? Of course I can stand,” he snapped.

Then he looked around and frowned when he realized he was lying on the ground. If Blythe didn’t know better, she’d think she saw a hint of panic in his eyes.

“What happened?”

“I haven’t a clue,” she told him. “I was out for a ride when your dog—” she glanced at the beast sitting near his master’s shoulder “—led me to you. All I know is that you’re sick, and I need to get you to the house and go for the doctor.”

She might as well have been talking to the dog. Will Slade’s eyes were closed and the tenor of his breathing told her he was unconscious again.

Blythe pushed to her feet and stared down at him. She had no idea why he was out in the middle of the woods when he was so ill, but common sense told her that the house she’d seen must be his. How could she get him from here to there? She certainly couldn’t carry him! The sensible thing to do was to ride into town and bring back someone with a wagon, but a foggy mist was settling in and she feared that if she left him and the rain started in earnest, his condition would worsen.

Think, Blythe.

She recalled a piece she’d read in the newspaper a few months earlier about how the Plains Indians moved the sick, wounded and elderly on a contraption made with two long poles and pulled by an animal. She didn’t have any poles, but maybe she could fashion something comparable. She had designed an intricate and detailed wedding gown, for heaven’s sake. How hard could it be to take a quilt and make something to drag an unconscious man through the woods?

Telling Will Slade that she would be back as fast as possible, knowing he didn’t hear her, she gathered her woolen skirt in her fists and ran back to the lane toward the house and barn in the distance. She heard the dog barking at her and, when she turned, she saw that he was still sitting beside his owner. The canine’s devotion was admirable; she’d give him that.

Twenty minutes later she’d assembled a makeshift travois from a quilt she’d dragged from one of the beds and a couple of long pieces of rope she’d found in the barn. She tied the riggings to the saddle horn and let them trail along the horse’s sides, then attached the other ends to the corners of the quilt. The dog barked at her at regular intervals, and she was struck by the uncanny notion that he was urging her to hurry.

“I’m going as fast as I can,” she grumbled. By the time she finished, her fingers were numb with cold.

Back down on her hands and knees, she shoved with all her might until she’d rolled the sick man onto the quilt. With a little prayer that he wouldn’t fall off or the knots give way, she led the mare out of the clearing while the dog trotted along beside his master. Thank goodness the rain had held off.

Her good fortune was short-lived. By the time the little caravan reached the front porch and she’d tied the horse to the hitching post, it had begun to drizzle. She was chilled to the bone and wanted nothing more than to be out of the weather in front of a fire.

The problem was how to get the unconscious man inside.

Unable to come up with another idea, she undid the ropes from the saddle horn and tied them around her waist. Using the muscles of her legs and arms and every bit of strength she could muster, she inched her way up the porch steps and shuffled across the painted porch boards and through the doorway that led to a combined kitchen and sitting area.

Once they were inside, she closed the door and untied the ropes from around her middle. Rain fell in sheets. A crack of lightning rent the sky, followed by a boom of thunder. Blythe cringed. She hated storms, and this one was gaining strength by the minute.

The dog barked from the other side of the door. Did he want in? She gnawed on her lower lip in indecision. Would Will be furious at her if she let the creature inside? And did she want the huge animal in the same room with her, when she wasn’t sure he liked her much?

When he began barking again, she grabbed a flour-sack towel from the tabletop and jerked open the door simultaneously as another boom of thunder hit. The mutt almost knocked her over in his haste to get inside. Despite the situation, she almost laughed. The big baby was as frightened of the storm as she was. So much for his bad-dog act.

“Wait!” she cried, throwing herself across his back to keep him from going any farther into the room. To her surprise, he stopped and stood while she rubbed the rain from his glossy fur and dried his feet. Satisfied for the moment, he settled his lanky body down next to the fireplace, never taking his eyes from her.

What now? she wondered, looking at the sick man once more. She’d planned to get him settled and ride to town for help, but it was storming, and the day was all but gone. Not only did she dislike dogs and storms, she was also no fan of the dark. There were streetlights to illuminate the gloom in Boston, but out here, surrounded by woods, it would be pitch-black when night fell. If she left the safety of the house, she would be terrified. She might even get lost in the unfamiliar area. Perhaps the storm would pass in the night and she could ride for help at first light.

The sick man sat up suddenly, once again taking Blythe by surprise. His wild-eyed gaze roamed the room. “Lie down, Mr. Slade.”

He frowned at her. “Martha? What are you doing here? I told you not to come back here.”

Martha? For just a second Blythe had no idea who he was talking about and then she remembered that was his former wife’s name. Good grief! The fever was making him delirious.

“I’m Blythe, not Martha, Mr. Slade,” she said, kneeling beside him and pressing against his wide shoulders.

“Blythe?” he asked with another frown. “Do I know you?”

“We’ve met. Lie down, please.” She felt the tension in him relax and, with only a minimum of resistance, he did as she asked.

“Close your eyes and rest.”

Surprisingly, he did. Blythe sighed and got to her feet. Like him or not, he was a sick man who needed her help. Should she stay and help him however she could or take a chance and try to make it to town?

It crossed her mind that if word got out that she’d stayed overnight in the home of a single man, she would once again be the talk of the town, but she pushed the thought aside. Under the circumstances, she had little choice. It was almost dark. It was storming. A very sick man who needed tending lay on a quilt in front of the fire. She knew it was her Christian duty to do what she could for him, no matter what the outcome might be.

Everyone would understand. If not, then her reputation would suffer again. It was already in tatters. What else could be done to her? Would she be tarred and feathered? Her only regret was that her mother would be beside herself with worry if she wasn’t home by suppertime.

Hands on her hips, Blythe regarded her patient. First things first. Heat. She fed kindling to the glowing coals in the fireplace and added a couple more split logs. A blaze soon crackled and warmth began to spread throughout the room.

Grateful for the much-needed heat, she took off her scarf and coat and hung them on the back of a chair near the fire. Then she unpinned her hair and finger-combed it so it would dry faster. She didn’t need to get sick, too. Without considering the inappropriateness of it, she unfastened her muddy skirt and stripped down to her petticoats, hanging the skirt, as well. It should be dry by morning and she could brush off the worst of the dirt.

The next thing was to get the sick lumberman into bed. She looked at him lying on the floor, all six-foot-plus of him, and knew that was an impossibility. She’d gotten him inside, but there was no way she could get him into bed. The next best option was to make him a pallet near the fire.

After locating a quilt box, she spread a couple of blankets onto the floor next to the hearth and once again rolled him onto the pallet. It was a struggle, but she managed to tug and pull until she got his wet coat off. Thankfully, his lightweight jacket had kept his shirt more or less dry. His denim pants were damp, but she’d managed to get him home and inside before they’d gotten too wet.

Sick or not, she drew the line at removing them. Her inexperience might have led her into the trap Devon had set for her, but she didn’t intend to deliberately put herself in a pickle again. She pulled off Will’s boots and piled several quilts on top of him, tucking them beneath his sock-clad feet.

“Who are you?”

Once again the sound of his raspy voice caught her off guard. She met his questioning, fever-bright gaze. He had no remembrance of her telling him her name just moments before.

“Blythe Granville.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I found you unconscious in the woods and brought you back here out of the weather.”

He managed a hoarse laugh and turned his head aside when it turned into a fit of coughing. When the spell passed, he gave her a look of disdain. “I don’t feel so good, but I’ve never passed out in my life, lady.”

“Well,” she told him with a hint of asperity, “you did today.” Typical man. Unwilling to admit to the least sign of weakness.

“I’m thirsty.”

The fever. “I’ll get you some water.” She got to her feet and went to a long, tall table situated beneath a window to dip him a cup of water from the bucket. She carried it back to him, once more dropping to her knees.

“Do you need help sitting up?”

He looked at her as if she had lost her mind and snapped a surly, “Of course not.”

He did manage to push himself upright, but it looked as if it took every ounce of strength in him. He drank down all the water and handed her the cup. “I remember you.”

“Do you?”

“You’re that banker’s sister who fell for some man who lied about giving you a better life.”

Though Blythe had played the fool, she didn’t like the fact that Will Slade had reminded her of it, or that his opinion no doubt echoed that of most of the people in Wolf Creek. Why was it that everyone wanted to paint her as a bad person because she thought she’d fallen in love?

She held her tongue. “You need to rest, Mr. Slade. Do you have any sort of medicine that might help your cough and fever?”

He lowered himself back onto the feather pillow. “Ma brought me some willow bark...on the shelf.”

The words seemed forced from him, as if their short conversation and the mere drinking of a cup of water had worn him out. “Willow bark?”

“For tea.” He scraped a hand down his face and closed his eyes. “Brings down a fever. Whiskey and honey for the cough.”

Blythe had never heard of using willow bark tea for a fever, but he seemed familiar with it, so she’d give it a try. As for giving him whiskey...she was less sure about that. Wouldn’t it be risky to give anyone who’d once had a problem with alcohol any sort of liquor? Still, she supposed she’d have to take a chance on it. He certainly needed something.

She was about to ask where she could find the spirits, but when she glanced over at him, she saw that he was out again. She rummaged around until she found a jar of dark amber honey, complete with a hunk of honeycomb, a bottle of whiskey and two plain white mugs. The teakettle on the back of the stove was about half full and piping hot. Blythe poured the water over some willow bark to steep and more into a second thick mug. She stirred in a generous measure of whiskey and honey, added a bit of water from the bucket to cool it and carried both remedies to her patient.

He drank it down faster than she felt he should have, and by the time he finished it and the willow bark tea, she realized she was feeling a bit hungry, even though she’d had little appetite since leaving Boston. She’d find something in a bit. It was more important to finish doing what she could for the man resting on the floor.

She found a cloth, poured a basin of water and carried them to his side. For several moments she bathed his face and hands, hoping that the combination of the cool water and the tea would bring down his fever. He sighed in his sleep, as if to let her know her ministrations were nice.

Working over him gave Blythe ample opportunity to study his face from a woman’s point of view. Everything about him was uncompromisingly masculine and, from what little she’d observed, he did and said whatever he pleased, the opinions of others be hanged. Win claimed Will was a man’s man. Was that why Martha had left him for someone else? Had she found someone who would treat her more gently or perhaps cater to her every desire?

Blythe passed the cloth over his forehead and noticed the lines between his heavy eyebrows. Worry? Frowning into the sun? There were grooves in both cheeks that might be dimples when he smiled—if he ever smiled. She’d never seen him with anything but a scowl. What would a smile do to his somber, attractive features? Would his eyes crinkle at the corners? Was that why those little lines were there?

Though it was doubtful that she would ever allow herself to be tempted by a man again, there was no denying that he was quite nice-looking—if one liked their men big and burly and surly. She didn’t. She liked slender men with grace and elegance and charm.

An errant memory of Devon’s face filled her mind. When they’d first met, she believed she’d found everything she’d been longing for in a man. Not only was he handsome and fascinating, everything about him had given the impression of sophistication and refinement—from the immaculate cut of his clothing to his knowledge of how the elite world of society worked. Most important, he’d claimed to love her. She’d learned the hard way that his outward façade was as false as his declarations of love.

As usual, the mere thought of his lies and betrayal brought back the anger that had simmered just below the surface since she’d learned the truth about him. She removed the cloth from her patient’s forehead and tossed it into the wash basin, where it landed with a little splash.

Troubled without really understanding why, she pulled the quilts up to Will’s chin and went to find something to eat. She discovered a chunk of cheese and some slightly stale bread wrapped in a towel that would do nicely with a cup of tea. The dog stared at her with disapproval in his eyes and saliva dripping from the corners of his mouth until she’d offered him a portion of her meal.

Her hunger sated, she stood in the center of the large kitchen area, her hands pressed against her aching back. She’d done all she could for her patient at the moment. Weary beyond words, she carried a footstool from the parlor and set it next to the large rocking chair near both the fire and her patient. She found another woolen blanket in a small bedroom, wrapped herself in it and settled into the chair.

She was asleep in minutes.

* * *

Will woke at some time during the night. He felt some better. He turned onto his side and realized that he was on the floor. What on earth was he doing on the floor? In a bit of a panic, he raised himself to one elbow and looked around the room. The first thing to snag his attention was a drift of white eyelet trim that was attached to... Was that a woman’s petticoat?

His gaze moved upward. An unfamiliar woman was sleeping in the rocking chair. Why was he on the floor and why was an unknown woman in his chair...in his house? What was going on? He thought about waking her to ask, but with his head pounding and his breathing rattling around in his chest, the last thing he wanted was any kind of confrontation or conversation. All he wanted to do was sleep. He didn’t recall ever being so sick, and he didn’t like the helpless feeling that made it hard to even move. He lay back down and continued staring at her. Even that was a strain.

On closer examination, she looked familiar, but he couldn’t put a name to the face. She looked young and innocent sitting there with her head lolled over to the side. Even as sick as he was, it was obvious that she was really pretty with her slightly curly brown hair tumbling over her shoulders and her eyelashes casting shadows onto her face. Despite the fact that she wasn’t wearing a skirt and her feet were bare except for her white stockings, she sure didn’t look like the kind of woman who would stay over with a man any more than he was the kind of man who would let a woman stay over. A sudden, vague memory of her giving him medicine for his cough surfaced through the murky fever fog of his mind. Maybe she was a nurse, he thought, yawning and closing his eyes. They flew open immediately. There were no nurses in Wolf Creek. He shivered and pulled the covers closer around his neck, feeling the weariness pulling at him once more. He’d ask her who she was tomorrow. It was nothing that couldn’t wait until morning.

* * *

The barking of the dog woke Blythe from a deep sleep. Someone was outside. She could hear the sounds of men’s voices and the scrape and stomp of boots on the porch. Sleepy and confused, she bolted upright, her gaze automatically seeking her patient. His eyes were open, and though he looked a bit puzzled, he seemed much more alert than he had the previous evening.

When someone began to pound on the door, she realized with a bit of dread that a search party had arrived. While she was deciding what to do, Will pushed himself to his elbows. Simultaneously, the door burst open, revealing a group of men, among them Sheriff Garrett, his deputy, Big Dan Mercer, the preacher and her brother. All wore looks of shock on their faces.

“Blythe Granville!” Win cried. “What on earth is going on? Are you determined to ruin yourself?”

“It’s pretty obvious what’s going on, if you ask me,” the preacher said.

Blythe closed her eyes against a sudden feeling of light-headedness and nausea as a feeling of déjà vu swept through her. She started to get to her feet to explain and realized she was wearing only her blouse and petticoats. While she sat wondering how to approach the mess she found herself in, Preacher McAdams turned to Will, who was wearing his familiar frown.

McAdams pointed an accusatory finger at him. “You will do the right thing by this young woman, William Slade. I expect you to marry her as soon as possible.”

Blythe gasped and glanced at her brother. “I can’t marry him,” she cried at the same instant Will shouted, “Are you out of your mind? I’m not marrying anyone. Especially not her.”

Blythe had seldom seen her easygoing brother so furious. “Oh, but you can,” he said to her in the tone she knew brooked no arguing. He shifted his furious gaze to Will. “And you are. Marrying her.”

Though it hardly seemed possible, Will’s anger topped Win’s. “Over my dead body,” he growled.

“That can be arranged,” Win snapped. Then he turned to her.

She didn’t know what hurt the most: the heartbreak or the disappointment in his eyes.

“Get dressed.”

She reached out toward him. “Win, you’re jumping to conclusions. I can explain.”

Instead of answering, he turned and left the room. The others followed.


Chapter Two (#ulink_680254e1-3a60-5d00-bd91-776573f212e2)

For several seconds after the door closed behind her brother, Blythe sat wide-eyed and still. She was afraid to move, afraid to even breathe, lest Will, who lay with his eyes shut, his fists clenched at his sides and his jaw rigid with anger, light into her the way he had Win. Knowing she had no choice, she stood, reached for her skirt and pulled it on, not bothering to brush the dirt from the hem or go to another room to dress. It was a little late for misplaced modesty. Besides, his eyes were still closed.

“I can’t believe the mess you’ve made of things.”

Her? She was being blamed once again? Blythe looked up from settling the waistband of her skirt and saw that Will’s eyes were open and he was glowering at her.

She was usually hard to rile, but after everyone in the rescue party jumping to conclusions and Will’s lack of gratitude, her usual self-control was nowhere to be found. She finished buttoning her skirt, then glared back at him.

“Why, thank you, Miss Granville, for finding me and doing your best to take care of me while I had a raging fever and a hacking cough.” Her voice reeked with disdain.

His gaze shifted from hers. She hoped he felt guilty for his attitude.

“I am grateful for that,” he said, though he sounded anything but.

“Please, Mr. Slade,” she said, looking down her straight nose at him. “Don’t insult my intelligence by spouting platitudes you don’t really mean.”

“Fine,” he snapped. “Why didn’t you take me to town instead of staying here with me overnight? Then none of this would have happened.”

Blythe stared down at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. Was he serious? “How much do you weigh, Mr. Slade?”

Dull color crept into his whisker-stubbled cheeks. He knew where this was going. “Somewhere between one eighty and two hundred pounds would be my guess.”

He started to say something more, but she stopped him with an upraised hand. “I suppose I should have just left you in the woods while I hitched the wagon, then picked you up, tossed you over my shoulder, dumped you into the wagon bed and let you get even wetter while I drove you into town in the middle of a storm.” She didn’t tell him that she had no idea how to hitch the horse to the wagon, much less drive it.

He threw a forearm over his face and drew in a deep sigh that set off a fit of coughing. When he finished, he looked at her with another daunting frown; Blythe took her coat from the back of the chair where she’d left it to dry and shrugged into it.

“I would fetch you some of your cough remedy, but I’m having second thoughts about coming to your aid, since it’s clear you don’t appreciate anything I’ve done,” she quipped. “My mother has a saying that I didn’t really understand until a few minutes ago.”

“Oh?” he challenged with an uplifted eyebrow.

“‘No good deed goes unpunished.’” Then, because she was so miserable that he felt no gratitude for the sacrifice she’d made for him, and because she still had to deal with Win, she added, “It’s plain to see why your wife ran off with another man.”

The shock and anger in Will’s eyes were impossible to ignore. Blythe longed to call back the spiteful words, but that was the thing about things spoken rashly and in anger. There was no taking them back. Even if one apologized, the words were out there, ready to be called up at a moment’s notice. Instead of even trying, she lifted her chin and turned to let herself out the door. Let him stew in his own juices and fetch his own medicine! She was finished with the dreadful man.

* * *

Will lay in the back of the bouncing wagon, his head aching, his chest tight and fury simmering through his veins. It wasn’t enough that he was so sick he’d have to get better to die; he also had to deal with the blasted Granvilles. Again. More specifically, Win Granville, who’d been trying to buy the mill from him for more than a year. Even though things at the mill had started going wrong before Martha walked out more than two years ago, Will had no intention of selling as long as he could scrape together enough cash to keep the saw blades turning.

As if he didn’t have enough on his mind, he’d received a letter from Martha a couple of weeks ago, saying that she’d made a terrible mistake, that she’d found out the man she’d left him for was a liar, and she wanted to come and see him and talk things through. The long and short of it was that she wanted him to give her a second chance.

For the space of a few heartbeats he’d considered it, but then reality settled over him. He knew her well. Martha didn’t play fair. She would come fully equipped with a plan that involved using every strategy in her womanly bag of tricks, including regrets, tears and apologies, and vows of lifelong devotion. If all else failed, she would park herself on his doorstep until she got what she wanted.

With that sobering thought, the moment of insanity had passed and he’d promptly sent her a letter telling her not to waste her money on a train ticket and saying that after her betrayal he had no intention of marrying her again. In fact, he added, her behavior had soured him on the entire female species. He might never wed again.

Looking back, he wondered why he’d ever married her in the first place. She’d been far too flighty and flirty, too superficial by far, but she was a beauty who knew how to use her feminine attributes. He’d been taken in, and once she got what she wanted—marriage to a successful businessman—the real Martha had emerged and he’d known without a doubt he’d made a mistake. Still, his mama had told him that marriage vows were sacred and not to be broken, and he’d have stayed married to her until the Second Coming if she hadn’t walked out on him.

For months after her departure, the embarrassment of what she’d done had driven him to drink, and he’d spent far too many hours looking for answers to his misery in the bottom of a glass. When the pain eased and he sobered up, he’d realized, through talks with his friends, that even though nothing was ever the fault of one person, Martha would never have been satisfied with him or a life in Wolf Creek.

Martha liked men, especially men with money who could grant her heart’s desires, which were many and varied. For two years he’d done his best to give her everything she’d wanted, but when someone had come along who could give her more, she’d wasted no time in flying the proverbial coop, telling him that he spent far too much time working.

Trying to explain that if he didn’t cut trees into boards he’d have no money to buy her the fripperies she was so fond of had made no impact on her. All that counted was what she wanted. It didn’t help matters that it was about that time that equipment at the mill started breaking down and he didn’t have enough cash flow to keep both the business running and his wife happy.

So, here he was, two years later, Martha hounding him to come back and the mill still barely scraping by. He felt as if he’d been treading water. Now there was this newest...situation.

Had he really passed out in the woods? His jaw tightened. Not exactly a manly act. If he lived to be a hundred, he’d never hear the end of it. And why, out of all of the women in Wolf Creek who might have stumbled onto him, did the one who found him have to be Win Granville’s sister?

Rumor had it that she’d been through a situation somewhat similar to his back in Boston. She’d thought she was marrying a rich guy, but the joke was on her when he’d cleaned out her bank account and she’d found out the marriage wasn’t even legal. That didn’t say much for her intelligence, did it? Like most pampered, rich women, she probably wasn’t good for much besides playing hostess at parties or showing off her jewels at the theater.

She was smart enough to figure out how to get you back to the house and inside when she saw you were sick.

Well, he’d give her that, and despite his anger over everything that had happened this morning, he was grateful for what she’d done for him. If she hadn’t come across him by chance, there was no telling how long he might have lain on the wet ground with the cold rain pouring down on him before he came to and made his way back to the house. If he’d been able to make it to the house.

Blythe Granville was no bigger than a minute. Will tried to imagine her getting him onto the travois and then up the porch steps and inside. The fact that she’d figured out a way to do that proved that she wasn’t just another pretty face, that she was, in fact, intelligent. The truth was that Martha’s behavior had left him suspicious of all women, and to add fuel to the fire, Blythe was a sister to Win Granville, who refused to take no for an answer when it came to Will selling the mill. Beyond that, Will had no particular dislike of the woman.

He broke into a fit of coughing that had Dan Mercer looking over his shoulder.

“You all right, bud?” Dan asked.

“I’ll live,” he grumbled.

“Hope so.”

Will tried to smile but didn’t think he managed more than a grimace. He didn’t remember ever being this sick in his life. In fact, he could count on one hand the times he’d suffered from any kind of ailment. He closed his eyes, hoping to sleep, even though the wagon was wallowing in the rough ruts in the road and seemed to hit every hole. Despite the jarring ride, the sickness that left him weak and feverish finally allowed him to drift in and out of a light sleep.

* * *

Blythe sat silently in the buggy next to Win. She hadn’t spoken a word since she’d stepped out onto the porch and watched while Big Dan Mercer hitched up Will’s horse and wagon. No one had spoken to her, either; no one so much as looked at her. It hurt, but she’d refused to let any of the search party know just how much it hurt. She’d stood there with her arms folded across her chest, her chin high, refusing to let the tears that threatened slip down her cheeks. She’d never shed so many tears in her life as she had since late November, and she was sick of crying.

After tying her horse to the rear of his buggy and giving her a look of patent disapproval, Win had held out his elbow and she’d taken it, though she’d rather have grabbed a rattlesnake. Without saying a word, his every movement stiff with censure, he helped her into his buggy. Everyone else was on horseback. She should have known her stylish brother would not sit astride a horse; it might wrinkle his trousers, she thought unkindly.

The men had helped get Will loaded into the back of the wagon, making sure he was well protected against the cold morning air, and the silent group had started back to Wolf Creek.

And here they were, she thought with a heavy sigh. And here she was, smack-dab in the middle of another scandal.

“What on earth were you thinking, Blythe?” Win asked, glowering at her.

She clenched her hands in her lap and stared straight ahead, counting to ten in hopes it would prevent her from yelling at him when she answered.

“Oh!” she said, her voice dripping with contrived drama as she placed a hand over her heart. “Silly me! I was thinking that Mr. Slade was a very sick man I found passed out in the woods and that perhaps he should be inside, since a storm was brewing.”

“There was no way to get him to town?”

“Well,” she said in a lighthearted tone. “I suppose I could have dragged him back to town behind my horse.”

For the first time Win looked at her with curiosity instead of condemnation. “Drag him? What are you talking about?”

When she explained that she’d had no way to get him into the back of the wagon—if she’d known how to hitch it up—she elaborated on how she’d made the travois and added, “None of it was easy, believe me. Especially getting him up the steps.”

“Do you mean to say that you dragged him up the steps on a quilt?”

A feeling of frustration nudged aside her irritation. “I did. By the time I got him inside, the storm was in full force and it was getting dark. I thought about trying to ride to town for help, but he was burning up with fever and coughing his head off. I did what I thought was best at the time. And believe me, brother,” she added in a voice laced with sarcasm, “I did think about the consequences of my actions, but I figured there wasn’t much else that could be done to me.”

“That’s an abysmal attitude,” he said, shooting another disapproving glance at her.

Blythe lifted her chin and returned the look with scorn. “I prefer to think of it as a practical attitude. It isn’t as if my staying overnight will ruin my reputation or my chances of finding a husband.”

A muscle in Win’s jaw tightened. “Oh, you’ll have a husband within the week, if I have anything to say about it.”

So much for soothing the troubled beast, she thought, the annoyance draining from her. She was so tired of worrying about every move she took, every word she uttered. Part of her wanted to give up, give in and just go along with whatever Win told her to do, but the part of her that was tired of doing what her brothers thought was right asserted itself. She was an adult. A modern woman. She may have made a mistake, but she had learned from it, and that one transgression was no reason to treat her as if she had no more sense than God gave a goose! Her anger made a comeback.

“Are you insane, Winston Granville? This is the nineteenth century. You cannot force two perfect strangers to marry.”

“Of course I can.”

“Ooh!” she said. “Men!” She turned on him angrily. “Do you know what the incident with Devon taught me? That if men aren’t using women, they’re manipulating them or treating them like imbeciles.”

“That isn’t fair, and it isn’t true.”

“Isn’t it?” she challenged.

“Be reasonable, Blythe. Think about your future. This is your chance to pull yourself up and regain the respect you lost with the Devon fiasco.”

She looked at her brother as if he had lost his mind. Perhaps he had. Fiasco? She had fallen in love with a man who’d appeared to be everything she’d wanted in a husband; he’d taken her virtue, her money and her self-respect, and Win considered it a fiasco? Why was it no one understood that she’d gone into that marriage with trust and love? Why couldn’t they see how hurt and miserable Devon’s betrayal had left her? She sighed. She didn’t much like the problems that came with becoming an adult and living with the choices she made.

“So you think that if I marry a man whose wife left him, one who is rumored to have a fondness for whiskey, a man who has no desire to be married to anyone—especially me—” she added, recalling Will Slade’s hurtful words “—that all my troubles will miraculously be over. What kind of future would that be? Certainly not a happy one.”

“People marry for lots of reasons,” Win argued. “Happiness is often the least of it. At least you’d be settled.”

Ah. Settled. Translated, that meant that she would be out of his hair, no longer his and Philip’s responsibility. Oh, she knew quite well how the minds of her brothers worked. Both were geniuses when it came to solving problems. And if one solution took care of two dilemmas, so much the better. She also knew that if Win’s mind was set on this marriage, neither she nor Will stood a chance. She almost felt sorry for him.

Well, she hadn’t been a Granville all these years without picking up a few tricks along the way. Perhaps she could shame her brother into forgetting the whole preposterous notion.

“And you wouldn’t have to worry about what to do with me anymore, would you, Win? You could go on with your life with me stuck out in the country and there would be no constant reminders of my fiasco.”

“That isn’t fair, Blythe!” Win said, darting a shocked look her way. “That isn’t it at all. You know we all love you. It’s just that you sometimes make poor decisions.”

More of those dratted tears stung her eyes. “Well, that certainly isn’t fair!” she said in a low, intense voice. “When have I ever not been the soul of propriety? The epitome of good sense? Besides that one mistake with Devon,” she added.

“Don’t forget last night. The people who found you certainly won’t. It’ll be all over town before breakfast that you spent the night at Slade’s place.”

“To help him,” she emphasized and followed the statement with a lusty sigh of frustration.

“You know as well as I do that the why doesn’t matter. People will talk. They especially like gossiping about the missteps of others. Those who were willing to give you the benefit of the doubt will start wondering, and those who already condemned you for your mistake will rub their hands with glee, delighted to see one of the high-and-mighty Granvilles brought low. No matter the situation, everyone will expect Slade to do the right thing by you.”

“That’s just despicable of them, and it certainly won’t be the right thing for me.”

“Maybe not, but it’s the way things are. And you know how Brother McAdams is about even a breath of a scandal touching one of his flock.”

“It wouldn’t have to be a scandal if everyone would just listen to the truth and stop being so judgmental!” she cried. “Besides, Mr. Slade has been divorced. Do you want your sister marrying someone like that?”

“I admit it isn’t the perfect situation,” Win said. “But by all accounts the fault lies with his former wife. She left him, and she’s the one who filed for the divorce. Everyone says he was devastated.”

“See!” she said, throwing her hands into the air. “Even more reason not to do this. If he’s devastated, he must still love her. It’s ridiculous to push two people into a marriage neither one wants just to satisfy some silly convention of society.”

He shrugged. “He’ll get over her, sooner or later. Maybe you can help him.”

Blythe lifted her face to the heavens and threw her hands up into the air. “Lord, can you believe what I’m hearing?”

Once again she sought to strike a blow to her brother’s supreme confidence. “Forgetting someone isn’t something you do willy-nilly,” she said. “You, of all people, should know that.”

More than ten years earlier Win had lost his fiancée, Felicia, in a carriage accident while she was on the way to the church. Some drunk had not stopped at an intersection and tried to turn his horse at the last minute when he saw her carriage. His landau had spun around and plowed into Felicia’s, causing hers to roll over.

The gaze Win turned to Blythe was as bleak and cold as a winter’s day. His pain made her feel small and mean for daring to pick at his sorest spot. The feeling lasted until he spoke his next sentence.

“You have until Slade recovers to accustom yourself to the idea that you are marrying him.”

“I will not accustom myself to the idea. We would both be miserable. I’m twenty-three years old, Win. Perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

He cut another sideways look her direction. “And you’re certainly doing a fine job of it, aren’t you?”

“You are a horrible, dreadful man!” she huffed, folding her arms across her chest and tapping her foot against the floor of the buggy. She turned toward him. “And let me tell you something. You may be able to force me to do what you want, but you may have a hard time convincing my potential bridegroom. He doesn’t look like the kind of man to be coerced into doing anything he doesn’t want to do. He could make mincemeat of you.”

“Don’t forget I was boxing champ at Harvard,” Win reminded. “Stop worrying and leave Slade to me.”

Blythe knew there was no use arguing any further. “Gladly.”

Neither sibling spoke another word during the remainder of the trip to Wolf Creek, which suited Blythe just fine.

* * *

By the time they reached the big, white, two-story house where her mother lived, Blythe wanted nothing more than to escape to her room and never come out. It was a feeling she’d experienced a lot the past few months. Somehow she managed to hold back the tears while Win helped her down from the buggy.

Without bothering to thank him, she raced up the front steps and pushed through the door, rushing up the wide staircase. She barely heard her mother call her name. Secure for the moment in the sanctity of her bedroom, she slammed the door and threw herself face-first onto the bed, where she promptly lost her tenuous grip on her control and burst into tears.

How could one person possibly be so miserable? And how and why did she keep getting into these life-altering situations? Even more disturbing, it didn’t look as if things were going to get better anytime soon, if ever. Sobbing so hard she barely heard the knock at the door, she rolled onto her back and flung an arm over her eyes.

“Come in.”

“Sweetheart?”

Libby Granville’s voice held the soothing tone Blythe remembered from her childhood. Her mother’s embrace and that soft, calming tone had always brought comfort, whatever was ailing Blythe. As usual, the tenderness she heard in her mother’s voice caused her to cry even harder. For long moments Libby just lay beside her, letting her get out all the hopelessness.

When her weeping subsided to an occasional hiccup, Libby handed Blythe a clean handkerchief and brushed back the tendrils of hair clinging to her wet cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” she said at last. “I never meant to cause another big to-do. I’d never deliberately hurt you or bring shame to our family. I thought that if I left Boston, I’d leave all the ugliness behind.”

“You will, sweetie,” Libby told her, giving her cheek a pat. “I’ve been the subject of gossip and so have a lot of others here in town. People tend to forget in time.” She smiled at Blythe. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

Blythe outlined every detail of the previous afternoon, starting with the reason for her ride. Libby listened without comment, and Blythe finished by saying, “And now Brother McAdams told Will that he absolutely would do the right thing by me, and Win is backing him up.”

She looked into her mother’s eyes. “I think Win is just tired of dealing with me and the Boston situation. He wants me out of his hair.”

Libby chuckled. “Well, that did knock the props out from under your brothers. They’re accustomed to fixing things, and they didn’t have a clue how to make that right. I really think that’s why Win is pushing so hard on this.”

“So marrying me off to a man we hardly know will fix all my woes and stop the gossip?”

“I believe he thinks so.”

“But he doesn’t even like Will.”

“He doesn’t like that Will won’t sell to him,” Libby clarified. “I know your brother, and I suspect that he admires Mr. Slade’s tenacity.”

“What do you think, Mama?” Blythe asked.

Libby hugged her tighter. “I know from personal experience that there will be more talk about you and Mr. Slade. Some will say that you should have come for help no matter what, and some will think you did the best you could do. Of course there will be a huge hue and cry for Will to marry you to make an honest woman of you.”

“Nothing happened!”

“I know that. You know that, and so does Mr. Slade. But the old ways of looking at things are pretty much set in stone. It would take a strong person to flaunt those customs. Are you that person?”

Blythe sighed. She knew she wasn’t. She hated strife and turmoil and being the topic of conversation. And she hated the notion of being forced into a marriage with a man she didn’t even know. “You did.”

“I didn’t have much choice after Lucas kicked me out and took my boys from me.” She smoothed the hair away from Blythe’s face. “I think we should take a wait-and-see attitude. A lot will depend on how much pressure Win puts on Mr. Slade, and a lot will depend on Mr. Slade’s character.”

Libby rose from the bed. “You sleep for a while. Things may look different after a few hours.”


Chapter Three (#ulink_b548a379-912a-5449-83cd-bf307fdcab81)

“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.


Chapter Four (#ulink_b972dd3c-7f9e-58e1-9d91-c9bc7395f1e5)

When Will opened his eyes, he felt much better, but when he lifted his hand to rub a palm over his whiskery cheek, he was as weak as a newborn kitten. He raised his head and looked around, then realized that he wasn’t in his own bed. A rush of panic swept through him and then bits and pieces of hazy memories started popping into his head.

He’d been sick, sicker than he recalled being in a coon’s age. He had a vague recollection of going outside sometime around daylight, hoping the cold morning air would help cool the fever raging inside him. After that, everything was pretty much blank.

There was a slight memory of having talked to Martha, but that was impossible. Martha was in St. Louis, living the good life with her new husband. Will glanced toward the window. It looked like the sun was almost overhead, so he’d guess it was somewhere around noon.

“Will? Are you awake?”

The soft, feminine voice came from the doorway. Dr. Rachel Gentry stood there. She was so close to delivering her baby that she looked ready to pop. Always a pretty woman, the pregnancy gave her a plump and healthy glow that seemed to radiate from within her.

“More or less,” he told her in a raspy voice.

“I thought I’d see if you were awake yet and if you feel up to eating something.”

Just then his stomach rumbled and she smiled. “Maybe so.”

“Good. Let me check you out first.” She crossed the room and picked up the stethoscope from atop the dresser. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been run over by a train,” he told her, pushing himself up on his elbows. The room took a little dip. He groaned and closed his eyes at the unaccustomed weakness. Good grief! He wasn’t going to pass out again, was he?

Rachel had turned at the sound. “Don’t move too quickly,” she advised. “You’ve been very sick since you’ve been here. Your temperature has been up and down.” She took a thermometer out of a solution, shook it and held it out. He looked at her as if she were crazy. “Open. Under your tongue.”

Reluctantly he did as she said. While they waited for his temperature to register, she listened to his chest, front and back. “You sound much clearer.” She let the stethoscope dangle around her neck, removed the thermometer and looked at it intently. Smiled. “Your temperature is almost normal, thank goodness.”

After shaking the thermometer once more, she returned it to its solution. “It’s a good thing Blythe found you when she did or you might have died out there. As it is, you had a touch of pneumonia. It’s a good thing you’re so healthy normally.”

Blythe. Granville. Will clenched his jaw. He supposed he should be grateful, and he supposed he was, but of all the people who might have stumbled across him, why did it have to be the rich city girl? Except for the time he’d come to her rescue at the train station, she’d always been cool and uppity whenever their paths crossed. Of course, if the gossip around town was true, she had a right to be skittish around men. More than most, he knew that being used by the opposite sex could leave a person a little wary.

Something Rachel had said suddenly struck him. “What do you mean, ‘since I’ve been here’? Didn’t they bring me to town this morning?”

Rachel laughed. “Hardly. That was day before yesterday. You’ve been out of your head with fever. I was pretty worried about you for a while, but it looks like you’re on the mend now. What sounds good to eat?”

“What time is it?”

She looked at the watch pinned to the front of the apron she wore. “Almost noon.”

“How about a big hunk of beef?”

Rachel laughed again. “How about some oatmeal and toast with lots of butter and brown sugar?”

Will made a face of disgust. “How about we compromise? I’ll take the oatmeal if you add a couple of eggs on the side.”

“Done. I’ll have it ready in a jiffy,” she told him, heading toward the door.

When she was gone, he thought about what she’d told him. He’d been here two and a half days! Unbelievable! He could count on one hand how many times he’d been sick in his whole lifetime, and he’d never been so bad that he was out like a light for this long.

As silly as he knew it was, knowing that he’d succumbed to that kind of helplessness made him feel less a man. A woman had had to help him to the house, for goodness’ sake. How had Blythe Granville managed that? She was a little, bitty woman.

To make matters worse, she was big-shot Winston Granville’s sister. The Boston businessman-turned-banker had been a thorn in Will’s side for a long while now. He had to admit that he was tempted from time to time to take Granville up on his offer, but stubborn pride wouldn’t allow him to give up. Slades had never been quitters. Besides, all he knew was lumbering, and he had no idea what he’d do with himself if he sold out. So he hung on, sometimes by the skin of his teeth.

With his thoughts all a-muddle, he must have slipped into a light sleep. The next thing he knew, Rachel was back with his food. Her father, Edward Stone, was with her. He must be having a good day, Will thought, since Stone was using only his canes. A victim of a stroke several years before, he was left with some weakness in his legs and was sometimes forced to use a wheelchair.

“How are you feeling, young man?” he asked now as he followed his daughter into the room.

“I think I’m going to make it,” Will said in a hoarse voice.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it.”

Rachel set the tray on the dresser and she and her father helped Will into a sitting position. Once he was settled with the tray across his lap, he reached for the mug of coffee and took a big swallow, disregarding its hotness. “That’s the best thing I’ve had in ages.”

“You’re just hungry,” Rachel said. “Dig in.”

Will did just that, giving equal time to the sweet oatmeal and the savory eggs while carrying on a conversation with the two doctors about what had been done for him while he was sick.

“What about Banjo?” Will asked, worried about his dog. “Has anyone been taking care of him?”

“I understand Blythe went out to feed him Sunday afternoon and he followed her back to town,” Rachel told him.

Will’s fork clattered to his stoneware plate. Not only had she helped him, she’d taken it upon herself to see that his dog was cared for.

“He followed her to town?” he asked. “That’s not like him. He doesn’t care much for strangers.” The big, black hound wasn’t mean, but he was protective, and most people were more than a little frightened of him.

“Well, it seems he took to Blythe. Maybe he just wanted some companionship,” Edward suggested.

“Where’s he staying? Is he just roaming around town?”

“Simmer down, Will,” Rachel said. “He’s fine. He’s staying in the Granvilles’ carriage house, and I’m sure Blythe is seeing that he’s well fed.”

Miss Granville didn’t seem like the kind of woman who would take to any kind of dog, unless it was some yapping little mutt with a finicky appetite that wanted to do nothing but sleep in its mistress’s lap. Pound for pound, Banjo was as big as she was—maybe bigger. It looked like he owed her for more than rescuing him from possible death.

“All in all, I’d say you owe that little lady a big ‘thank you,’ especially under the circumstances,” Edward said, echoing Will’s thoughts.

Will frowned at the older man. “What circumstances?”

“Why, all the gossip that’s been flying around town about the two of you spending the night alone together at your place.”

The sudden wave of nausea that washed over him had nothing to do with his food or his illness. It had everything to do with the memory of a group of men bursting into his house, finding him and Blythe together, and the preacher saying that Will should make an honest woman of her. As if there was anything on earth that could persuade him to do that. He’d had enough of women and their demands to last him a lifetime.

“Except for going to school to teach, she’s just about become a recluse, and she was pretty close to that already, thanks to that mess in Boston.”

“I heard she ran off with some fellow who took all her money.”

“Actually, they eloped,” Rachel said, a hint of steel in her usually soft voice at the implication that Will was making light of her sister-in-law’s difficulties. “And it isn’t as if she just met someone on the street and ran off. Devon Carmichael had insinuated himself into Boston society quite nicely. Everyone took him at face value and assumed he was everything he represented himself to be.”

Will felt properly chastised. From his own experience with Martha, he knew that some people were good at pretending to be something they weren’t. In fairness, he couldn’t fault Miss Granville for believing some man’s lies.

“I’m sorry if my choice of words implied otherwise,” Will told her. “That’s just what I’d heard.”

“Well, the truth is that she loved him enough to elope. Then, as if she wouldn’t have had a hard enough time with that scandal, he cleaned out her bank account and left town within a day of their return to Boston.”

“And if that weren’t bad enough, she discovered he was already married,” Edward added.

Though the Wolf Creek grapevine was pretty accurate, that detail had escaped Will’s ears.

“I’m thankful she found and helped you, Will, but the poor thing is paying the price for her good deed.”

Though he’d weathered his own scandal and personal humiliation when Martha ran off with the big shot from Springfield, Will found it hard to believe that things were as bad for Blythe as Rachel and her father were painting them to be. Martha had left him for another man; Blythe Granville had helped someone in need, a sick man. There was no comparison in their actions.

“I’ll be sure and thank her properly when I’m up and about,” he told them, trying his best to think of some way to make things right.

“That’s all well and good, Will,” Rachel said, “but I don’t think an apology is what the town has in mind for fixing things.”

“C’mon, Rachel. There shouldn’t even be anything to ‘fix.’ I was unconscious. I didn’t even know she was there until the rescue party barged through the front door.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” she said with a sigh of frustration. “All I know is that I hate to see history repeat itself here.”

“This, too, will pass,” Will said, quoting one of his mother’s favorite sayings.

The corners of Rachel’s lips lifted in a sad smile. “I suppose you’re right, but what kind of damage will be left behind when it does?”


Chapter Five (#ulink_c46827be-741a-50f5-8618-db49a00de7e6)

Blythe bade the last of her students goodbye and went to the desk to gather her lunch pail and shawl, thankful that the day was over and she wouldn’t have to face the never-ending string of mothers who came to chastise and condemn her. The past two days had been interminable. She wasn’t sure how she could make it through the rest of the week, much less the remainder of the school year.

The mother who’d shown up during the lunch recess had been particularly hostile as she’d read Blythe the riot act for behaving in a manner unfit for someone whose job it was to shape young minds and lives. Blythe had listened to the tirade in stony silence. In fact, she feared she’d blanked out during most of the bitter lecture. After two days of it, she could almost recite the familiar refrains by rote.

When the mother had finished her ranting, Blythe had assured the woman that nothing untoward had happened between her and William Slade, but the harpy had not been impressed with the explanation and stormed away, saying that she intended to talk to the mayor about finding a replacement.

As Blythe watched the portly matron stomp across the greening grass in front of the schoolhouse, she was thinking that the woman would have to stand in line. No doubt Homer was inundated with mothers with similar requests.

Once she got home, she shared a cup of coffee and a slice of pound cake with her mother and then went to change into her everyday clothes. As had become routine, she made her way outside to feed the dog that had taken up residence in the carriage house.

If his tail wagging was any indication, he was always happy to see her. She had no idea what Will Slade would say about the dog following her home. Truth to tell, she hadn’t been too happy at first, but she had to admit that it was nice not having to make the trip to the country every day to tend to his mutt.

When the dog was fed and watered, she decided to walk to Rachel’s and check on the patient, even though she was feeling a bit headachy and dizzy herself. She prayed she wasn’t taking whatever it was that the cantankerous Mr. Slade had.

According to the Wolf Creek grapevine, he was better. Or worse. She’d even heard that he had pneumonia. She didn’t want to start any new conversations about him with her family, so she’d refrained from asking her mother or brother if they’d heard how he was faring. Checking on his progress seemed the decent thing to do, so here she was.

The door to the surgery opened to reveal Danny, her half brother Gabe and Rachel’s son. His freckled face broke into a smile when he saw her standing there. “Hello, Aunt Blythe. What are you doing here?”

She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. “Hello, Danny. I came to see how Mr. Slade is doing.”

“Mama says he’s a lot better,” Danny told her. “You can go in and see him if you want.”

Go in and see him? Though she might have decided to see if he was feeling better, that did not include facing Will and his blatant animosity face-to-face. “Oh, no! I don’t want to intrude. I’d just like to speak to your mother.”

“Sure thing. I’ll go fetch her.”

Danny took off down the hall in a dead run, leaving Blythe standing by the door, twisting her gloves in her hands.

“How’s Banjo?”

The sound of the deep, raspy voice startled her so badly she gave a little gasp. Obviously, Will was awake and had heard her talking to Danny. Despite telling herself she shouldn’t, Blythe found her footsteps headed toward the room where the question originated.

Almost fearfully, she peeked around the corner.

“For cryin’ out loud,” he said in a grumpy voice. “Come on in. I don’t bite.”

Could have fooled me, Blythe thought, taking slow, tentative steps and stopping a few feet inside the doorway. Will lay propped up on some pillows, wearing his usual scowl and several days’ growth of beard. If she thought his appearance disreputable before, he looked ten times worse now. Scruffy. Tough. Dangerous. And, she thought grudgingly and not for the first time, he was also very handsome, despite his unkempt appearance.

His dark gaze was locked on her face, making her squirm. Searching her mind for some safe topic, she said the first words that came to mind, “I’m sorry. I have no idea how your banjo is.”

“What?” Will frowned and the expression in his eyes said without words he thought she had a few loose marbles rolling around inside her noggin.

She gave a slight shrug. “You asked how your banjo was. I’m afraid I have no idea how I’m supposed to know that.”

For a few seconds Will sat very still. Then he covered his mouth and coughed a few times. When he looked at her again, Blythe imagined she saw a glint of humor in his eyes. Silly notion! He wouldn’t know humor if it walked up and slapped him in the face.

“Uh... Banjo is my dog,” he explained. “Rachel told me you went to the farm to feed him and he followed you home.”

Blythe felt her face flame and resisted the impulse to place her hands against her hot cheeks. How embarrassing! He must think she was a fool. Most people did, it seemed. “Yes, he did. I’m sorry. I tried and tried to make him go back, and he just wouldn’t go.”

“He can be a bit hardheaded,” Will admitted. “Is he okay?”

“Oh, yes. He seems fine, and he eats well.” She gave a little shrug. “I’m not familiar with dogs, so I can’t say for sure. He’s staying in the carriage house.”

Silence reigned in the room for a few seconds. “Thank you for checking on him.”

“You’re welcome.”

There was another lull in the stilted conversation while Will stared at Blythe and she stared at the floor and chewed on her lower lip.

“What did he do when you first went out?” he said at last.

Blythe recalled the sheer terror and determination she’d felt the afternoon she’d gone out to his place and climbed down from the buggy.

“Well, I was afraid he’d tear me limb from limb,” she told him. “But when I got out of the carriage and tossed him some ham fat, he was fine.”

“That’s probably the best thing you could have done. He’s not really a mean dog, just very protective of his territory. His size alone keeps most people at a distance,” Will said.

Indeed. An unexpected image of herself as she must have looked, flat on her back, being held down by the huge animal, flashed through her mind. She clamped her lips together to suppress a smile, wondering what his owner would have said had he been there. She imagined it would have been amusing to anyone watching.

“Is something funny?”

“Not really,” she said. “At least not when it happened. I was furious, actually!”

“What did happen?”

“He knocked me down. Banjo.”

“He did what? When?”

“That first day. I guess he got impatient for his supper, and as soon as I got down from the buggy, he jumped up and put his paws on my shoulders. The next thing I knew, I was on my back and he was licking me in the face.”

Recalling the disgusting slobber and his dreadful breath, she gave a little shudder. There was nothing funny about that. “It was really, really horrible.”

Will looked appalled. “Blast that miserable mutt,” he said and then mumbled something beneath his breath. “Look, Miss Granville, I can’t tell you how sorry I am for causing you so much trouble.”

“Please don’t concern yourself about it. I think he may be getting fond of me.”

“He must be if he followed you home. He doesn’t take to many people so fast.”

The topic of the dog talked out, silence ruled again. Blythe knew he was staring at her, but she kept her gaze fixed anywhere but on him. It was time to go, she thought. She’d done what she’d come to do, so there was no reason to prolong the agony for either of them.

Surprising herself, she dared to glance at him and heard herself say, “You must be feeling much improved. You’re more alert and you look much...better.”

He gave a disgruntled snort and scrubbed a palm over his hairy cheek and chin. The utterly masculine gesture caused a little hitch in her breathing.

“I imagine I look like a hobo off the train. But I am feeling better,” he said.

“Someone said you had pneumonia.”

“The old Wolf Creek grapevine, huh?”

“Well, yes.”

At the conversation’s casual turn to the two of them being the prime topic of the talk around town, they both grew very still.

“Yes,” he said, breaking the awkward silence. “Rachel says that if you hadn’t happened by, I might not have made it. Thank you.”

The two simple words sounded genuine and he looked sincere.

“Then I’m glad I came along when I did,” she told him, a little surprised to realize that despite her present circumstances, she meant it. How could she be sorry for playing the Good Samaritan and doing what the Lord expected of her, what she expected of herself? She clasped her hands together.

“Well, I should be going. I just wanted to check on you and let you know your dog is fine.”

“I’m sorry for causing you so much trouble,” he said again, repeating his previous words almost verbatim.

“Oh, Banjo isn’t really a problem,” she assured him.

“I’m not just talking about Banjo, Miss Granville. I’m talking about all the trouble.”

* * *

Will saw all the color drain from her face. She seemed to actually wilt. Her brown eyes drifted closed and she pressed her lips together in a prim line. Which was a crying shame, Will thought. Lips as pretty as hers should never do anything but smile. Berating himself for thinking of her in such a personal way and for finding anything about her attractive, he watched as she straightened her small frame and lifted her round chin, changing from a shy woman to one of confidence and dignity. Unlike Martha’s quick change in attitude from anger to victim, the transformation in Blythe’s demeanor was impressive, something no doubt passed on from generation to generation of well-heeled young ladies.

“There’s no need to trouble yourself, Mr. Slade,” she assured him in a clipped, no-nonsense tone as she raked an errant strand of brown hair behind her ear. “I’ve become accustomed to dealing with things of this nature. The people who know me will accept the truth, and those who don’t...well, some people refuse to let the facts of a situation alter their viewpoint. I’m sure it will all go away eventually.”

Become accustomed? Will thought, once more admiring her poise. No one should have to become accustomed to being the subject of everyone’s dinnertime conversation. She was right about the rest, though. Why was it that most people seemed to want to believe the worst?

“The preacher and your brother think that I should—”

“I’ve heard what they think,” she interrupted. “And I well remember your answer.”

Will had no memory of anything he’d said at his place, but knowing it must not have been good, he felt the heat of embarrassment rising in his face. “It’s nothing against you, Miss Granville,” he told her. “It’s just that my first marriage wasn’t a very good one, and at this point in my life I don’t think it’s anything I’m ready to try again, which I’m sure you of all people can understand.”

The barest hint of a cynical smile lifted one corner of her mouth, but there was no denying the mortification in her eyes. “Indeed I do.”

“So you understand my position,” he stated.

If possible, she grew even paler. “Yes.”

Will hated that the situation was making her life more difficult, but, short of marriage, he had no idea how to fix things.

“Please don’t worry about me, Mr. Slade,” she told him. “I know my brother and half the town expects you to marry me to save my reputation, but I see no reason why you should pay the piper for a choice I made. I’m a grown woman, and I weighed the pros and cons before I made my decision.”

That revelation was a surprise and more than a little humbling. “You decided to stay, knowing there was the possibility it would put you in a bad light again?”

She nodded. “It seemed to me that it was the Christian thing to do,” she told him. “And, besides, I really didn’t have much choice. It was clear that you needed help, and just as clear that I couldn’t get back to town.” She gave a slight lift of her narrow shoulders. “Word gets out and people talk. It’s the way things are.”

“I guess I’m wondering why you made that choice, especially since you came here trying to escape similar circumstances.”

“That’s why.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, frowning. “I’m afraid I’m confused.”

The jaded smile on her lips was out of place on her innocent-looking face. “Since I was already the talk of the town, I didn’t see how things could get any worse. Besides,” she added, “I hate storms and the dark. I couldn’t imagine riding to town for help in the middle of a thunderstorm in the dead of night. I’m not familiar with the area and I was afraid I’d get lost. And there was the small problem of you being far too ill for me to leave, even for a couple of hours.”





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