His Substitute Wife. Dorothy Clark
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It looks like it’s going to be a nice day.” A bald-faced lie. It was a wretched day. He should be taking his wife in his arms—
“Yes. It was beautiful watching the sun come up over the mountain. Though it was quite misty.”
Her return smile was shaky. So was the hand she lifted to push back the curl dangling on her forehead. An image of Linda smiling up at him while she twirled a curl around her finger flashed into his head. His chest constricted. Thankfully, Audrey didn’t have blond hair and blue eyes or Linda’s coquettish ways—he couldn’t have borne that. He nodded, turned to the coal box on the floor and scooped up some black chunks.
“The mist rises from the snowcaps.” He slid the coal off the shovel onto the kindling, closed the door and adjusted the draft. Audrey’s skirt whispered against the polished wood floor. He tensed, glanced over his shoulder. She was walking toward him, her hazel eyes shining.
“What a beautiful stove.” The words were a mere whisper. She wasn’t talking to him. He watched her brush her hand across the gleaming cast-iron cooking surface, then raise it to touch the blue porcelain doors on the warming ovens above it before lowering it and resting her fingertips on the chrome handle of the oven door. “Just beautiful...”
It was the exact response he had hoped for—but from the wrong woman. He clenched his hands, reminded himself of what he owed Audrey and cleared his throat. “I’m glad you approve of it. I wasn’t sure—”
“Oh, it’s wonderful! Just look at that spacious oven! Why, I could bake—” She caught her lower lip with her teeth, stepped back and slid her palms down the front of her skirt. “I mean—any woman would love to have this stove to cook and bake on.”
“I’m glad to hear it, because any man likes to eat.” The attempt to ease the awkwardness of this first morning with humor bore fruit. She lifted her head and gave him a tentative smile.
“Would you like me to fix you some breakfast?” She glanced around the kitchen. “Are there provisions...?”
Trapped. Now he had to eat. His stomach clenched at the thought. “There are supplies in the refrigerator, and in the cupboard beside it. If you don’t find what you need, just ask. I will likely have it in the store.” He turned back to the coal box, scooped up more chunks and moved to the corner.
“What is that?”
Fabric rustled. Her dark blue skirt hem floated into sight at the corner of his eye. He glanced up. She was standing in front of the tin-lined sink cupboard gazing toward the column in front of him.
“It’s a water heater.” He opened the door of the firebox and dumped the coal onto the glowing embers.
“A water heater?” She leaned closer, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “There’s no spigot. How does it work?”
“The water comes from outside into the bottom of this reservoir...here.” He touched a pipe that came up through the floor. “The coal heats the water and it rises to the top. Then the hot water from the top of the reservoir flows out through this pipe—” he raised his hand to a pipe midway up the tank “—into the washbowl and bathing tub in the dressing room.”
“Oh, I see.” She glanced his way and smiled. “I wondered where that wonderful hot water came from.” Her gaze slid back to the water heater. “What are those other pipes for? Does that one—Oh, my!” She leaned forward, peered over the end of the cupboard. “That one comes to this sink!”
He grinned, caught up in her enthusiasm. “That’s right. It brings the hot water here—” he stepped closer, stretched out his hand “—to this spigot. And this one—” he touched another pipe that ran along the wall to the sink cupboard “—brings in the cold water from outside.”
She straightened and looked up at him, her hazel eyes shining bright with gold flecks he’d never noticed before. “And the wastewater?”
“You dump it into the sink and it flows down this screened hole through a draining pipe to the outside.”
“Truly?” Her gaze dropped to the sink cupboard. She gave a soft sigh and slid her fingers along the wood cabinet. “I never would have thought a kitchen in Wyoming Territory would be more luxurious than ours in New York.”
Ours. The thought of Linda took him like a fist to the stomach. He sucked in a breath, looked away. “I wanted the best...”
“Yes, of course.”
She sounded stricken. He glanced back, saw the knowledge of his hurt in Audrey’s eyes. She’d understood what he’d left unsaid. He’d have to do better at hiding his emotions, but how? It was as if Linda stood there between them. He took refuge in honesty. “I’m not really that hungry, Audrey. Coffee will do for me. There’s a bag of Lion’s—freshly ground—in the pantry.” He dipped his head toward the large floor-to-ceiling cupboard at the other end of the stove.
She met his gaze for a moment, then nodded and moved back to the stove. He set his jaw, watched her lift the new coffeepot from the cooking surface, set the insides on the worktable, then turn to the sink cupboard and reach for the tap.
“Wait!” Too late.
Water gushed, hit the rim of the pot and splashed onto Audrey’s hand and blouse. She gasped and jumped back. He reached to turn off the deluge and their hands collided. She jerked hers away, grabbed her blouse and tugged at the wet spot, flapping it to make it dry. “That water is freezing cold!”
Her uneasiness at his touch was plain on her face. Guilt pricked him. She had come all this way to help him. The least he could do was show some appreciation and try to make her as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. He tugged his lips into a slanted grin. “Sorry. I tried to warn you. The water is melt-off from the ice cap piped in from the waterfall. There’s a lot of pressure.”
“I noticed.”
He chuckled at her dry tone.
She looked up, an uncertain smile playing at the corner of her lips. Their gazes met and she looked down, opened the tap slowly and ran water into the pot. “How do you like your coffee?”
“Strong and black.”
She nodded, set the pot on the worktable and moved to the pantry. “Father liked his coffee that way. Two spoonsful for every cup.”
“You made it for him?” The stovepipe crackled. He turned the draft down for a slow burn.
“Every morning.” There was sadness in the smile that curved her lips. “I’m an early riser—like Father was. There’s something special about shar—” Her lips clamped closed. She carried the bag of coffee to the worktable. “Where are your spoons?”
“Here in this drawer.” He stepped beside her and pulled a drawer open while she placed the insides in the coffeepot. “There are towels and things in the drawer in front of you.”
She accepted the spoon he handed her, opened the bag and peered inside, then tipped it from side to side, probing the coffee with the spoon handle.
The rich aroma rose to tempt his nostrils. “Looking for the picture card?”
She stopped searching in the ground beans and glanced up at him with a self-conscious little laugh. “Force of habit.”
She saved them? Linda wouldn’t bother with a picture card. She was too sophisticated and worldly for such things. Obviously more worldly than he’d known. His lungs constricted, cut off his breath. The muscle along his jaw twitched. “I tossed the card away when I ground the coffee.” He moved to the water heater, pretending to adjust the damper on the firebox door.
“It’s of no matter.” The spoon clinked against the coffeepot. “As I said, it’s only habit. I save them for Lily Chaseon—the daughter of our neighbors back home.”
Where she would be had she not come West to help him. His hand stilled. Why would she do that?