Wolf Creek Wife. Penny Richards
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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.”