The Borrowed Bride. Elizabeth Lane
Читать онлайн книгу.
now.
Only the memory of Edna Seavers’s wintry eyes and Judd’s indifferent manner kept her from crossing the open pastureland to rap on the door of their big, bleak house. In any case, it would be a wasted trip, Hannah told herself. Since she hadn’t heard from Quint, it wasn’t likely his mother and brother had heard from him, either.
As for her own letters, the ones she’d written faithfully and carried into town every week, they could be anywhere, lost between here and the frozen North. She could only pray that this one letter would find him and bring him home.
The first month, when her menstrual flow hadn’t come, she’d dismissed it from her mind. Her periods had always been irregular. But after the second month the secret dread had sprouted and begun to root. Last week, when she’d started throwing up in the morning, all doubt had vanished. After seeing her mother through six pregnancies, Hannah knew the signs all too well.
So far she’d managed to hide her condition from her family. But her mother had eyes like a hawk. She was bound to notice before long. Another couple of months, and the whole town would know about the secret thing she and Quint had done in that shadowed hayloft.
Ripping the page out of the notebook, Hannah crumpled it in her fist and began again.
Dear Quint,
I have something important to tell you…
The knot in Hannah’s stomach tightened. Quint had been so excited about his great adventure. Her news would devastate him. He might even blame her for allowing this to happen. Surely he would consider it his duty to come home and marry her. But he wouldn’t be happy about it. Quint had chafed under the burden of caring for the ranch and his ailing mother. Much as he’d professed to love her, Hannah could only imagine how he’d feel about being saddled with a wife and child.
But in the larger scheme of things Quint’s feelings, and hers, didn’t matter. A baby was coming—an innocent little spirit who deserved a mother and a father and an honorable name. She would do the right thing. So would Quint. It wasn’t the best beginning for a marriage, but they’d loved each other for years. God willing, they would be happy.
If only she could get word to him.
Gripping the pencil, she hunched over the notebook.
There’s no easy way to say this. We’re going to have a child, my dearest. It should be born in December. I know how much you want to find your fortune in Alaska. But we have to think of the baby now. You need to come home so we can get married, the sooner the better.
By the time she finished the letter, Hannah’s eyes were blurry with tears. She folded the sheet of cheap, ruled notepaper and tucked it into her apron pocket. Her fingers fumbled for the pennies she’d scrimped to buy an envelope and a postage stamp.
All her hopes and prayers would be riding with this letter. Somehow it had to reach Alaska and find its way to Quint.
It just had to.
June 6, 1899
Judd had been riding fence since dawn, checking for weak spots where a cow could push its way through or tangle its head in a loose strand of barbed wire. Now the midday sun blazed down with the heat of a black-smith’s forge. He was sore and sweaty, and his mouth was as dry as alkali dust. But he had to admit that he relished the work. Anything was better than lying in that god-awful excuse for a hospital, listening to the groans and whimpers of men who would never go home again except in a pine box.
At the watering trough, he dismounted. While the horse drank, he scooped the mossy water in his Stetson and emptied it over his head. The wetness streamed off his hair to soak into his sweat-encrusted shirt. Judd sluiced his arms, savoring the coolness. At rare moments like this he almost felt alive again. But the feeling never lasted. His body might be healing, but the blackness in his soul lurked like a pool of quicksand, waiting to suck him down.
Raking back his damp hair, he gazed out across the open pasture that separated the Seavers ranch from the Gustavson farm. In the distance someone was moving—a dot of blue seen through the shimmering air, coming closer. Judd’s throat tightened as he remembered the Gustavson girl—Quint’s girl—racing down the platform after the departing train. He could still see her losing ground, faltering, then turning back with stricken cornflower eyes, as if her whole world had been crushed beneath the iron wheels.
Judd hadn’t seen her since that dismal morning. Nor had he heard from Quint. Maybe she’d received some news of him and was coming to share it.
He watched and waited. A bead of water trickled down his cheek to lose itself in the stubble of his unshaven chin. As the figure grew closer, Judd’s spirits sank. It wasn’t the girl after all. It was a woman, fairhaired and stoutly built. He recognized her as the mother of the Gustavson brood. She moved wearily, leaning forward as if harnessed to an invisible boulder that she was dragging behind her.
By the time Judd had unsaddled the horse and loosed it in the corral, Mrs. Gustavson had reached the front gate. Remembering his long-forgotten manners, he started down the road to greet her and escort her to the house. Even from a distance he could see that she was distraught. She walked with a dejected slump, dabbing at her eyes and nose with a wadded rag that served as a handkerchief.
At the sight of Judd, she straightened her posture, lifted her chin and jammed the rag into the pocket of her faded chambray dress. In her youth, she might have been as pretty as her daughter. But two decades of poverty, backbreaking labor and constant childbearing had taken their toll. Any beauty she’d possessed had worn away, exposing a core of toughness and raw Norwegian pride. Poor as she was, Mary Gustavson was a woman to be reckoned with.
Partway down the long, straight approach to the house, they met. Judd lifted the damp Stetson he’d replaced on his head. “Good day, Mrs. Gustavson.”
“Judd.” She nodded curtly. She had the kind of ruddy Nordic skin that stretched tight over the bones of her face. Her tearstained eyes were several shades lighter than her daughter’s. “I trust your mother is at home.”
“Yes.” Judd glanced at the sun, calculating the time. “She usually takes tea in the parlor at this hour. I’ll walk you to the door.” He offered his arm but she ignored the gesture. Her eyes were fixed on the well-built two-story house with its shuttered windows and gingerbread porch. Judd’s father had built the place fifteen years ago. The summer after his family moved in, Tom Seavers had been trampled to death in a cattle stampede. On hearing the news, his wife had suffered a disabling stroke.
In the intervening years, Edna Seavers had transformed the place into a mausoleum for the living. Judd couldn’t blame Quint for wanting to strike out on his own. He might have considered leaving himself. But this was home. He was needed here, especially now. And he had no other refuge when the nightmares came.
“Has your daughter heard anything from Quint?” he asked, making awkward conversation as they mounted the porch steps. Mary Gustavson did not reply. Her posture had gone rigid. Her face had taken on the stoic expression of a soldier marching into battle.
Judd reached out to open the door for her, but she brushed his hand aside, seized the heavy brass knocker and gave three sharp raps as if to announce her presence. The wooden floor on the other side creaked under the weight of heavy footsteps. The door swung inward.
The woman standing in the entry was built like a brick wall, her face so devoid of expression that it might have been cast in concrete. Gretel Schmidt had cared for Edna since the days following her stroke. She had also taken on the cooking, washing and housekeeping duties. What she lacked in beauty she made up in competence. Judd valued her service and paid her enough to keep her from seeking other work.
“Gretel, Mrs. Gustavson has come to see my mother,” he said. “I presume she’s in the parlor.”
“This way.” Gretel lumbered back down the paneled hallway toward the sitting room. Judd turned to go back outside, then hesitated. Mary Gustavson wouldn’t have come here on a social call. Something was wrong. If