The Marriage Barter. Christine Johnson
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something that would show off the beauty she didn’t realize she had.
“The color suits you,” she urged. “It would make a lovely gown, wouldn’t it? Oh, Holly, let me make it for you—as a gift.”
Holly cast aside the idea. “No, no, it would be frivolous. I’ll wear the dress I wore to Newfield.”
Charlotte couldn’t let her friend get married in a travel suit. Her vow of frugality evaporated in the face of a friend in need. She would make that dress, whether Holly approved or not. It was a gift, and gifts didn’t require approval.
“I’ll make it in the latest fashion,” she insisted. “Mason’s heart will stop when he sees you walk down the aisle.”
“No, please,” Holly said frantically as Beatrice Ward drifted closer. “Thank you, but no.” Her gaze darted toward Beatrice. “I should get back to the schoolhouse. I have so much work to do before school tomorrow.”
Work. If Charlotte was going to make Charles’s money last more than a few years, she needed to ask Mrs. Gavin if the store was hiring, but she hesitated with Beatrice within earshot. The woman opposed letting any of the orphans stay in Evans Grove. Worse, she was on the orphan selection committee. According to Holly, the mayor had given Beatrice the position in an attempt to placate her, but the woman had done everything to thwart placements. If she thought Charlotte didn’t have enough money to raise a child, then she’d scheme to take Sasha away. No, she’d have to ask Mrs. Gavin about work later.
“I’ll see you Saturday,” she said to Holly. “Eight o’clock?”
Holly nodded. “Saturday morning it is. Say hello to Sasha for me. I look forward to having her in school after summer.”
She darted off, leaving Charlotte stunned. Sasha in school? So soon? The summer would flit by. Why, Charlotte had barely enjoyed two weeks with her.
She turned to retrieve Sasha from the toy display and saw the girl gazing at the expensive doll with the porcelain head and sky-blue dress. It was beautiful but far too dear. She’d make Sasha a pretty doll with black hair and big blue buttons for eyes. She had everything necessary in her sewing basket except the black hair. She eyed the ribbon. A much better use than on her bonnet.
Sasha stood on her tiptoes, her back to Charlotte, and reached for the doll. Her fingers grazed the doll’s feet, and it teetered precariously on the shelf.
“No,” Charlotte cried, running to save the doll from being shattered on the floor below.
The girl turned toward her, eyes wide.
It wasn’t Sasha.
Charlotte’s heart stopped. The doll toppled harmlessly onto the shelf, but Charlotte no longer cared about a doll. Her daughter was gone.
“Where’s Sasha?”
Lynette backed away as tears rose in her eyes. “I dunno.”
Charlotte’s heart went out to her. “Oh, Lynette, it’s not your fault.” It’s mine. A sickening feeling grew in the pit of her stomach. She should have watched Sasha more closely. She should have seen her daughter walk away from the toys. “I’m sure Sasha just went to look at something else. I’ll find her.” The words carried more confidence than she felt.
Charlotte swept around the barrels of flour, her black crepe dress rustling as she moved through the store, checking every aisle and corner. Not in the hardware section or meandering among the groceries. Perhaps she’d gone to the candy counter. Charlotte spun around and saw only Mrs. Gavin and Beatrice Ward. Oh, dear.
“Sasha?” Once again she swept the length of the store. Her panic escalated with every step.
Sasha wasn’t anywhere.
Miss Ward looked up sharply, her pinched mouth gloating in triumph. “That’s the way those filthy urchins are. It’s bred into them. I could have told you she’d run off. You can’t trust their type for an instant.”
Charlotte blanched at the cruel words. “She’s only four and doesn’t know her way around town yet.”
“Now, don’t you worry, Mrs. Miller,” Mrs. Gavin said calmly. “She can’t have got far.”
But worry was exactly what Charlotte felt, along with shame and fear that washed through her in ice-cold waves. Why hadn’t she noticed that Sasha had left? She hadn’t even realized the difference between Sasha and Lynette. What sort of mother was she? Now Beatrice Ward would tell everyone what had happened, and they’d say she was unfit to raise a child.
They wouldn’t take Sasha away, would they? Charlotte’s heart rattled against her rib cage. Sasha was all she had, her only family, the only person she had to love.
She raced from the store, her feet barely touching the three wooden steps. She looked left. Then right. Horses. Pedestrians. A stray dog. No little girl.
Where was Sasha?
She ran first one way and then the other. Sasha. Sasha. Her name beat into Charlotte’s brain in time to her pounding footsteps.
Then she saw her. In the arms of a stranger. A tall, lean man with the piercing gaze of a hunter cradled Sasha with the gentleness of a father.
Her steps slowed, stopped.
Starkly handsome, the man’s dark hair swept the collar of his buckskin jacket. Dark whiskers dusted his cheeks. His eyes, shadowed under the brim of his well-worn hat, stared straight at her. He did not smile. He looked like... Charlotte swallowed hard. He looked like an Indian. Or a gunslinger. An outlaw.
Yet Sasha clung to his neck with total trust, her head nestled on his shoulder.
“Sasha?” The word caught in her throat.
The man’s stony gaze swept her from head to toe. He must not have found the assessment pleasing, for his stern expression never changed and he made no move to hand Sasha to her.
Her panic escalated.
Who was this man, and what was he doing with her daughter?
* * *
Wyatt couldn’t stop staring at the woman. Sun-gold ringlets, touched with a hint of sunset, peeked from beneath the black bonnet. The heavy, black dress only made her porcelain skin look more fragile. Clearly, she was in mourning. Just as clearly, she was this girl’s mother, though the two looked nothing alike.
“Sasha.” Her gentle voice trembled.
Sasha? He stiffened at the peculiar name, but the girl stirred and turned to the familiar voice.
“Mama.” The thin little arms reached for the porcelain-skinned woman, who rushed forward.
“Where have you been? Where did you go?” In seconds the girl was out of his arms and into her mother’s. The woman kissed the girl’s dirty face and hair. “Don’t ever leave me again, understand? I was worried to death.”
Instead of answering, the girl burrowed her head into her mother’s perfectly formed shoulder.
The woman nodded at him, half in fear and half with gratitude. “Thank you. You have no idea how worried I...” She gulped and averted her gaze. “Thank you, truly.”
“My pleasure, ma’am.”
He wanted to tip that pretty face up so he could get a second look, but she kept her focus on her daughter.
“Yes, well, I should get home to fix supper.” She backed away a step.
“My name’s Wyatt Reed.” Now, why in blazes had he done that? He liked to keep contact with strangers to a minimum. Get in, do the job and get out. No emotional attachments.
“Charlotte Miller.” Her gaze darted up for a moment, and her cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink.
He wanted to touch that cheek to see if her skin was as soft as it looked, but beauties like