Wolf Creek Wife. Penny Richards
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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