Want Ad Wife. Katy Madison
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of delaying the marriage was squashed.
He’d wanted his ring on her finger as fast as possible, before every single man within a hundred miles was sniffing at her skirts. Before she had enough time to have second thoughts. After all, why would she want to marry him when a woman as beautiful as her could pick any one of a dozen men with gold lining their pockets? Not that he was poor, but there were men with big houses and more time to attend entertainments. Now, he wanted to hide her away so no man could tempt her from him.
“What should I do?” she asked.
What did she mean? She should start settling into their home, as women did. He suddenly had no idea what wives did all day. Or at least he didn’t know what they did before the children came. Well, beyond the cooking and cleaning, it seemed unmarried women were always changing from one outfit to another. Perhaps married women did that, too.
“Go upstairs, unpack and change.” He lifted the counter gate and ushered her through. The minute he touched her, a buzz shot through him. He yanked his hand back, lest he just throw her over his shoulder and carry her upstairs.
“Are you?”
The words could have been uttered in a foreign language for all the sense they made to him. He shook his head to clear it. “What?”
“Are you changing?” she asked.
“No.” He had his apron to protect his suit. The apron dangled uselessly from his finger. Besides, if he went upstairs and took off his clothes, and she took off her clothes—well, the chances of him returning to the store before everything was carted off were nil.
The corners of her mouth slipped down.
Women never understood a man’s urgency and need. As if by claiming her he could keep her by his side, he derided himself. He had to figure out his role as a husband. “I have to mind the store.”
“I don’t want to change just yet.” She smoothed the skirt at her hips. “I’ll be careful of my new dress.”
Her new dress made his loins ache. It was tightly fitted, unlike the dark jacketed thing she’d been wearing when she stepped off the stage. That had been bad enough. He’d stepped forward, mindful of not tugging at his trousers, which would have only drawn attention to his newly sprung problem. The hours until he could close the store and get her alone seemed an eternity. Somehow “get out of my sight so I can calm down” didn’t strike him as a good thing to say to his new wife. “You should get settled in.”
Her dark eyes narrowed, then transferred to his apron.
He pulled it over his head. It would at least hide his response to her. And he had to think of something else besides bedding her before his brain stopped working entirely. He had a hundred questions to ask her, but right now he couldn’t frame a single one.
She stood, still not heading for the narrow staircase at the back of the storeroom.
His heart pounded crazily. He pointed in case she didn’t see the stairs past the crates, barrels and sacks. If she was out of his sight he could concentrate on filling orders, stock shelves with his newly arrived goods, and get the mail sorted. He could scarcely keep his eyes off her or keep his mind on serving his customers. He’d be trying to keep other men from stealing her. Or too busy staring at her himself.
While he’d known she was pretty from her picture, he’d expected her to have some flaw, crooked or missing teeth, an annoying squeaky voice, a clubfoot or something that would have prevented her from finding a husband back East. He’d heard plenty of tales of woe regarding mail-order brides. Most arrived with shortcomings. Rarely were they pretty, no matter how much they’d gussied up for a nice photograph.
Wasn’t as if he had a whole lot of choice in brides, with bachelors outnumbering single women seven to one in California. Still, he’d been prepared to settle for whatever he got as long as he could have children with her. Children would fill that missing part of him. He hadn’t really thought a woman would fall in love with him, but a practical bargain he understood.
But so far his wife made him wonder if more than a practical marriage could be had. Or was there some flaw in her she just hadn’t revealed yet? More than likely she’d leave him when she realized he’d never learned how to be part of a family. He’d never had an opportunity to be a son or a brother, let alone a husband. He had to learn now and fast.
“Who’s the gal, Bench?” asked a sunburned miner, jarring John back to where he was.
“My wife.” The word was foreign on John’s tongue.
Her eyes widened and she stared up at him. His wife likely wanted a husband who could control his urges, not a brute. He never lost control, but damn, he wanted nothing more than to lean in and kiss her thoroughly.
As if his eyeballs were glued to Selina, he had a hard time peeling his gaze away.
The miner, Olsen, had been one of the group waiting for the store to reopen. He regularly showed up after the mail came in on the stage, and often received thick letters. With a smirk on his face he looked Selina over.
Wanting to punch him, John drew in a slow breath. The man was a customer. “Haven’t had a chance to sort the mail yet. But I have a fresh shipment of tobacco.”
Olsen leaned his arm against the counter.
Selina grabbed his spare apron and pulled it over her dress.
“What are you doing?” John sputtered.
“I’m helping. Don’t you want me to?” she asked.
“No. I mind the store and you mind the house. That is the way it is supposed to be.” Wasn’t it?
Her brow clouded, but then she smiled brightly. “Oh, come now, surely you could use a helping hand.” She finished tying a saucy little bow in the front of the apron—a bow he never would have tied with the same strings—and turned her palms up. Her head tilted and her smile turned teasing. “And I have two of them.”
He was as breathless as if he’d been punched in the stomach. But he wasn’t prepared with a reason to tell her she shouldn’t help in the store. He’d never in his wildest dreams imagined that she’d want to work alongside him. He had a hard enough time believing she would actually show up and marry him.
She seemed to take his lack of a response as an answer and glanced toward Olsen. Her mouth rounded and opened for a tiny space of time before she stepped toward the counter and painted a friendly expression on her face. She sweetly asked, “Are you here for your mail?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The miner’s half-unbuttoned red flannel undershirt had faded to a grayish pink. And he wasn’t wearing a shirt over it.
Funny, John had never really noticed how uncivilized some of his customers looked. Nor had he ever before felt an urge to tell them to cover up. He stepped between her and Olsen and reached for the mailbag. The sooner he found any letters for the miner, the sooner he could get him out of the store.
Olsen leaned to look around him. “Didn’t know you was married.”
The last thing he wanted to do was discuss Selina with Olsen. Or have every lonely Argonaut flirting with his wife. “How’s your lode holding out? Brown said he was going to start blasting soon. The vein he was following played out.”
She stepped to his side and her dark eyes bored into him. John wanted to forget the customers in his store, haul her upstairs and lock her out of sight of other men, but that would be just as uncivilized as not wearing a shirt. Probably not what a good husband would do, either. He couldn’t lock her away forever. If she was going to leave him, she’d leave him sooner if he tried to cage her.
Olsen shrugged. “You’re a right pretty thing,” he said to Selina.
She inclined her head and gave the faintest of smiles in response.
“And my wife,” repeated John. The jealous burn in his gut surprised him. He should have complimented