The Substitute Bride. Janet Dean
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story or two?”
“One.”
“Oh, I’ll have a slice of pie, then. A big one.” She smiled at Ted, resting her chin on her palm. “Pie is my weakness.”
Johanna waved to Agnes. “They’ll have pie. I’m paying.”
Agnes appeared at their elbows. “I’ve got sugar cream and cherry today.”
“The sugar cream, please,” Elizabeth said.
Ted frowned as if he didn’t approve of the turn of events. “None for me.”
“Don’t be silly,” Johanna said. “This is your wedding day. Your bride shouldn’t eat pie alone.”
Ted sighed. “All right—”
“Cherry and coffee black,” Agnes said, obviously familiar with Ted’s tastes.
With Johanna issuing orders, diners moved the tables, opening space in the middle of the room. The mayor let loose on his harmonica. A heavyset, squat fellow strode in carrying the fiddle and joined in. Cecil’s brother Oscar, Johanna informed Elizabeth.
Four couples formed a square, moving up and back, square dancing or so Johanna explained.
Agnes arrived with coffee and pie. Flaky golden crusts piled high with luscious filling. Elizabeth thanked her, and then dug in. Mmm, cinnamon. Sugar. Cream. She licked her lips, capturing a speck from the corner of her mouth. “This is delicious.” She glanced at her husband.
Ted sat motionless, his fork hovering over his plate. Did the man pray before each course? No, he was staring at her lips. Had she missed a crumb? She dabbed at her mouth with the napkin.
His face turned a deep shade of red. Blue eyes collided, hastily looked away and then back again. He dropped his gaze to his plate, slicing his fork into his pie and then lifting a forkful of cherries and crust to his mouth. Her stomach dipped. When had pie ever looked better going into someone else’s mouth besides her own?
In all of Elizabeth’s years she had never been unable to finish a piece of pie. But tonight, her wedding night, she pushed the plate away. “I’m stuffed.”
Ted smiled. “Glad I finally got you filled up.” He glanced out the window. “Time to head for home.”
“We can’t leave.” She waved a hand. “Your friends have done all this for us. To celebrate our marriage.”
“Johanna’s turned our wedding dinner into a spectacle.”
“My dreams for my wedding day hardly match our ceremony.”
Ted had the decency to look contrite. He rose and offered his hand. “May I have this dance, Mrs. Logan?”
“If you’ll teach me the steps, Mr. Logan.”
“It’ll be my pleasure.”
Her pulse raced at the warm, steady pressure of his hand on her back. At the warmth radiating from his very masculine body. At the breadth of those powerful shoulders.
No doubt Ted could protect her from any danger. Yet she’d never felt more threatened. More out of control.
Surprisingly light on his feet for a hulk of a man, Ted led her through the dance. But even with the unnerving awareness that others watched every move they made, smiling and nodding approval at her attempt to join in, she wanted to stay. Leaving would mean being alone with her husband.
Right now, if she could, she’d stamp Cancel on their mail-order nuptials. But that meant she couldn’t give Robby a home.
So like a self-assured bride, she smiled up at her groom, but under her skirts, her knees were knocking.
What had she gotten herself in for?
Neither Elizabeth nor Ted said much on the trip to the farm. As dusk crept in and a full moon rose overhead, lights appeared in the houses they passed. Elizabeth kept her gaze off the man beside her, who took up more space than a mere man should, and focused on the fields. The turned-over earth exposed parched soil as cracked as old china. An owl hooted overhead, an eerie, lonely sound that crawled along her skin, raising the hair on her nape.
“You mentioned a weakness for pie. Any other flaws I should know about?” Ted said at last, his voice laden with humor.
No doubt an attempt to ease the tension crackling between them. Well, she’d do her part. “I’m emotional. A talker.”
He turned toward her, his pupils reflecting the moonlight. “What do you mean, emotional?”
She squirmed under his stare.
“Are you a weeper?”
“Just the opposite. I have a temper.” She pinched her fingers together then opened them a tad. “A teeny temper.”
“Ah, I see.” He chuckled. “Thanks for the warning.”
“Do you?” Elizabeth asked.
“Do I what?”
“Have a temper?”
“Nothing makes me mad, except deceit. How can you trust a man if he can’t be taken at his word?”
Fortunately for her, he didn’t say woman.
Elizabeth fidgeted with her ring. “Couldn’t there be a good reason a person would lie?”
“The truth sets people free.”
She’d be set free, all right. If Ted learned about Robby, he’d rip this simple gold band off her finger and get an annulment faster than Johanna Van Wyld could spread the news.
Ted shifted on the seat. “Seems odd to be married and know so little about you.”
“I feel the same.”
“It’ll take some getting used to, especially for my children.”
Elizabeth gulped. She’d forgotten about Ted’s children. From what she could remember about Robby, babies cried a lot and forever needed a change of clothes. “How old are they?”
“Anna’s seven and scared, I think. She understands a lot.”
Robby had been six when Mama died. Even though Martha had taken care of her brother when Mama took sick, Robby had cried for his mother. Rose’s death had to be even more traumatic for Ted’s daughter.
“Henry’s fourteen months. All he cares about are his meals and a soft lap.” He lifted a brow. “That is, if you’re one to cuddle a baby.”
She’d cuddled Robby. No problem there. Besides, a lap meant sitting and from all Ted’s talk about work, sitting sounded good. “I’ll have a lap anytime he needs one—at least when you’re not available.”
“As long as you’re gentle with my children, you have no need to worry about overstepping. I’ll expect you to mother them whether I’m in the fields or in the house.”
Elizabeth suspected little ones cared not a whit about who you were, how much you owned or where you came from. Long as they had that lap and a ready meal.
But cooking, well, she hoped Ted and his children had low expectations, bottom-of-a-burned-pan low.
Approaching a house near the road, a dog barked a greeting, leaping along the bank as they passed. Inside, people gathered around the table. Good people who lived by the toil of their hands. Not trying to make money without working for it like Papa had, and losing most every time.
Still, as furious as Papa’s gambling made her, she still loved him. He was an affectionate, jovial, handsome man who had a gift with words. In that careless manner of his, he loved her, too, and was probably worried about her now.
Tears pricked at her eyes. She’d propped a note on her dresser, assuring him of her love. But love might not heal the breach she’d crossed when she’d defied