A Bride in the Bargain (35 page)

He’d packed her clothes in twinflowers. And not just any clothes. But her
underclothes
. Conflicting emotions jumbled together inside her. Surprise. Shock. Embarrassment. And something undeniably improper.

Running the tips of her fingers along the soft pink buds peeking out from the neckline of her shift and the waist of her drawers, Anna pictured his big, masculine hands handling the delicate unmentionables. Goose bumps shot up her arm.

The trunk had been such a surprise. But when she opened it, she’d expected to find her carpetbag inside, still packed. Never did she dream he’d take everything from it and transfer it to the case.

She brought her fingers to her nose, inhaling the fragile scent of the flower. Without dislodging the blooms, she lifted the white personals and placed them on the bed.

Turning back, she sucked in her breath. Yards of folded, gauzy cotton voile lay next to an equal amount of the finest white satin brocade she’d ever seen. Even completely alone in her hotel room, she could not stop the blush from creeping up her neck and face.

What on earth had he been thinking to buy such things for her? What had he told the proprietor? If anyone found out about this, her reputation would be in shreds.

But things were different here. She’d stayed in the home of an unmarried man for weeks and no one thought a thing about it. But, surely, buying an unmarried woman cloth for her underclothes was beyond the pale. Surely.

She lifted the brocade and brought it to her cheek. So silky. So rich. It was way too much fabric for a simple corset. Why, there was enough to make a whole gown. But she knew she never would. It’d look too much like a wedding gown.

She stilled. Had he known that? Had he given her the fabric with that in mind? No. Surely not.

Looking down, she saw something wrapped in brown paper peeking out from beneath the cotton voile. She let the brocade slither to her lap and reached for the package, then turned it over in her hands. He’d not written a note on this one.

Inside it held ribbon and lace and ties and thread and boning and cords and tiny, tiny pearl buttons. All white. All of the very best quality. All completely and totally inappropriate.

She sat on her heels staring. How could so many parts of her body respond to a man miles and miles away as if he’d just this very moment touched her?

Anna tried to picture him in the mercantile picking these items out. Had he simply told the proprietor he needed notions for a woman’s undergarments, or had he looked at the choice of ribbons, lace, and buttons himself, picking the ones he liked the best?

Either way, his actions were nothing short of scandalous. She would not, could not, accept these. But how on earth would she give them back? What would she say? She couldn’t stand in the lobby of the hotel and hand them over to him. Someone would see. She shook her head. The whole situation was impossible.

He’d dismissed her, replaced her, and deserted her, yet she knew he hadn’t purchased the fabric and notions until after he’d returned her to town. She’d cleaned every corner of his house. She’d have known if these items had been in it.

So that raised the question: Why would Joe buy her these items
after
he’d secured his land? For she’d heard of his good fortune the moment she’d returned to the hotel. A rush of joy on his behalf had whisked through her. She knew he must be ecstatic. She also knew he no longer had any reason to angle for a wife.

Her first reaction had been to offer up a prayer of thanksgiving—for him and for her, thanking the Lord that they hadn’t wed. What would Joe have thought if he’d married her, only to then discover all was for naught?

Now, she wasn’t so sure. Could it be he was trying to state in his own roundabout way that the feelings he’d professed earlier were not, in fact, linked to his land? Or was she grasping at straws simply because she wished it were so?

Anna fingered the cotton. No question it was for the making of undergarments. This message was clear: He cared for her as a woman.

She fingered the brocade. This message was not so clear. Yet she couldn’t determine what possible use she’d have for so much white satin if not for a wedding gown. And if that were the case, then Joe didn’t care for her just as a woman, but also as a bride.

The more she thought about it, the more hopeful she became. The land was Joe’s and was a part of what made him who he was. Strong. Tough. Resilient. He cherished it just as he would cherish whatever woman he chose to spend his life with.

She nibbled on her lip. She couldn’t make a wedding gown. Not without confirmation of some kind. That would be too presumptuous by half. But she could make a petticoat, a shift, new drawers, and a corset. Still, she wouldn’t wear them. Not until she’d ascertained his intentions.

Smiling, she shook out the cotton. Either way, they’d be the prettiest undergarments a girl could ever own.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY

Ollie, the new cook, didn’t have the repertoire Anna had. He left the kitchen a mess of crusted food and splattered sauces. And his bad mood had no end.

By the close of each evening, Joe could hardly wait to have him out of the house. But when Ollie and the crew left, the hours before bedtime crawled interminably. Hours of silence and solitude and memories.

Settling into a chair by the fire, Joe picked up the frame Anna had made with her seashells and rubbed his thumb across a tiny white clamshell. Inside, the frame held a Scripture. He’d never seen her handwriting before. Her
l
’s and
e
’s were widely looped, as if they were lassos.

Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.

Matthew 6:21

He grinned. Not very subtle, the little minx.

He looked at the fire. Tomorrow was Saturday. If he worked the whole day, then headed out, he wouldn’t arrive in Seattle until the wee hours of the morning.

That might suit the boys, since the places they frequented stayed busy the whole night. But he wanted to see Anna. Talk to Anna. Court Anna.

She’d be long asleep by the time he reached town. Then Sunday morning would be taken up with church, and that gave them precious few hours before he’d have to return home.

That was no way to conduct a proper courtship. He needed to be in town early enough on Saturdays to escort her to dinner or go for a ride. To do that, though, he’d have to leave after breakfast.

The men were thrilled the land and their jobs were secure, but every single one of them missed Anna. They wouldn’t begrudge him the time it would take to woo her back. Even if it meant they stayed to work while he went on ahead to town.

He set the frame back down. No, they wouldn’t mind—especially if it meant she might whip up a batch of doughnuts now and then.

For the first time since leaving her behind, Joe felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He wondered what her reaction to the cloth and notions had been. And the twinflowers. And the packing of her new trunk.

He’d have his answer soon enough. If a petticoat belled her dress out when he saw her next, then he’d know his feelings were reciprocated.

Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes and proceeded to imagine just what that petticoat—among other things—would look like.

Anna had never in her life been inside a saloon. But when a young man tottering from drink intercepted them, jabbering about a stabbing at McDonald’s Saloon, the doc immediately followed, never indicating she should return to his office.

As they drew closer, a breeze brought with it the excited voices of McDonald’s patrons. Doc and Anna picked up their pace, then hurried through the swinging doors. The oppressive smell of whiskey and cigar smoke assailed her. Before she could look around, a man with a stained apron banding his large girth shouted out to them.

“Over here, Doc!”

As Anna’s eyes adjusted to the smoke, she saw a middle-aged man with a handlebar mustache lying on two tables shoved together, blood seeping from his neck.

Shooing the owner back, Maynard yanked open his bag and handed Anna a cloth. “Apply pressure to the wound. Quickly.”

The acrid smell of blood made her stomach churn. She didn’t ask why they weren’t going to wash their hands. She already knew. There wasn’t time.

Blood immediately saturated the cloth, seeping through her fingers and onto the table’s scarred surface. The man’s dark eyes were wide and frightened. She swallowed, then offered him an encouraging smile.

The doc threaded a needle. “Keep the pressure steady.”

“Should I get the chloroform?” she asked.

“He probably has enough whiskey in him to do the trick, but I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.” Tying a knot at the end of the thread, he took her place and peeked beneath the cloth. His shoulders relaxed. “Well, it’s not as deep as I first thought, Rufus. You’re going to be all right.”

Anna found the chloroform cloth and poured more anesthetic onto it. Her stomach jerked. The etherlike odor reminded her of men in the War Hospital she’d volunteered at back home. Though she’d never tended to actual patients, she’d seen them. Heard them. Felt for them.

Lately, the constant smell began to trigger a bit of nausea—particularly when mingled with the odor of blood. The whiskey and cigar smoke infiltrating her every breath intensified her dilemma. To compensate, she breathed through her mouth.

The man cried out when Doc poked the needle through his skin. Anna cringed. Two men grabbed the patient’s arms and legs, holding him down—one still had a cigar clamped between his teeth with ashes threatening to fall at the slightest provocation. She placed the cloth beneath the man’s nose, wondering if the fumes would make it past his overgrown mustache.

She couldn’t take his pulse with the other patrons restraining him, nor could she bear to watch the procedure. So she took in her surroundings. Rickety tables, spindly chairs, a billiard table, and walls papered with years of smoke and residue. The bar behind her was out of her range of vision.

After several long, excruciating minutes, Doc tied off his stitching.

Anna removed the chloroform and retrieved a bandage from the medical bag. She supported the man’s head as Maynard dressed the wound. The man’s hair was greasy and clumped together with blood.

Please don’t let him have lice, Lord
.

“Find a table or some planks to carry him home on,” Doc said to the men who’d been holding the patient down. “And be gentle about it. I’ll check on him in the morning.”

Anna wiped the dregs of filth from her hands, but blood had seeped into her cuticles, staining them. Her nausea increased.

Maynard grabbed a bottle of whiskey from a nearby table. “Hold out your hands.”

She hesitated, then did as she was told. He poured the foul liquid all over them. The fumes burned her eyes, but it served its purpose. The dirt and bloodstains disappeared.

She followed the doc out, surprised to see darkness had descended while they were operating. An occasional street lantern threw small pools of light onto the muddy avenue, making a trail up the hill like oversized breadcrumbs.

“Shouldn’t we alert the law about the stabbing?” she asked, gulping in fresh air.

Maynard shook his head. “The men will do that if Tillney survives, which I’m sure he will. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Would you like to come to the house for supper?”

She pulled up short. “Tillney?
That
was Mr. Tillney? The Mr. Tillney who sued Joe?”

Doc stopped. “It was.”

She looked back toward the saloon. “What happened? How did he come to be in such dire circumstances?”

“I don’t know. Not my business to know. I simply do the doctoring.”

Good heavens.

“Do you regret ministering to him?” he asked.

She looked at him in surprise. “Of course not.”

“Good.”