The Substitute Bride. Janet Dean

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      “I came to Iowa to…” She took in a deep breath. “To get away from a marriage my father arranged…to a much older man, a man I couldn’t stomach marrying.”

      “Why would your father insist you marry someone like that?”

      “Money. The man’s rich.” She sighed. “So I ran.”

      “Into marriage with me. Guess I should be flattered you consider me the lesser of two evils.”

      “To be honest, I’d planned to find a job here, not a husband. But one look at the town destroyed that strategy.”

      He chuckled. “No danger of getting a swelled head with you around. Not sure I’ve ever met a female like you.”

      Ted’s tone held a hint of awe. Did he understand the tedium of propriety, the yearning for something she couldn’t name? “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

      He reached across the space between them and brushed a tendril of hair off her neck. “You know, Mrs. Logan, this marriage might just be fun.”

      His wife scooted about as far from Ted as she could get without tumbling from the wagon. Not a typical bride. But then not a typical wedding, either.

      He stood over six foot tall. Hard work had broadened his shoulders and strengthened the muscles in his arms, an ox of a man, some people said. Was she afraid of him?

      Well, if so, she needn’t worry. He was far more afraid of this slip of a woman from Chicago. If she smelled any sweeter, he’d need to sleep in the barn instead of the children’s room, his plan for tonight.

      The decision made, he felt an odd sense of relief. Elizabeth might be his wife, but she was a stranger. A charming stranger at that. She made him laugh, something he hadn’t done in far too long. And as now, he could barely tear his gaze away from the curve of her neck, her tiny waist—

      “What happened to your wife?”

      Her question doused his interest like a glass of cold water in his face. “Rose died of nephritis.” He tightened his hold on the reins. “Her kidneys began shutting down after Henry’s birth.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      Nodding an acknowledgment, he turned the horses into the lane leading up to the house, relieved to reach his farm. And avoid the topic of his deceased wife.

      As they bounced over the ruts, he remembered his citified wife’s complaints about the condition of New Harmony’s streets. He made a mental note to haul rocks from the creek to level the surface after he’d finished planting.

      The road curved around to the back of his house. They passed the garden plot. In the barnyard, he stopped the horses and set the brake. Tippy bounced into view, barking. Ted climbed down and gave the dog a pat.

      Night was falling, putting the farm in shadow, but Ted knew every building, fence and pasture. He’d earned all this off others’ pain. A straight flush had paid for the house, a full house repaired his barn and a four of a kind had bought his livestock.

      Yep, the best poker player on the Mississippi, that had been him. Not that he’d planned on being “Hold ’Em” Logan when he’d joined the crew of that riverboat.

      He’d seen men die over a game of cards, women toss their hearts after gamblers who loved their whiskey and the hand they held more than any female. He’d watched men and women lose everything they owned. Not a decent life. A life he now detested.

      He’d started over here. Put his mark on this land. Everywhere he looked he saw evidence of his hard work, his daily penance for his past.

      Shaking off his dreary thoughts, Ted walked to Elizabeth’s side. Even in the dim light she looked tired, worn to a frazzle, as his mother would’ve said. He encircled her waist with his hands and she laid a gentle hand on his shoulder for balance. Light in his arms, she surely needed fattening up if she hoped to handle the chores. Her hand fell away and he quickly released her. A strange sense of emptiness left him unsteady on his feet. Must be the strain of this eventful day.

      Elizabeth bent and ran a hand along his dog’s shaggy back. His white-tipped tail wagged a greeting.

      “Tippy is gentle as a lamb,” Ted said, “and the best sheepdog in these parts.”

      While Elizabeth got acquainted with Tippy, Ted retrieved their purchases from the back of the wagon. When he returned to her side, she gave the dog one final pat, like she’d met a good friend and didn’t want to say goodbye.

      “Go on in. The door’s unlocked.” Ted handed her the packages. “I’ll be along as soon as I bed down the horses and feed the stock.”

      She turned to face him, hugging the bundles close. “I’ve got to ask…”

      He waited for her to say whatever she had on her mind.

      “Where will you be sleeping?”

      Ted gave her credit for asking him straight out. “In the children’s room. If that’s agreeable with you.”

      “That’s fine. Perfect.” She released a great gust of air, her relief palpable in the soft night air. “You’re a good man, Ted Logan.”

      Would she still say that if she knew about his past?

      Chapter Six

      With the sleeping arrangements settled, Elizabeth walked toward the house with a light step, suddenly curious about her groom’s home. At the back door, a whiff of lilac greeted her, transporting her to the ancient, mammoth bush behind the Manning carriage house. To the gigantic vases Mama filled to overflowing, giving off the heady fragrance of spring. Home.

      Tears stung her eyes but she blinked them away. Refusing to dwell on what she could not change, she whistled Tippy inside. She’d found a friend and had no intention of leaving him behind.

      The door led into the kitchen, a huge room that ran the entire depth of the house, from back to front, cozy, if not for the chill in the air. A stack of newspapers all but covered the faded blue cushion of a brown wicker rocker.

      In front of the chair, Elizabeth spied dried mud in the shape of a man’s boots. Didn’t Ted shed the footgear he wore in the barn before entering his house? Well, if he expected her to clean, that would have to change.

      A large table, legs sturdy enough to support an elephant, dominated one end of the kitchen. Its porcelain castors sat in a sea of crumbs. “Come here, Tippy.” The dog made quick work of the tidbits. Elizabeth patted her personal broom.

      A high chair was set off to one side of the table. A spoon was glued to the wooden tray with oatmeal and, from the smell of it, soured milk. On the back of a chair, a garment hung haphazardly.

      “Oh, how cute.” Elizabeth picked up a tiny blue shirt that stuck to her fingers. “Uh, maybe not.”

      She put the oatmeal-painted apparel back where she found it. Tippy sat on his haunches watching her every move, as if he wanted to oblige her by licking her hands clean.

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