The Widower's Wife (3 page)

Dalton McCullough looked into the face of the extraordinarily beautiful woman who stood before him. Her hair was the most beautiful color of strawberry blonde. It looked as soft as spun silk, although she wore it tightly held back in pins and not in a soft style with loose curls, a style he felt would do her more justice. And those eyes—he had never seen a color so green! Her lashes were thick and slightly darker than her hair, as were her perfectly shaped brows. She had obviously come from money by the style of her clothing.

He had noticed her when he had first run into the station, but he’d forced himself to look away. He hadn’t driven such a long way to the train station only to admire women, even ones as lovely as she. He had come to greet the woman who was to be his new wife, and he was late.
Why didn’t I get an earlier start?
he scolded himself again. He usually prided himself on being punctual, even with three small children to make ready. He had thought he had given himself plenty of time.

Dalton worked hard yesterday to complete some extra chores in order to save himself some time this morning. Things were going smoothly until his daughter Jenny slipped and cut her leg on a nail as they were all getting into the wagon.

Jenny, who usually remained calm in situations like this, went into hysterics. Dalton knew she was already extremely upset with him, and he had been walking on pins and needles all morning, hoping nothing would happen to make things worse. The flood of tears she had been holding back since the night before finally broke free of their dam, and she began to sob inconsolably. Lisa and Brenn, his two other children, weren’t used to their older sister crying and wailed right along with her. He had to take all three children back into the house so both Lisa and Brenn could witness him doctoring Jenny’s leg, making sure she would be okay.

It was times like these that Dalton sorely missed his wife, Laurellyn. In truth, he still thought of her nearly every waking moment of the day, and his dreams at night were filled with her as well. The dreams didn’t hurt so much because he could fool his heart into believing that she was still lying there beside him. The days were different. There were constant reminders everywhere that she was gone, like her flower garden that lay ignored and overgrown.

Laurellyn had loved flowers. Her garden was her pride and joy. Every room in the house had contained a jar or vase filled with those beautiful reminders of her. She always smelled of flowers, especially lavender and roses. Dalton fought to hold back his own tears as the sweet memories of his wife threatened to be his undoing in front of his children, especially since he was the only member of the family not in tears at the moment. He managed to hold back the flood, but he could not hold back the memories.

Dalton forcibly pushed his thoughts back to the task at hand. He cleaned up Jenny’s leg as best he could with lye soap and alcohol, like he’d seen their mother do many times before. It was actually quite a bad cut, and out on the frontier, it was impossible to be too careful when it came to injuries. A small, seemingly harmless wound could sometimes mean the loss of a limb, if not taken care of properly. He wrapped a clean strip of cotton cloth around her leg and tied it off. Then he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and patted her on the back.

“Okay, Jenny Bugs, we need to get going. I really shouldn’t be late.” Jenny folded her arms across her chest and gave her father a stubborn glare. “Now, come on, Jenny, I’ve got to get you three over to Auntie Bet’s right now. We talked about this last night. Miss Grey will be in a new town and won’t know anyone but us. It wouldn’t be polite or nice to leave her standing at the station alone.”

“Maybe if you’re late, she’ll turn around and go back to where she came from. And how come you got all fancied up just to go get her?” Jenny grumbled.

Dalton let out an exasperated breath of air. His daughter wasn’t going to make this easy. He would surely be late now as it was.

“Jenny McCullough, you will get in that wagon right now or I will carry you out and put you in myself,” he exploded out of frustration. And that’s exactly what Dalton ended up doing, for Jenny was bound and determined to be difficult.

When they got to Aunt Betty’s house, Jenny clung to him and cried. Of course, that started the other two children howling again. Luckily, Aunt Betty took charge immediately and had things under control in a relatively short time, all things considering.

“Come on, my little sprites, Auntie Bet has made some sugar cookies.”

Dalton watched as Aunt Betty carried little Brenn and coaxed Lisa and Jenny into the house. She was actually Laurellyn’s aunt, but she had always been there for them both, and he considered her his aunt as well. In fact, if it hadn’t been for her, he was sure he couldn’t have made it on his own this long since losing Laurellyn. He could still hear Jenny’s sobs as she fought control over her emotions.
Laurellyn
, he thought as he hurried to the wagon,
I pray I’ve done the right thing
. He flung himself into the wagon and hurried through the gate.

Somewhere in the station a man laughed loudly, interrupting Dalton’s thoughts and bringing him back to the present. The woman just stood there staring at him. It unnerved him somewhat because she kept fidgeting, nervously opening and shutting her mouth as if she wanted to say something. She also kept taking quick glances back over her shoulder at the odd-looking man standing in the lobby entrance. Dalton watched her as she spent an unusually long time making an observation of the man. Actually, he had been thoroughly captivated by the multitude of expressions that crossed her face, one after the other: shock, disappointment, resolve, relief, and finally admiration.

Surprised, Dalton turned to look at the man. Even though he tried not to be critical, he didn’t know what she could have possibly seen that was worthy of her admiration. Maybe she knew him, knew his character. Nothing else made sense. But, somehow he couldn’t see how this elegantly dressed, attractive woman could possibly run in the same social circles as this man. When he turned his attention back to the woman’s face, the look of admiration had been replaced by a look of determination. Then she turned back to him and suddenly appeared overly nervous again, bordering on panic stricken. He was embarrassed to be caught staring, but he could not seem to pull his eyes away. He was too intrigued with this woman and admittedly a little amused too.

When she spoke to him, her voice was soft and low, and he could detect a slight tremor to it. He could barely make out what she said. He could only assume it was an embarrassed apology for bumping into him the way she had. A moment later, she spoke again—louder this time—and though she was polite, she was unable to keep the distress out of her voice. He knew he was being rude, but he couldn’t seem to form the words in his mind to make a reply.

When she glanced down to his hand, it dawned on Dalton that he was still holding her bag. She finally looked relieved when he stepped forward and handed it to her. For a moment he was glad he had helped ease her worry and wiped the panicked look off her face. Then, to his dismay, the panic returned even worse than before.

Jillian had to do something quickly. She could hardly control her breathing. Her emotions were in such a state that she was starting to feel lightheaded and weak. All the worry and stress of the last hour were quickly becoming too much for her. She tried unsuccessfully to recall when she had last eaten. It had surely been too long since she had given her body proper nourishment. If she did not find a remedy to this distressing situation quickly, she would likely be in more trouble, and she wished to avoid any further humiliation.

“Pardon me again, sir.” Her mouth was suddenly dry, and her body trembled slightly. “I believe—” she paused, swallowing hard, “I believe you’re standing . . . on my handkerchief.”

Between the fear of being stranded in a strange town and the panicked feeling that she needed to hurry, her emotions were unraveling quickly. She took another quick glance over her shoulder. The man in the lobby was gone. A look of horror crossed her face until gratefully, she spotted him talking to the clerk at the ticket counter. He would be inquiring about her, no doubt. A momentary feeling of relief washed over her and she turned again, back to the man before her. He hadn’t moved.

Dalton was beginning to worry about the woman standing before him. He feared she would faint, overcome by emotion. He needed to get someone to help this troubled woman so he could find out what had happened to his new wife-to-be.

He was again shaken by thoughts of Laurellyn. Would he ever be able to control the constant threat of tears, even at the slightest thought of his lost love? He would have to at least learn to hide his feelings in front of his new wife. Even though they would not share the same kind of relationship he had with Laurellyn, he did want her to feel comfortable and welcome in her new home.

Dalton glanced down at the ground to hide his face and to take a moment to recover himself. As he did, he saw something small and delicate sticking out from under his boot. What was he standing on? He tried to recall what the woman had said to him moments before, something about a handkerchief. He moved his foot aside and bent down to retrieve the dainty-looking thing. It had been soiled badly, no doubt by his boot, and he cringed guiltily. As he slowly stood back up, he looked at it more closely. He noticed the intricate yellow stitching that went around the border. A small, yellow rose completed its perfect design.

Suddenly, Dalton froze. His mind started to whirl, and he tried to think back to the exact words that had been printed on Miss Grey’s last telegram. She had mentioned her arrival time—that was the main purpose for the telegram—but then there had been something else written, farther down. He had only briefly glanced over it. What had it said? He should have paid better attention. Dalton forced himself to return to the present. He was sure the telegram had mentioned something about a handkerchief, a yellow embroidered one. Yes, he remembered, she had written that she would be holding a yellow embroidered handkerchief so he would know who she was.

Suddenly, realization washed over him. The woman who stood before him was Miss Jillian Grey, soon to be Mrs. Jillian McCullough. But how could this be? She was definitely not what he had expected, though honestly, he wasn’t sure what he had been expecting. He knew from their written correspondence that she was young—just seventeen. He had been concerned about her age at first. Why would a girl so young sign up to be a mail-order bride? Did she have some strange affliction that made her chances of finding a husband the traditional way impossible? In her letters she had sounded so mature and sure of herself. Certainly her qualifications had been more than sufficient. She had even studied at a university for nearly a year, which would mean she could teach the children if needed. Jenny had fallen behind in her schooling in the last year. With the loss of their mother, it had been hard to adjust to running the house and the farm. She had missed too many days of school and had been unable to make up her work.

Dalton tried to remember the description Miss Grey had given him: she was about five foot seven, plain, with green eyes, and strawberry blonde hair. Had she really described herself as plain? Yes, he distinctly remembered her using that particular word. He looked her over more closely. He figured her height to be right, and her hair was most definitely the color she’d described—what he could see of it anyway. Her eyes . . . yes, they were the same stunning green he’d noticed when he’d first observed her. But plain? He questioned once again. No, this woman—this raving beauty that stood before him—was anything but plain!

And she certainly didn’t look like any girl of seventeen he had ever seen. Of course, he didn’t get to town much these days; he usually had too much work to get done. Besides, he was uncomfortable around all the single women in town who always seemed to find some excuse to talk and flirt with him. He usually just sent a list and some money with Aunt Betty. Sometimes she would take the children, so he didn’t feel too guilty. No, he was definitely no expert on what young women of seventeen looked like these days, but he hadn’t imagined them so . . . so womanly.

He had married Laurellyn when she was sixteen, and he didn’t remember her figure being so well formed. Of course, he had only been seventeen at the time. Maybe he had seen things from a different perspective.

After eight years of marriage, he felt so much older. A seventeen-year-old girl had seemed young to him . . . and safe, he thought. Even though he knew girls out here married even younger than that, he had made it clear just what their relationship would be. Dalton shook his head slightly to get his thoughts straightened out. Not only had he not been expecting an attractive and grown-up looking woman, it was exactly what he hadn’t wanted. He did not like the way she seemed to awaken feelings in him. Feelings and emotions that needed to stay locked away. He wasn’t looking for romance and neither was she. She had been crystal clear to him about what she was expecting. He had been comforted by the fact that she had no expectations of him, other than providing a home and protection for her in return for caring for his children.

Besides, he had Laurellyn. Well, he had her memory anyway. His heart was full. There was no room for another woman. He’d stemmed the flow of love from his heart when Laurellyn had taken her last breath. His heart was dead to anyone else romantically.

As he looked at the young woman now standing before him, it was obvious that she didn’t recognize him either. If nothing else, it was evident by the look of irritation she was giving him. They definitely needed to talk.

Jillian’s frustration was getting worse. Just when she finally thought she had gotten through to this man, he seemed to freeze up again. Now he stood staring at her, just holding her handkerchief out in front of him, but making no move to hand it to her. He looked like he was trying to remember something for a moment, and then he seemed to shut down all together. She watched as a look of realization crossed over his face.

When he looked down at the handkerchief he was holding, his whole demeanor changed, as though he was seeing her for the first time. His eyes even moved over her whole figure, from head to toe, taking it in slowly. What was this man playing at? Jillian did not have any more time to waste on trying to be polite. Mr. McCullough appeared to be finishing his conversation with the ticket clerk. With one swift move, she reached out and snatched the handkerchief out of the hand of the man standing before her.

“Thank you!” Jillian said rather rudely and stomped her foot for emphasis. She was a little bit embarrassed to be acting with such impertinence, but the confusing man left her no choice. She was shocked when he grabbed her hand as she turned to walk away. Unprepared, Jillian felt a tingling sensation travel quickly up her arm, which only served to irritate her more.