Mail-Order Bride Switch

“And Millie helped her in the kitchen.”

“Yes. Garret—”

He shook his head, set his jaw and looked at the scorched mess in the pot. There went the possibility of stew for today’s dinner or supper for any guests...or them. “We’ll talk later. First I’ll...” He lifted his head, looked toward the sitting room. “There’s the bell. I have a guest.” He looked down at his rough clothes and scowled. “The way I’m dressed, it would be best if you register him and show him to his room to make certain everything is satisfactory. Can you do that?” She seemed capable of that much.

She straightened, brushed back a curl that had fallen free to dangle in front of her ear. “Yes.”

“All right then. I’ll tend to the fireplace, to stay close in case you need my help.” He snatched up the towel he’d dropped and handed it to her. “Wipe your cheeks and eyes.” The bell rang again. He waved her forward and hurried through the sitting room after her, hoping he wasn’t making another mistake in trusting her to handle the guest. He eyed her golden-brown curls falling from her crown to her shoulders, the way her expensive gown fitted her slender form, and the graceful way she moved even when she hurried. She certainly looked the part of a successful businessman’s wife. But he needed help, and there was no one to hire. Maybe she could learn.

He opened the door and Virginia swept through it, her long skirts floating across the floor. She smiled as she moved behind the desk. His pulse skipped. He’d never seen her look so composed, so capable, so... beautiful.

“May I help you, madam?”

Madam. He’d assumed the guest was a man. He stepped into the lobby, glanced toward the woman standing in front of the desk. The woman looked his way and stared. Great. He probably had soot from the pan on his face. And his clothes! He sure didn’t look like a successful hotel owner.

“Madam?” Virginia’s soft voice called the woman’s attention back to her.

“Yes, I’m sorry, I—” The woman covered her mouth with her gloved hand, coughed. “I’d like a room, please.”

He strode to the fireplace and squatted to add wood to the fire and scrape at the ashes. He’d clean up as soon as he’d shoveled the snow from the back porch.

“Would you like a room here on the first floor, madam? It’s very convenient to the sitting area and the dining room. But if you would prefer a room upstairs, that can be arranged, also.”

What was Virginia doing? He’d told her to assign the two down—

“The downstairs room sounds convenient.” The woman coughed again, cleared her throat. “I’ll take it.”

“Wonderful.” Virginia smiled and turned the register around. “Sign your name and write your address here, please.”

“I don’t have an address at the moment. I’ve been traveling.”

Traveling? The woman didn’t look that prosperous. Her cloak and hat were worn. So was the old carpetbag sitting on the floor at her feet. Of course, he didn’t look like a hotel owner in the clothes he had on.

“No matter. Just write ‘traveling.’”

He sneaked a look over his shoulder at Virginia. She was doing a good job handling the registration. He glanced back at the woman, noted the awkward angle of her hand while she signed in.

“And how long will you be staying with us, Mrs. Fuller?”

“I don’t know. It depends...on the weather. At least two nights.”

“That will be three dollars, please.”

The woman ducked her head, pulled the reticule from her wrist. There was the dull clunk of coins hitting against one another.

“Here you are.”

“And here is your key. If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you to your room, Mrs. Fuller. I’ve put you in room number two. I think you’ll find it quite comfortable.”

The woman bent and reached down.

He stood, shook his head, gestured at the bag, then pointed to himself.

Virginia gave a small nod of understanding. “Leave your bag, Mrs. Fuller. It will be brought to your room.”

He waited until she stepped out from behind the counter and led the woman to the short hallway off the lobby, then moved to the desk and picked up the woman’s bag.

“The sign says the Stevenson Hotel. Is that the proprietor’s name? I always think it’s nice when people call their businesses by their name.”

The woman’s quiet voice floated out of the hall. He stepped to the edge of the arched opening and waited for them to enter bedroom number two.

“Yes, it is. My husband is Mr. Stevenson.”

Husband. His heart jolted. He’d never wanted that word applied to himself.

“Here we are. This is your room, and that is the dressing room. You will share it with the occupant of room number one, if I rent it out tonight.”

Good! Virginia had thought to tell the guest about the dressing room. He hurried forward, stepped into the bedroom doorway. “Madam’s bag.” He set the patched carpetbag on the floor and backed out.

“What a lovely room.”

He paused to listen, pleased by the woman’s approval.

“I’m looking forward to sleeping in a bed that doesn’t rock back and forth beneath me.”

The bed springs squeaked.

“I’m sure you’ll find it quite comfortable. I’ll—I’ll send someone by later to tend the fire.”

It was the first time Virginia had hesitated. His fault. He should have told her—

“No need, my dear. I see there’s a coal box. And I’ve been tending fires all of my life. But I’m afraid there is a problem with the bed. It’s...undone.”

Undone! He’d told her—

“I’m so sorry. Let me fix it for—”

The door closed, shutting off Virginia’s voice. Fix it! What—? He stared at the knob, clenched and unclenched his hands, then spun on his heel. He stalked to his office, strode straight through it to the door that led to the hall by their bedrooms, and yanked it open. Three long strides took him to her bedroom door. He opened it, stared at the quilt in a pile on the bare mattress. The woman couldn’t even make a bed!

He drew a deep breath, clamped his lips closed on the words scorching his tongue and strode back down the short hall. Going back to the guest’s room would only make things worse. And he hadn’t time. The woman would expect dinner to be served and, thanks to his bride, the stew he’d prepared was an inedible burned lump! He’d have to apologize to the woman, go to her room and make her bed while she was eating her midday meal. If he could even feed her! He was no cook.

He stomped through the sitting room into the kitchen, grabbed the ruined panful of burned stew out of the sink and threw it out the back door with all his fury propelling it. He watched it arc into the air, then stared at the dark hole in the snow where it landed.

If only he could get rid of his bride as easily! He wanted no part of her! Even if she was beautiful. If it weren’t for that contract...

He left the door open to get rid of the smell and headed for the pantry. He had to find something to feed his hotel guest. It would have to be cold food. He had no time to make more stew.

And his bride would be of no help. That was certain. He’d be better off with a cookbook!