Plum Creek Bride

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

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Plum Creek Bride

Lynna Banning

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

LYNNA BANNING

has combined a lifelong love of history and literature into a satisfying new career as a writer. Born in Oregon, she has lived in Northern California most of her life, graduating from Scripps College and embarking on her career as an editor and technical writer, and later as a high school English teacher.

An amateur pianist and harpsichordist, Lynna performs on psaltery and recorders with two Renaissance ensembles and teaches music in her spare time. Currently she is learning to play the harp.

She enjoys hearing from her readers. You may write to her directly at P.O. Box 324, Felton, CA 95018.

For Suzanne Barrett.

With grateful thanks, to Yvonne Woolston, Andrew and Shirley Yarnes, Leslie Yarnes Sugai, Lawrence Yarnes and my great-grandmother, Mareia Bruhn Boessen.

Chapter One (#ulink_5b4df444-9bcd-5dc9-8931-f87f347d2ac5)

Plum Creek, Oregon, 1886

The searing July heat boiled up from the road as Erika gazed up the tree-shaded street. She shifted her heavy satchel to her other hand. She had walked all the way from the stagecoach stop, and the plain, high collar of her wilted travel dress stuck to her neck. Perspiration trickled between her breasts, and her feet, imprisoned in tight high-button shoes, baked like twin loaves of Brot. Bread, she corrected. English words were so hard to remember!

She turned up the street, trudged another twenty paces and stopped. The two-story house occupied the entire corner across from where she stood. A white board fence encircled the meticulously groomed emerald lawn, and a scrolled iron sign hung from a porch rafter. Jonathan Callender, Physician.

Such a grand home!

A trio of graceful plum trees shaded the huge grayand-black Victorian structure from the merciless sun. Erika moved past the neat row of scarlet zinnias bordering the gravel path leading to the front porch, unlatched the gate and marched up the cobbled walk. Settling her satchel on the painted veranda floor, she lifted the iron knocker and rapped twice. After what seemed an interminable wait, she rapped again. Someone must be home; a dusty black buggy stood in front of the house.

Another long minute passed, and Erika tapped her foot in frustration.

Abruptly the door swung inward, and a tall, dark-haired man faced her. The sleeves of his rumpled white shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and the collar gaped open at the neck.

“Yes?” His rich, deep voice startled her with the impatiently clipped single word.

Erika swallowed. “My name Erika Scharf.”

“Yes?” he repeated. Weary gray eyes surveyed her with disinterest.

“Name means no-thing?” She winced as she realized her pronunciation error. She had to work hard at English, but thoughts came faster than her tongue could form the words.

“Nothing at all. Should it?”

“You not get my letter? Your wife, Mrs.” She extracted a slip of paper from her reticule and squinted at it. “Ben-bough?”

“Mrs. Benbow. My housekeeper.”

“She write and—Oh! Your housekeeper? Not your wife?”

“That is correct. Now, Miss Scharf, perhaps you would tell me why your name should mean something to me?”

For some reason the look of the man made her feel hot and cold all at once. “Oh, yes, my name. My papa German. Mama she is—was—Danish. When I come New York, name not Scharf, but Scharffenberger. Too long to write, so they make short. Scharf. Is more American, ja?”

“Ja. Yes,” Jonathan amended hastily.

“You do not remember name?”

“I do not” What did this chit of a girl want with him? Was she ailing?

“Are you ill, Miss Scharf?”

Two dimples appeared in her sunburned cheeks.

“Nein. Never ill. Much health. I go to work now?”

“Work?” he echoed.

“Ja, work. W-o-r-k,” she spelled. “Did not your wife tell you?”

“My wife is.” He could not bring himself to say it. “Tell me what?”

“Mrs. Ben-bough, Benbow, she write to me in New York and say, ‘Come to help, is baby coming.’ There is baby, yes?”

Jonathan started. A shard of pain ripped into his belly. “Yes, there is a baby.”

Tess must have sent for the young woman months ago. He had never been told.

“Come in, Miss Scharf.”

Erika stepped through the wide doorway. “Baby is called.?”

“Marian. Marian Elizabeth.” His throat tight, he ushered the young woman into the parlor.

“I will see house later,” she said. She did not sit down, but flitted about the room inspecting everything—Tess’s tall walnut harp, the settee she had ordered reupholstered in forest green velvet, the polished oak end table piled high with medical journals from the East, then the harp again. The young woman ran one finger over the dusty surface.

“I would like now to see my room, please.”