The Substitute Bride. Janet Dean

one last pleading glance at Elizabeth. “Out you go, boy. You know better than to come inside.”

      “I don’t see why he can’t stay.”

      “He’s a working dog, not a house pet. And the way he sheds and attracts mud, you’ll be glad of it, too.”

      “Then that must be his mud in front of the rocker?”

      He harrumphed.

      She smothered a smile.

      The teakettle whistled. Ted gathered two cups and a blue willow pot, then rummaged through a cabinet, mumbling. His broad shoulders filled every inch of space between the wall and table. Elizabeth squeezed past him as if she thought he would bite, then pulled a container marked Tea from behind a bag of cornmeal.

      Her gaze lifted to his. She swallowed hard. “Here it is.”

      He reached for the tin, his fingertips brushing hers. “I…ah.” He blinked. “Thanks. I spend half my time searching for things.”

      She smiled, remembering Papa’s inability to find something right in front of his nose while she could spot a sale on gloves from three stores away. She picked up the kettle and filled the teapot with water, dividing the rest between the two round pans, then added dippers of cold. She chuffed. And Martha said she didn’t have a domestic bone in her body.

      Ted waved a hand at the mess. “They’ll wait till morning.”

      “No time like the present.” She sounded smug even to her own ears. But keeping busy meant avoiding her new husband.

      The sink hung in a wooden counter supported with two legs at one end and a cabinet at the other, the space under the sink skirted. What an odd arrangement.

      “What’s the mirror for?” she asked.

      “I shave there sometimes. And it helps me keep track of Henry.” He smiled. “Like having eyes in the back of my head.”

      In no time, Elizabeth worked up some suds by swishing a bar of soap in the pan, then dipped a plate through the bubbles, but dried yellow food still clung to the plate. She scrubbed with the dishrag. Still there. Running her thumb over the hardened mess, she crinkled her nose as the nasty stuff filled the space beneath her nail. Well, she wouldn’t let dried-on egg yolks defeat her. She rubbed harder. Her thumbnail gave way and tore. She dropped the plate into the pan. It hit bottom with an ominous clunk.

      Ted stepped up behind her. “What was that?”