His Mail-Order Bride. Tatiana March

his voice, as if she were a frightened doe he sought to tame.

      “Ready to take a look at the house?”

      She nodded but did not speak.

      He kept up a steady stream of talk as he climbed up the front steps, pushed the door open and waved her inside. “The house is built with split logs. I couldn’t dress the lumber properly on my own. You need two men to operate a whipsaw. I had plenty of timber, so I just sliced the logs down the middle.”

      “You built this house yourself?”

      “Every single groove and joint.”

      He watched her as she surveyed the big central room. Light flooded in through the open doorway and from the wide window on the opposite wall. Slowly, she untied the laces of her green bonnet and removed it from her head. His stomach tightened at the way the slanting sun picked out coppery glints in her black hair and painted dappled shadows over her slim frame, as if nature itself wanted to touch her, just as badly as he did.

      She drifted around the room, in front of the window, past the row of kitchen cabinets, to the long table flanked with two benches.

      “If you don’t like the benches, I can make chairs,” Thomas told her.

      She glanced at him, crossed the room to the pair of carved wooden love seats that faced each other in front of the massive stone chimney. She ran her fingers along the scalloped back of one of them.

      “Did you make these?”

      “Yes.”

      “It must have taken a long time.”

      “The winter evenings offered me plenty.”

      He wondered if she understood the skill that went into carving wood, or appreciated the financial outlay he’d incurred for the new cookstove. He’d ordered it all the way from Flagstaff, right after Miss Jackson had agreed to marry him if he sent the funds for her passage.

      His bride gestured at the doors on either side of the fireplace. “What’s in there?”

      “That’s the bedroom.” His body tightened as he strode across the floor and flung the door open. The wide room had windows on both sides. A tapestry depicting a winter woodland scene hung on the wall above the bedstead.

      “Did you make the bed too?” she asked.

      “Yes, and the pair of nightstands, and the blanket box, and the two chairs, and the chests of drawers beneath the windows. The bed is in the shape of a sled. Reminds me of the snow in Michigan.”

      “Is that where you are from?”

      He nodded, keeping his face empty of expression.

      “Why did you leave?”

      “I had four older brothers. The farm wasn’t big enough for all of us, and land was too expensive to buy.” The explanation held some truth in it, and Thomas quickly closed his mind to the rest of the memories.

      He watched his wife standing beside the bed and tried to keep his imagination under control. “Did you see the cookstove?” he asked, as much to distract himself as to keep her talking.

      She threw him a questioning look. He pointed back to the living room. She returned to the parlor and studied the appliance. Thomas realized he had no idea of her competence as a housekeeper. They hadn’t corresponded. He didn’t know much about her beyond her name, her age, and that she had been abandoned by her lover and her pregnancy had caused her to be dismissed from her position as a maid in some rich man’s household.

      Suddenly the room closed in around Thomas. He needed to soothe his mind, needed to see the sky soaring above him and hear the trees whispering in the wind. He turned and headed out to the porch.

      “I’ll go and put the horse in the paddock.”

      “Why is the house not by the water?” his bride called after him when he was already halfway out the door.

      “The creek floods after heavy rain and the soil is firmer here.”

      “Do you bathe in the lake?”

      “Sometimes.” He raked his gaze over her, his imagination running riot. He forced his mind to focus on practical thoughts. “You must not drink from the creek. There’s a well behind the house for clean water.”

      Thomas turned his back on her again and clattered down the steps, as if Lucifer himself was chasing on his heels. Whatever happened between him and his wife—even if she only spent one week on his isolated homestead and left because she could not face a future in such a lonely place—one thing was certain: his life would never be the same again.

      * * *

      Charlotte sank down to the wooden love seat. Disaster screamed at her from every carefully crafted corner of the rustic cabin. She closed her eyes and let Thomas Greenwood’s words, full of pride, echo through her mind.

      Did you see the cookstove? A sigh of regret rustled out of her chest. She wouldn’t have known if the stove had been slotted upside down between the cabinets.

      Grim determination surged inside Charlotte. Her hands fisted so hard her nails dug into her palms. She’d be the perfect wife. While she remained with Thomas Greenwood, she’d ease the harshness of his life. She’d work until her muscles ached and her fingers bled. And before she left, she would make sure the cabin had become a more comfortable home for him.

      Jumping up, Charlotte rushed to the cookstove, an iron monster made pretty by a coat of pale green enamel on the front. “I’m going to call you Vertie,” she said and gave the top a friendly pat. “It comes from vert, the French word for green. And now you’ll have to help me make coffee.”

      She found a tin of coffee on the open shelves, the beans already ground. A big copper pot hung from a peg on the wall. Two steel buckets stood on the counter, one empty, one half full. Rather than risk a musty flavor, Charlotte picked up the empty bucket and set off in search of the well.

      Outside, the sun had dipped below the ridge of the hills and the air was turning cool. Clouds of tiny flies swarmed in the twilight. A pair of blue jays quarreled on the ground, screeching and flapping their wings. Rodents rustled in the undergrowth. It appeared the evening was the rush hour in nature.

      The path rounded the side of the house and led to a stone circle rising from the ground. A crank handle and a spout protruded on the right. Charlotte hung the bucket on a hook under the spout and tentatively yanked the handle. A gurgling noise came from deep within the earth.

      Encouraged, she attacked the pump with vigor. After a moment, a loud rumble erupted, and a jet of water exploded into the bucket with so much force it bounced up, drenching her face and chest.

      A startled cry left her lungs, shattering the evening calm. Charlotte blinked away the droplets clinging to her lashes and mopped her face with her sleeve.

      Down the path, she heard the heavy thud of footsteps heading in her direction. Twigs snapped and birds scattered in fright. She looked up and saw Thomas hurtling through the trees. When he reached her, he gripped her shoulders and towered over her. His eyes roamed her features in a frantic inspection.

      “Are you hurt?” he demanded to know.

      “No.” Laughter rose in her chest. “Only wet. And feeling stupid.”

      “You shouldn’t be doing that.” He released his hold on her and stepped past her to the pump.

      “Yes, I should.” She shoved him out of the way, her hip butting against his rock-hard thigh.

      With a grunt of surprise, Thomas yielded and moved aside.

      “I’m not made of glass, and I’m not made of sugar.” Charlotte cranked the pump handle, taking care to keep her movements slow and measured. When water started spurting out of the pipe, she ducked to avoid the spray from the bucket. “I won’t break if I fall, and I don’t melt if I get wet.”

      She