Mail-Order Bride Switch. Dorothy Clark

want to turn the draft down a bit more when that coal catches fire. It should last you all night on a slow burn.”

      The draft? Her breath caught. How much was “a bit”?

      He started toward the door, and she stepped back.

      His face tightened. He moved close, looked down at her. She stiffened, judged the distance to the bedroom door and wondered if she could run through, slam and lock it before he reached it.

      “You can put down your boots, Virginia. There’s no need for you to run.”

      He reached out and took them from her hand. Her heart lurched.

      “I don’t know what your intended betrothed was like, but I am a man of my word. And I will tell you once again, you have nothing to fear from me. I married because I was forced to do so. Women are fickle and untrustworthy.”

      Her chin jutted. “And men are cruel liars!”

      His eyes narrowed at her response. “So we are agreed. We are not interested in any romantic relationship. Our agreement is a business arrangement for our mutual benefit, not a marriage. Is that clear?”

      She studied his face, tried to read what was in his dark blue eyes and found nothing to cause her to doubt him. “Yes. But it may take me a little time to get over being...nervous.”

      A frown drew his eyebrows down. “In the meantime, don’t act this way in public. In public, we are in love with each other. No one will believe that if they see you backing away every time I come near you.” He glanced down at her boots in his hand. “I’ll put these in the sitting room with your coat and hat.” He strode down the hall and disappeared.

      She listened to the door to the hotel lobby open and close, then turned and hurried into the bedroom she was to have for her own. A chill chased through her. She stepped onto the Aubusson rug that covered most of the polished wood floor, grabbed the smaller valise and lifted it onto the bed nestled in the far corner. She would get her nightclothes, wash up in the dressing room, then lock herself in this bedroom before Garret Stevenson returned. Not that a lock would keep him out if he were determined to get in. He was a strong man. He’d lifted her as if she were a bag of feathers.

      She pulled on her fur-lined slippers and looked around. A wardrobe stood on the hall wall, with a dressing table beside it. It was in a good position, but would be of no use. She could never move that large a piece of furniture. A dresser and rocker sat against the long wall near the entrance. That was better. She could shove the dresser in front of the door and wedge it against the wardrobe if needed. The bed, small nightstand and heating stove, aligned as they were against the rear, outside wall, would be of no help.

      The wind howled and rattled the small panes in the window beside the bed. The pendulum on a wall clock hanging over the dresser ticked off the minutes. She snatched her nightclothes from the bag. Heat radiated from the stove.

      You’ll want to turn the draft down a bit more when that coal catches fire.

      She dropped her garments onto the red-and-cream woven coverlet on the bed, stepped over to the stove and bent to examine it. Where was the draft? The pipe crackled. She looked up, spotted a handle on the side. That must be it. She turned the handle, leaned down and opened the door where Garret had put in the coal to check the fire.

      “Oh! Oh...” She jerked back, coughing and blinking her stinging eyes, and waved her hands to dispel the smoke that puffed out into the room.

      “Close that door!”

      She whirled toward Garret, spun back and grabbed for the handle, touched the door instead. “Ow!” She shoved her fingertips into her mouth, blinked her watering eyes.

      Strong hands grasped her upper arms and lifted her aside. She wiped her eyes, watched Garret close the stove door, then reach up to the pipe and turn the handle. “Why did you close the damper? Don’t you know—” He stopped, turned and peered down at her through slitted eyes.

      She pressed back against the wall.

      “You don’t know.” He stared at her. “Have you ever tended a fire?”

      “Not in a stove.” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin to hide her trembling. “I have added wood to the hearth...on occasion.”

      A sound, something like a muffled grunt, came from him. “It’s a good thing I came back.” He turned to the stove.

      She wiped her eyes, edged toward the door.

      “This is the damper.” He grabbed the handle on the pipe and twisted his wrist. “This is open. Leave it that way.”

      She froze in place when he glanced at her.

      “This is the firebox door...where you add the coal or wood. This is the draft. When it’s open wide the fire burns hot—too hot to be safe if no one is watching it. Adjust it about halfway or below so the fire burns constantly but safely. Turn it lower to keep the fire burning slowly all night. Don’t close it all the way or the fire will go out.” He glanced her way again. “Do you understand?”

      “Yes.” She took a breath. “I do not touch the damper, I add coal and adjust the burn there.” She pointed to the fire box, then quickly hid her shaking hand in her long skirt.

      He nodded, studied her a moment, then strode toward the hall, stopped and looked over his shoulder at her. “I returned because I forgot to tell you the linens for your bed are in the cupboard in the hall. Good evening.”

      He was angry. Was it because she didn’t know how to use the stove? Or because of her reaction to him? The last thing she wanted was to make him angry. Emory Gladen had been charming and treated her well—until she had refused him. And then when she had obeyed her father and agreed to Emory’s suit, the meanness she’d sensed in him had begun to show in subtle ways. He had demanded all her attention at social functions, become angry and cruel if she spoke to another man, even her oldest friends. And when her father had given Emory his blessing to ask for her hand, his subtle cruelties had become worse. And she was made to look foolish by his charming explanations.

      And now she was married to Garret Stevenson. How did she know he wouldn’t be the same?

      She locked the door, sagged against it and listened to his footsteps fade away.

      * * *

      A fine situation he’d gotten himself into! Garret added coal to the heating stove, turned down the draft for a slow burn, stomped out of guest bedroom number one, and entered bedroom number two. He never should have signed that contract! But the lure of free land and free lumber to build with that John Ferndale had offered had reeled him in. He’d saved enough in costs to add a third floor to the hotel and purchase the furnishings. And he’d been certain he could find some way around the marriage clause.

      Ha! He wasn’t as clever as he thought. He’d delayed opening the hotel until his money started running low, hoping he’d find a way. But Ferndale had insisted he fulfill the contract to the letter. The man didn’t care that he was reluctant to marry. He had started counting the days!

      Thirty days to marry or turn his hotel and all its furnishings over to Ferndale. The memory of the posting of a cowboy for a mail-order bride in the New York Sun had saved him from that financial trap. He’d sent out his own postings to the New York City, Philadelphia and Albany newspapers to find a woman who would be interested in a business arrangement instead of a marriage. In two weeks he’d found his answer—Millie Rourk. She had seemed perfect. The maid had agreed to his in-name-only conditions for the marriage, and to cook and clean for his guests for a fair wage. It was perfect! And what had the maid done? Betrayed him. Just as his mother had. Just as Robert’s wife had betrayed him.

      Well, Virginia Winterman would not have that chance. She’d not find any opportunity to go sneaking off and leave him behind to try to find a way to save all he’d worked for. He’d see to that. He had worked and scraped and apprenticed himself to businessmen to get ahead since he was abandoned at ten years old. And he wouldn’t