Want Ad Wife. Katy Madison

to a dressmaker’s quiet parlor, where he’d left her while he retrieved her luggage. The soothing darkness of the room and the comfort of a cold glass of lemonade from the matronly, gray-haired Mrs. Ashe had gone a long way toward calming her after the attempted robbery of the stagecoach and the mad dash to town following the exchange of shots that had repelled the thieves.

      But the robbery was no longer on her mind. Selina should have told him her secret—secrets, she should say—but everything had happened so fast. She hadn’t had a moment alone with him. She’d intended to tell him before he married her. Withholding that information wasn’t fair, but it wasn’t the kind of thing to reveal in a letter. She bit her lip. Would he have refused to marry her if he knew about the son she’d left behind in Connecticut?

      He might still repudiate her when he learned. No matter what he’d promised at the altar. A quiver ran through her and she tried to stop shaking.

      Selina wanted to be married. She needed a man to give her a good life. She’d come almost three thousand miles to marry this man she barely knew, and would do anything to make him happy so he wouldn’t abandon her. When her mother had been left on her own, the family had nearly starved. Selina had needed to take a job in a mill, but even that hadn’t been enough to keep the wolves from the door.

      Too many times in the last year she’d thought she’d descend into the hellish life of a woman who had to sell sex to survive. If it wasn’t for her friends Olivia and Anna she might now be walking the streets. A ruined woman with an out-of-wedlock child had few options.

      She would do whatever it took to be married and make her husband want to be with her. It was a man’s world. A woman without a husband was nothing. She would let John kiss her—and, well, the rest of it—just to have a roof over her head where she couldn’t be kicked out. To have regular food and not to have to do anything shameful to get it was worth any price. What she hadn’t expected was to look at him and want him to kiss her.

      Wiping her damp palm against the skirt of the green sprig muslin dress that had been waiting for her on the dressmaker’s form, she tried to slow the pounding of her heart. She hadn’t expected such thoughtfulness. Everything inside her had gone soft when Mrs. Ashe showed her the letters from her good friends that explained how John had managed to arrange to have the dress made for her by secretly requesting her measurements.

      The minister neared the part of the ceremony where her groom would put a ring on her finger.

      This was what she’d wanted for so long, but it felt strange, the moment too ordinary and small to mark the change from fallen woman to respectable wife.

      The minister told her to face John, and she turned. His expression was steady, giving nothing away. He took her hand, his hot fingers searing hers. Then he slid a warm gold band onto her cold finger. She stared down at the bright yellow metal with roses etched into the surface.

      Her throat grew thick, and she blinked rapidly, holding back the sudden rise of tears. The ring was beautiful.

      She had to stop weeping at the slightest provocation, good or bad. Leaving her son behind with an older, childless couple who adored him was the right thing, but an aching, empty hole remained. John deserved a caring, helpful wife. She firmed her shoulders. That was what she’d be: the most helpful, hardworking companion a man could have. This was her fresh start and she was going to make a wonderful new life with this thoughtful, handsome stranger.

      Clasping her hands in his, he rubbed her icy fingers between his palms.

      His kindness undid her.

      The minister pronounced them man and wife and John leaned forward and brushed his firm lips against hers. It was done so quickly she could hardly credit the tingles left in his kiss’s wake.

      “I’ll need you to sign here,” said the minister.

      She took the pen, signed her maiden name for the last time, then handed the pen to her husband.

      He bent over the register and started writing.

      “Your full name,” the minister said.

      John exhaled heavily. Next to Selina Ann Montgomery he wrote out John Park Bench.

      Her eyes jerked to his. “Park Bench?” she echoed.

      “Foundling,” he muttered, as if that explained it all. His mouth tightened.

      Her shoulders lowered and she drew in the first deep breath she’d had in forever. Her icy fear melted away. My goodness, she thought, if he was a foundling, he would likely not cast judgment against her. At least not for the child she’d had. Her husband was kind to her, attractive, and likely to be the one man who wouldn’t cast aspersions on her for having a baby out of wedlock. With his background, thinking she was horrible would be condemning his own mother.

      “I need to get back to the store.” He caught her elbow and steered her down the aisle.

      She barely had time to thank the minister, or Mrs. Ashe and her husband, who had stood witness to their ceremony.

      John opened the church door and they stepped out onto a wooden porch. He led her across the street, guiding her over the ruts dried in the dirt, the peaks chipping off with the summer weather.

      “I didn’t know you were a foundling,” she said. Questions bubbled in her. She was certain in learning of his background she could find a way to tell him of her child.

      His eyes narrowed. “I don’t speak of it.”

      She hurried to keep up with his long strides. “Why ever not?”

      He stopped and turned to face her. His brow knit. “Would knowing have stopped you from marrying me?”

      Had he feared that? A wash of empathy flowed through her. She took a step toward him. “No, of course not.”

      “Then the circumstances of my birth don’t matter. There is no reason to talk about it.” His expression closed.

      She opened her mouth and shut it. There was every reason to talk about it, but he didn’t know why. Somehow to tell him about her situation while standing in the middle of the street didn’t seem right, nor was his tone encouraging.

      If he didn’t want to talk about it, she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. “If anything, knowing only makes my regard for you stronger.”

      He looked away, his eyes seeming very blue in the bright sunshine. “I don’t want your pity.”

      Pity? No, he misunderstood her. But he didn’t know that his being a foundling could only cement their bond. He couldn’t know how relieved she was to know an abandoned baby could grow into a successful, good man. She could put paid to the idea that her own son would never make anything of himself because she’d left him behind.

      John shook his head and then walked away, back the way they had come earlier. Only he was no longer holding her elbow.

      For a second she stared at his back. The bright sunshine was no longer warm.

      “Are you coming?” he called.

      She had to skip to catch up to him. Her stomach echoed the motion.

      Ahead of them, gathered in front of his closed store, was a line. She hoped his wanting to reopen the store was the reason he was in a hurry. If her curiosity about his beginnings perturbed him, she didn’t know how to fix that. But until she told him about the son she’d left in Connecticut, he couldn’t know her curiosity sprang from a sympathetic place, not from shame or pity.

      She’d had enough shame and pity herself. But for the first time she had hope. Hope that John wouldn’t judge her harshly, hope that her son would turn out all right, hope that her new husband wouldn’t abandon her. They had a connection much deeper than either of them could have suspected from their letters.

      * * *

      Once inside his store, John pulled his apron from the hook. Closing the store on the day the stage came in and the day before the