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She twisted to look over her shoulder. “Then won’t we be able to take care of everyone faster if I help you?”
“It won’t get us alone any sooner.”
For a second she just stared at him, her smile frozen. Her smile cracked and fell from her face. She clasped her hands in front of her, holding the fingers of one hand tightly.
His collar tightened on his neck. No, he didn’t expect she wanted to be alone faster or for the same reason. He would just have to keep his eagerness in check.
Her eyes dipped, but then her chin firmed and tilted up. “Come now, it can’t be that hard compared to the work I did in the mill.” She tilted her head and her voice turned cajoling. “I could sort the mail for you.”
A couple of other men stepped up to the counter. No doubt they wanted to know if they had any mail. Trying to convince her to go upstairs delayed helping them even longer.
“Have no fear, I won’t expect you to cook or clean just because I spend time in the store,” she stage-whispered conspiratorially. “Truly, I just want to help.”
Why in the world would she want to take on more work when he’d said she didn’t need to? He scuttled a half-dozen reasons almost as fast as they popped into his mind. Rather than wanting to be with him, or get onto the business of marriage, she most likely just didn’t want to be alone. She had been through a horrific experience earlier in the day with the stage holdup and shooting. Had Selina been terrorized? “Are you all right?”
Her gaze darted down and away. His heart kicked hard. If she wasn’t all right, he had no idea what to do. He could make conversation with strangers all day long, even offer sympathy for a plight—but he had no knowledge about how to comfort a wife.
He could kiss her, but that could make matters much worse. Especially since it was broad daylight and his store was full. And while he’d take a great deal of comfort from kissing, he didn’t expect she’d see it in the same light.
“I’m fine,” she said in a way that left him skeptical. “Thank you for being so protective of me. I do appreciate it.”
But he didn’t want to dig too deeply into her state of mind. When she’d looked over his shoulder as if searching for someone else after he’d stepped forward to introduce himself, he hadn’t been surprised. No one had ever chosen him. But if she’d hoped for a better man, he didn’t want to know. He sure as hell didn’t want to see her toss aside his apron if some superior specimen came into his store to woo her.
“All right. If you want to sort the mail, I suppose that will help.” He guided her back into the store, showed her the eighteen cubbyholes for the mail and explained his system.
“Mr. Bench,” nagged one of the customers. “I need half a pound of lard, five pounds of flour and a pound of salt.”
“I’ll be right with you.”
Selina pulled a handful of letters from the canvas mailbag and began reading the names.
John stared at the white stripe of skin under the heavy bun on the back of her head. Would she like kisses there? It would be hours before he could find out. Having her so close would be torture.
“If you come across anything for Pete Olsen, that would be me,” said the miner still leaning against the counter.
“I’ll let you know, Mr. Olsen,” she said in an even, pleasant tone. “But I better get to sorting so it gets done.”
She turned her back on the leering man.
Breathing a sigh of relief that she sounded normal and seemed to understand there was a fine line between discouraging attention and being rude, John spread out a length of paper and scooped flour onto it. Hell, he was just glad she was not encouraging the miner. She could have been a hussy or worse. Did he dare to hope that their marriage might be more congenial than he’d envisioned? That they might do more than come to like each other?
As he lifted the paper onto the scale, Selina bent for another handful of letters. Her backside bumped him. He nearly jumped right out of his Sunday-best suit. Flour showered over the floor and counter.
She swiveled and said, “Excuse me.”
Heat pounded through him. His response to the brush of their bodies was worse than spilling a bit of flour. He fought for control. Breathing hard, he scooped out more flour to replace what littered the floor.
Grasping at the ordinary and normal motions of running his store, he reached to put the paper on the scale and very nearly dropped the flour bundle as Selina darted under his arm and scraped the counter clean.
“Damn it,” he muttered, and then winced. He shouldn’t curse around his wife. Usually he didn’t around ladies.
Her face pinked. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right,” he managed to reply between gritted teeth. He only hoped his response to their backsides touching was hidden by his apron. He wasn’t used to having anyone behind the counter with him, let alone a beautiful woman. Who was his wife.
Her scent flooded his brain. He forgot how much flour he was supposed to be packaging.
In just a few hours he could touch her and kiss her more thoroughly than the entirely unsatisfactory kiss after their wedding. But he couldn’t function while he practically vibrated with need because she was so close.
Her head ducked. “I’ll sweep it up.”
“Go unpack.” He pointed. “Now.”
Her eyebrows drew together, and her mouth flattened. For a second he thought she might protest, but she cast a glance toward Olsen, gave a shake of her head and then moved through the door to the back room. Her spine was stiff and her chin high.
“Now you’ve done it,” said Olsen.
Yeah, John rather suspected he’d not gotten off to the best start with his new wife.
Chapter Two
My name is Selina Montgomery. I am the oldest of five. After my father passed I began working in a cotton mill, as my mother couldn’t afford to take care of all of us.
I live in a boardinghouse with my two close friends and fellow mill girls, Anna and Olivia.
I am a hard worker, frugal and of a generally cheerful nature. I get along with most everyone and make friends easily. My closest friends would describe me as determined and practical.
Selina scrubbed the brush across the cold stove surface and pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen loose from her bun. She had no idea when John might be finished in the store, but she didn’t dare go ask him. If he wanted her to clean and take care of their home, then that was what she’d do. She would have, anyway. But she’d thought if she showed him how much she was willing to help in every way, he’d be glad of it—of her.
But he’d been gritting his teeth, likely to hold back anger, when he’d told her to go unpack. That she’d angered him so soon after becoming his wife had her heart twisting and her stomach churning. Granted, it was mostly her fault the flour had spilled. But surely he had to recognize it was an accident.
She hadn’t realized she would bump him when she bent over. She’d known he was behind her, but she’d been trying very hard to sort the mail as quickly and efficiently as possible. She didn’t want him thinking he’d married a lazybones. She intended to become so invaluable to him that he’d never regret marrying her.
Since she’d been banished to their living quarters, she’d cleaned every surface in his—now their—stifling hot apartment. The place had been neat and swept, but since he kept insisting her place was taking care of the house, she presumed he wanted her not to merely unpack, but to start in on housekeeping.
She heard a steady thump, thump, which could be John walking up the stairs or a hammer working in the distance. All day long she’d heard the sounds of new construction, the clicking of the myriad windmills, the creak and clop of wagons passing in the street. Too many times already she’d thought it was John ascending the stairs to call her back, but it never was.
In spite of her dismissal of the noise, her heart raced. Still, she wouldn’t run to the door and peer down the stairs to see if he was coming. She’d done that once, to see him stacking crates in the storeroom. He’d looked up at her, but hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t smiled. Hadn’t taken a step toward her. She’d simply left the door open and returned to scrubbing the floor.
“What are you doing?” he asked from the doorway.
“Settling in,” she said flatly.
He stood in his white shirt, the sleeves folded back, exposing sinewy forearms. Her eyes were drawn to the long length of his legs under his black trousers. Her breath caught and her knees threatened to buckle if she left the support of the stove.
His head turned, but his eyes stayed on her for a second before he looked around the room. The space was large, probably three times the size of the room she, Anna and Olivia had shared in the boardinghouse back in Connecticut. A bed was in the back, a small sofa and an overstuffed chair in the middle, then the table she’d covered with an embroidered cloth stood nearest the stairs.
“Everything is sparkling.” His brows drew together. “You didn’t have to spend all afternoon cleaning.”
Was he displeased with her efforts? Just what had he expected her to do, twiddle her thumbs all afternoon? “I am in the habit of working, not sitting idle.”
His eyes came back to her, but he’d yet to step into the room.
Suddenly unable to stand still, she swiped a towel across the stove surface, wiping the suds away. A good wife would cross the room and welcome her husband home with a kiss.
“I didn’t want you to work on your wedding day,” he said.
“You did.” Had he expected her to laze about, waiting for him to finish for the day? She couldn’t stand to do nothing, because then she would think of the son she’d left behind.
John’s shoulders lifted. “I would have lost too much custom if I closed the store. Tomorrow will be the same until the packet ship leaves for San Francisco. In the afternoon, I can show you the ropes.”
“Did I do so badly sorting the mail?” she asked, drying her hands.
Was he waiting for her to greet him in the doorway? He’d yet to step inside. She just couldn’t bring herself to close the space and offer up a kiss. She’d wanted a different start, too. She’d expected to be carried over the threshold the first time she entered her new home as a new bride, but that hadn’t happened, either.
“It, uh, no.” His face darkened. “You’re a great distraction.”
She had no idea what he meant. “I’m sorry?”
“I couldn’t concentrate on orders with you so close. You’re—you’re so...such a beauty.”
It took her a second to realize he’d complimented her. In an odd way it almost felt like an accusation of intentional disruption, but then the very awkwardness of it convinced her that he was sincere. Warmth crept under her breastbone.
His face screwed up. “I knew you were pretty from your picture, but I didn’t realize how pretty until you were standing beside me in the church.”
The corners of her mouth curled. “Took you that long?”
He smiled back and the tightness in her neck eased away. If only being pretty was enough to keep a man around. Her mother had been pretty, but that hadn’t kept her father from abandoning them and leaving them destitute.
“I think we’ve gotten off to a bit of a bad start,” she offered. “Perhaps we should begin anew.” Men weren’t always clear in their speech. She knew that. Otherwise she never would have been in the predicament she’d been in, where she’d had no choice but to do horrible things to survive. So it was up to her to try and bridge the gap. She took a step toward him. “You said you’d arranged for our supper?”
He nodded and stepped into the room. “Let me wash up and then we can go to the hotel.”
That was the crux of it. Marrying someone you knew only from letters was awkward, and they were both feeling their way.
* * *
After a short walk through the streets, John led Selina into a large white building with marble floors and flocked wallpaper. The hotel was barely a year old, he told her as she looked around with wide eyes. He wondered if she’d expected Stockton to be as uncivilized as the rest of the West. There were still differences between California and back East, but Stockton was quickly becoming just as modern as any city in the world, maybe even more modern, because there weren’t any old buildings, and only a handful built more than a dozen years earlier.
Before he could say boo, they were being shown into a large dining room with a few men—properly dressed men—sitting at various tables. Most of them watched Selina, although she didn’t seem to notice as she commented on how elegant the dining room looked in a hushed, reverent voice.
The maître d’hôtel showed them to a linen-covered table in an alcove. He lit a candle in the center of the table next to a spray of flowers, congratulated them on their marriage and promised their waiter would arrive shortly.
In short order a plate of bread and butter was on the table, bowls of tomato soup were in front of them and wine filled their glasses.
Selina pulled her napkin into her lap.
The first course conversation was little more than a polite exchange of strangers. All John could think about was that after dinner they would return home and go to bed, and he couldn’t seem to find a decent conversational gambit to save his life. He would have to do better with the entrée.
The waiter cleared her mostly full bowl of soup with a frown and set their main dish on the table. If she hadn’t liked the soup, John hoped the chicken and the chilled cabbage salad would go better.
“It smells heavenly,” she said.
“I hope you don’t mind, but chicken is a safer bet this time of year.” The last thing he wanted was his wife suffering from a sour stomach on their wedding night because the meat had turned.
“It is exactly right,” she said with a nervous smile.
Their conversation seriously needed to improve or they would dance around real topics all night. Maybe she had something in mind. “Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”
“I want to know everything about you,” she said brightly. “Where were you born?”
His birth was the last thing he wanted to talk about, but he had given her the opening she likely had been waiting for. “I assume Boston. That is where I was found.”
“And did you have a family?”
His stomach clenched as if he’d been punched. What an absurd question. He set his fork down with a thump. “What part of I was a foundling do you not understand?”
She reached across the table and put her hand on his. Her touch jolted him. “I am your wife. Don’t you think I should know about your history? I would like to know all about you. And I have something to tell you that only those closest to me know. We shouldn’t have any secrets.”
She was reaching out to touch him, which augured well for the wedding night. Her hand rested lightly on his, but it made his pulse jump. Somehow he pulled his mind back to the matter at hand. “It isn’t a secret. I’d just rather not talk about it. I’ve tried to put those years behind me.”
She patted his hand. The effect of her touch faded. “I just thought a family might have adopted you.”
He stared at her. “No, my bitch of a mother made sure that would never happen.”
Selina jerked her hand back as if his words had burned her. Her face went white.
He regretted using such a crude and ugly word to describe the woman who’d given birth to him as soon as it left his mouth. He looked around to make certain no other diner had heard, but no doubt his foul language shocked her. She needn’t worry. His venom was reserved for the woman who’d left him on a city park bench as if he was trash. He didn’t want to discuss it, or think about it, especially not now.
“How can you speak so about your mother?” she whispered.
He sighed. Damn it, he wanted a smooth wedding night.
He’d hoped for a congenial dinner, a leisurely stroll back to the store and an early bedtime. Or perhaps sitting beside her on the settee for a spell, talking about anything but his miserable childhood. He was doing a lousy job of setting his bride at ease.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have used such language around you.” He dragged out his words to show his anger wasn’t at her. And it was far from the worst name he’d called that woman. The sentiment was what it was, but he didn’t usually voice it.
He supposed he should have expected curiosity once Selina learned his full name. Obviously she wouldn’t let this subject rest until she knew the whole of it. She was his wife; he owed her the truth. He pulled on the mantle spun by years of pretending it didn’t matter.
“I spent my first nine years in an orphanage. Then I was apprenticed to a shopkeeper for six years.” More like enslaved by a shopkeeper. The man had owned him, worked him eighteen hours a day and given him only a pile of empty sacks to sleep upon. John could talk about it coldly and rationally, even though the wound festered like a canker deep inside him. “But as for the woman who bore me, she wasn’t much of a mother, was she? She left me to freeze to death.”
“You don’t know that,” said Selina. She ducked her head. “She could have watched until you were found.”
He pulled his hands into his lap and rubbed his thighs under the table, out of her view. “The man who came along wouldn’t have noticed me except I was crying, and he didn’t see anyone around. He looked.”
John relayed the details as he’d been told them. He’d even gone to the place where he’d been left, back when he’d been searching for a place to belong, before he understood there never would be a family for him.
If anything, Selina went whiter. She stared at him, her eyes like dark pools in her face. “Surely, your mother was just trying to make certain you were cared for. She probably couldn’t care for you herself...”
“No, she was trying to get rid of me.” His stomach burning, he leaned back and folded his arms. “I doubt if she cared if I lived or died. She probably just didn’t have the spine to throw me in the bay and live with the certainty of it.”
Selina shook her head slowly, as if she were in shock. She leaned forward. “Don’t you think she was likely an unfortunate young woman who...who may have been abandoned by her beau or—”
“No. There isn’t any fairy tale here. Just a heartless whore who saw me as a burden.”
Selina squeaked faintly, like a small kitten. He examined her stricken face. Was she too softhearted to understand there were evil people in the world? Or was she merely appalled that his mother was a whore?
At least her questions had pulled back his lust to a manageable buzzing. He still wanted her, but with her mouth otherwise occupied.
“Maybe she couldn’t afford to take care of you. Maybe she was trying to prevent you from starving. Maybe she was trying to ensure you had a better life than she could give you. She might not have had family or friends to help her.” Selina’s brows drew together as she persisted in ignoring the obvious conclusion.
Granted, it had taken him years to realize the truth. But if the woman who had borne him had meant well by him, his surname would be Church or Station, where he would have been sheltered inside and was certain to have been found. She also wouldn’t have left the torn-in-half playing card on him, which ensured no family would adopt him for fear she’d be back to claim him. “No good woman would ever abandon her baby, no matter what her circumstances.”
Selina gasped.
That she wanted to find an excuse for his abandonment or simply couldn’t accept that a woman would throw away a child was sweet, even as it poked at raw places inside him.
“No excuse you could make for her will change my mind. Now are we done talking about my past?” He picked up his fork and stabbed a piece of chicken. He would do anything to turn the conversation, and most people loved to talk about themselves. “What is it that you wanted to tell me?”
Color rushed back into Selina’s skin, and her eyes widened. She shook her head. Averting her face, she stared at the window across the dining room.
“Now you don’t want to tell me.” Was she already thinking this marriage a mistake?
Her head jerked back in his direction; her gaze darted to his and then down to her plate. She swallowed audibly. “It is just that I was engaged to another man before I wrote you.”
Her voice was high and thready.
His spine knotted. Was this the flaw he anticipated? He’d known better than to hope. “And?”
“He married another girl, whose father promised him a job.” Selina twisted her fingers together.
“His loss then,” said John.
Her gaze lifted. He’d hoped for a smile, but she chewed her lip. She still had one set of fingers clenched in her other hand. There was more to this confession. Perhaps she had allowed her fiancé liberties she shouldn’t have. If that was it, John really didn’t want to know. His hands balled. “Would you rather be with him?”
Her jaw dropped, then she shook her head. “I don’t think I loved him, but I thought I did then. I just wanted to be married.”
“Well, you are married now. To me.” John didn’t care, really. Still his gut churned. “Selina, I don’t need to know anything more about him. You are my wife now and the past is the past. We don’t need to dredge it up.”
She shook her head, but stared at her untouched plate of food.
He didn’t look back at his past, and he didn’t examine other people’s pasts too closely. “Lots of people in California fled unpleasant lives back East.”
Her lips flattened and her hand fluttered as she creased her napkin. Was she disappointed in what she’d found here? Disappointed in him?
He needed to reassure her, but he was off-kilter from her questions, which exposed his raw underbelly first off. His throat went dry. “I will give you a good life.”
Her lips smiled, but her eyes didn’t. “You already have.”
What he’d given her seemed puny. By eastern standards his store was tiny and crudely built, the goods he carried minimal. Nor had he provided a house. He tensed. “In a couple of years, we’ll build a home. Close to the store. We don’t have to live above it forever.”
“Living above the store is convenient, though, isn’t it?” She earnestly leaned forward. “Your living quarters seem quite large. I lived in a much smaller space with Olivia and Anna.”
He had no idea if she was being honest or trying to be kind instead. “For the two of us, perhaps, but when we start having children...”
Her eyes shut. Her lips pressed together and her chin quivered. What now?
A stone dropped through his stomach. He stared at her, trying to understand what her sudden distress meant. “Don’t you want children?”
“Yes, oh yes!” The words gushed out of her as if she couldn’t stop them. But then maybe she thought he needed reassuring, since his own mother had abandoned him. Selina was the most confounding creature.
“Good.” All his life he’d wanted to belong. He’d never have parents or siblings, but he could have a wife and children. “I’ve always wanted my own family.”
She blanched. Her hand shook as she tried to raise her glass, the stem clinking on the edge of her plate. She set the wine back down on the table without taking a sip and drew her hands into her lap. Her eyes dropped and her lips trembled.
The tension was rising like the river when it had crested its banks last winter. The water had crept up and up until it had sloshed over his toes while he’d rushed to get all his goods off the floor of the store. He’d carried a thousand loads up the stairs, not knowing when the floodwaters would stop rising.
If it wasn’t the children, she must be scared of the act of procreation, and here he could think of nothing else. He didn’t know what to say to calm her except to offer to give her time, but he didn’t want to do that. He wanted his wedding night to be a wedding night. He’d waited too long for her to make the journey to him.
He carefully cut a piece of chicken from the bone, so she’d know he was civilized. The orphanage’s patroness had insisted they learn proper manners. “Now eat.” He almost said because she’d need her strength later, but given how frightened she looked, that would likely scare her worse. “You said you were hungry.”