The Substitute Bride (7 page)

“Oh, you’ll find the time.” He gestured at her frock. “That won’t last long hoeing and gathering eggs.”

Hoeing? Whatever that was, it sounded hard. The prospect of doing all those chores weighed her down. “What do you do all day?” she snapped.

“Milk the cow, feed and care for the livestock, work the land from planting through harvest.” He ticked off each chore on his fingers. “Plow the garden so you can plant. I’ve got machinery to mend, the barn to muck, tack to clean and repair and firewood to chop. Now a pair of shoes to make.” He’d used his last finger so he stopped. “Always plenty to do.”

“Can’t you get in some help?”

His expression turned troubled. “I know I don’t have much to offer you, a woman who’s accustomed to a staff waiting on her.”

“Those days are gone.”

“What happened?”

“Bad investments.” She threw a hand over her mouth to stifle a sudden yawn and further questions.

“You’d best get to bed,” Ted said. “The day starts early.”

How early? she wanted to ask but didn’t dare, certain she wouldn’t like the answer. She gathered her purchases. “I’ll say good-night, then.”

He flicked out a section of the paper. “Good night.” He gave her the briefest glance then returned to the farm news.

In the bedroom, she turned the lock, satisfied by the firm
click that followed. Not that Ted had given her reason to fear him. But something about the man made her insides tremble.

She lit a kerosene lamp on the nightstand. An open Bible filled most of the space. Sally had called Ted a godly man and so he appeared. Compared to his untidy kitchen, Ted’s bedroom was immaculate. A chamber pot, dry sink with white pitcher and bowl, even a fresh towel. Under the window sat a black contraption with a spool of white thread on top. A sewing machine—another reminder of all she had to do with no inkling of how to do it.

The bedroom had a chill in the air. Shivering, she didn’t waste time getting into her nightgown, new and soft as down. Inside the chifferobe, she found Ted’s clothes and a few items of women’s clothing, obviously Rose’s. Did Ted still love his wife so much he couldn’t get rid of her things?

She pulled a robe from the hook and tried it on. Though it barely covered her shins, the robe would cover her nightgown in the morning. She didn’t relish donning her soiled dress, especially if she got an opportunity for a bath. But with no bathroom in the house, where would she find privacy?

She sighed and slipped between the sheets. They smelled clean, sweet and fresh. Obviously Ted had managed to change the linens. She stretched out her body, thankful to sleep in a bed.

Long before this, Robby would be tucked in for the night, an extra pillow clutched in his spindly arms, while Martha heard his prayers. She hoped he wasn’t missing her or, worse, crying. Her heart squeezed. To give her brother his dream, she must first find a way to manage Ted’s home and children. Tonight proved she could handle the cleaning. Learning to cook should soften Ted up enough to tell him about Robby.

She had less than a month to become a passable farmer’s helpmate, less than a month to earn the money for two return train tickets. If Mr. Sorenson needed help, she might be able to handle his books.

But how would she get to town?

Who’d take care of Ted’s children so she could get away?

She had plenty of questions, but no answers. She sighed. Take it one step at a time. Tomorrow she’d learn to cook. Martha had tried to interest Elizabeth in the culinary arts, or so the nanny called meal preparation. Up till now, Elizabeth had only one interest in food. Eating it. She suspected that was about to change.

T
he clatter of pans brought Elizabeth straight up in bed. For a second she didn’t know where she was. Then memory hit with the force of a gale wind, tossing her back against the pillows.

She’d awakened in Ted Logan’s house. Married to the man. No doubt that was Ted, her dear, considerate husband, up and raising a ruckus in the kitchen.

Through the curtain, she could see the slightest glow from the rising sun. A rooster crowed, heralding the day. Gracious, why was everyone in such a hurry?

Yawning, she tossed back the covers, slid out of bed, shivering when her bare feet hit the floor. It might be spring but during the night the temperature had dropped. She slipped on the robe, cinched the belt tight and padded to the kitchen. Today she’d prove herself by handling the cooking.

Ted sat at the table, bent over at the waist, pulling on his boots. His thick blond hair showed the tracks of a comb. A sudden urge to run her fingers through the silkiness brought a hitch to her breathing.

Raising his head, Ted took in her attire with a silver-blue
disapproving gaze. He opened his mouth as if to say something and then clamped it shut.

Elizabeth looked down at the robe. “I hope you don’t mind if I wear this.” A war of emotions waged on his face, telling her plenty. She turned to go. “I’ll take it off.”

“No, you need a robe and that’s a perfectly good one.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, seeing you…just surprised me is all.” He jammed his stocking foot into the second boot. “I’m heading out to the barn. Can you manage breakfast?”

“Of course.” She’d handled the dishes, hadn’t she?

“I started the stove and made coffee.” He rose, towering over her, then grabbed a jacket from a hook near the back door and shrugged it on. “I should finish the morning chores in about an hour.”

“Wonderful.” She put on her best smile but the robe fit her far better. “Uh, what do you usually eat?”

“Fried eggs, bacon, biscuits. Nothing fancy.” He tossed the words over his shoulder as he strode out the door.

She sank onto a chair. Eggs, bacon, biscuits? Couldn’t he ask for something that matched her experience? Like cold cereal and milk. Well, she’d drink a cup of coffee to get her brain working, maybe two. Then find a cookbook. And start on the road that led to Robby’s dream.

Martha was a nanny, not a cook, but she’d whipped up plenty of meals. How hard could cooking be?

Butterflies fluttered in her stomach.
Hard
was the arrival of Ted’s children later today. If only she knew a recipe for motherhood.

Two cups of coffee and a roar from Elizabeth’s stomach motivated her to unearth
The Farmer’s Guide Cook Book.
Rose had apparently put the volume to good use, judging by the stains on the cover and looseness of the spine.

Under Breads—Quick, she read, “The ability to make good biscuits has saved the day for many a housewife.”

Well, it better. On page eleven the list of ingredients for baking powder biscuits read like Greek. Flour, baking powder, salt, lard and…sweet milk. What on earth was sweet milk?

Inside the cabinet near the pantry door, she found the baking powder and lard. The flour had to be here somewhere. Pulling back a sliding panel, she discovered a metal contraption with a spout at the bottom and a wire sticking out from the side. She gave the wire a couple flips and a volcano of white poured onto the work surface, soaring into the air and onto the front of Rose’s robe.

Elizabeth sneezed then sighed. She’d get to the mess later. Maybe when Ted came in the back, a big gust of wind would blow through and send the flour out the front door.

Yeah, that was about as likely as Papa giving up gambling.

Rummaging through the doors and drawers, she dug out a large brown crockery bowl, measuring cups and spoons, then washed her hands.

The ever-helpful cookbook read, “Sift together 2 cupfuls flour and 4 teaspoons baking powder with half teaspoonful salt.” Sift? Did that mean mix? She shrugged and scooped flour off the work surface into the cup then dumped it into the bowl. Twice.

“Add 2 tablespoonfuls lard and work well with tips of fingers.”

Ew. Whose fingertips?

She sighed. No one here but her.

The clock ticked away at an alarming speed. Best get it over with. With one hand, she attacked the lard, squeezing it through her fingers. It stuck, seeped under her nails until her hand looked like a dough ball. She tried to scrape it off with her other hand, but the mixture stuck to that hand, too. Her stomach somersaulted. Cooking was nasty.

The clock struck behind her. A half hour until Ted returned.

She’d better get the rest in. Add seven-eighth’s cup sweet milk. Well, cow’s milk with lots of sugar would have to do. She grabbed the pitcher from the icebox, guessed how much less than a cup she needed then added sugar. She tried to stir it into the flour mixture with a spoon but resorted again to her fingers. The dough had become a gummy, thick mess.

She read, “Roll lightly to half inch in thickness and cut any size desired. Bake 15 minutes.” Thankfully, they wouldn’t take long to bake.

She grabbed up the blob and plopped it on the floury work surface, sending more flour into her face. Her nose itched. She ran the back of her hand across it.

The door opened. “I forgot to mention that you’ll need to feed the fire so—” His eyes widened. “What happened to you?”

She followed Ted’s gaze first to her robe, dusted with white, then to the planks in front of the cabinet where she could plainly see her tracks in the flour. She swiped her hands over her middle, then rubbed a hand over her cheek. “The flour bin exploded.”

A grin curved across his face. His light blue eyes sparkled with humor. He let out a chuckle that became a howl. “Looks like you’ve been in a pillow fight and you lost,” he said, once he got himself under control.

“You should’ve seen my opponent,” she said with a toss of her head.

He chuckled again. “You missed some. Here.” He stepped closer and brushed the tip of a finger along her jaw, sending tingles down her neck, dispelling every trace of mirth between them. “And here.” He moved to a spot on her cheek.

Their gazes locked. Something significant passed between them, drawing her to Ted like filings to a magnet. Her spine turned to jelly while Ted lurched toward the wood box, grabbed a log, fed the fire and, without a backward glance, headed to the barn.

Disoriented, as if cobwebs filled her brain, she struggled for
her composure. What had just happened? Whatever it was, she wouldn’t let it occur again. If she hoped to bring Robby here and find a modicum of peace, she’d need to keep her wits. And hang on to her heart.

Returning to the task, she laid her hands in the flour then rolled the dough around until it took the form of a loaf of bread. Using a large knife with a razor-thin blade, Elizabeth whacked off slices, making some thick for Ted, others thin for Anna and Henry.

What to bake them on? She opened and closed cabinets until she found a metal pan. With her finger she drew a daisy on a few. Once she got the hang of it, cooking was kind of fun.

She washed the mess off her hands, not an easy task, then picked up the pan of biscuits, a feast for the eyes. She grabbed the knob on the oven door, almost dropping the pan. First rule to remember—stove handles are hot.

Once she’d safely tucked the biscuits inside, she wrapped her hand in a wet dishrag and tied a knot in it with her teeth. She rummaged in the icebox, emerging with a crock of eggs and a slab of bacon.

By the time Ted hit the back door the second time, she had the bacon and eggs draining on a platter and the bottom-burned biscuits pried from the pan and piled on an oval glass plate that read “Bread is the staff of life.”

Well, this batch had nearly killed her.

Ted washed up at the sink then wiped his hands, smiling at her. “Smells good in here.” His expression turned wistful. “I’m starved.”

Something suggested he meant more than his stomach. Elizabeth hurried to the table, putting as much distance between them as she could, and wilted into her chair. To sit at the table with Ted, just the two of them alone in the house, had her feeling tauter than an overwound clock.

She’d been up a little over an hour but felt she’d worked half the day. She took in the floury mess and smears of dough on the handles of the cabinets. Tippy wouldn’t relish lapping up this.

Ted bowed his head and gave thanks for the food and this time Elizabeth remembered to wait for prayer before diving in.

He picked up the platter and scooped two eggs and four slabs of bacon onto his plate. After pulling off the undersides of two biscuits, he buttered the salvageable parts.

“Remember to put the bottoms in the slop jar. The pigs will be glad to get them.”

Maybe Ted hadn’t meant anything by it, but more than likely she should feel insulted. She would if she had the energy.

He raised a bite of egg to his lips and chewed, then caught her watching. Nodding, he turned up the corners of his mouth, lifting a weight from her shoulders.

With enthusiasm, she took a bite, only to find the egg much too salty. When she cut into the side meat, one end shattered into a hundred pieces while the other wiggled beneath her fork. Even minus the burned bottoms, the biscuits tasted terrible, bitter in spots and hard as stones.

Her shoulders sagged. Nothing resembled their cook’s food in Chicago. Or Martha’s, once she took over the household.

Ted took another bite, grimaced and swallowed. “Not bad,” he said gallantly, and then cleaned his plate.

The man had a strong stomach. She’d give him that.

“Why not be honest?” Elizabeth said. “The breakfast is terrible.”

Ted took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I won’t criticize the answer to my prayers.”

“How do you know I’m the answer to your prayers when I’m not the woman you planned to marry?”

He released her hand and studied her, probably wondering how to quickly retract his statement as he had his hand. “I’ll
admit the switch threw me at first. But God’s given me a sense of peace about our marriage.”

“What do you mean by a sense of peace?”

“God laid a gentle hand on my spinning thoughts, calming them like He did the Sea of Galilee. Like Peter, I felt called to take a step out of my boat and onto the water with Him.”

Whatever was Ted talking about?

“I’ll get the Bible and read that passage.”

No doubt he’d seen on her face the confusion she felt.

He disappeared, returning with the Bible. “I always start my day with Scripture. The story is found in Matthew.”

The words Ted read of Jesus calming the Sea and Peter walking to Him on the water were spoken with a reverence that stabbed at her conscience and filled her with longing for more.

When he’d finished, Ted met her gaze. “The words Jesus spoke to Peter came to me at the parsonage, not audibly, but just as real. ‘O Thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?’ And I knew no matter how bad it looked, I wasn’t to doubt that you were the one…the answer to my prayers.”

Elizabeth had never connected stories in the Bible with her life. She could identify with Peter sinking beneath those waves. But how she could be the answer to anyone’s prayers baffled her.

“Walking on the water isn’t comfortable. May even feel like lunacy,” Ted said.

Tears filled her eyes and she glanced away.

He cupped her chin with his palm and turned her face to his. “You and I are out of our boats, Elizabeth. Two very different boats, I might add.” He smiled at her. “No matter how afraid we feel, God’s help is only a ‘Save me’ prayer away. He’ll stretch out His hand and never let us sink.”

If only Elizabeth shared Ted’s confidence. God might save him, but God didn’t listen to her. If He did, surely He could have found an easier way to give Robby a home.

Ted laid the Bible aside and rose to get his boots. “I gathered the eggs for you this morning.”

Relief swished through her. “Thank you.”

“The egg money is yours. You can keep whatever Sorenson’s paying.”

“Really?”

“Tomorrow morning I’ll introduce you to the chickens, give them a chance to get used to you.”

“Get used to me?”

“They can peck your fingers if they’re nervous. Or worse, stop laying.” He grabbed his coat. “I appreciate the meal. A man has to eat to work.”

But the words he didn’t say, the words Elizabeth discerned—that her cooking didn’t measure up to Rose’s—hung between them. Most likely chafing against that peace he had about their marriage. How could Ted believe she was the answer to his prayers?

He buttoned his denim jacket. “I’ll get more wood for the box,” he said, then left the kitchen in a rush.

Elizabeth took another bite, choked it down then shoved her plate away, tears springing to her eyes.

She didn’t blame him.

She’d leave, too…if she had somewhere to go.

Stomach rolling in protest at the meal grinding away inside, Ted gathered up an armload of firewood from the huge mound he’d stacked in even rows against the shed. From Elizabeth’s expression earlier, Ted suspected she remained unconvinced that their marriage was God’s plan.

He suspected she didn’t know much about The Word and even less about listening for God’s quiet voice. But she’d soaked up the Scriptures he’d read like a woman hungry for their comfort.

Probably desperate for reassurance that she hadn’t made
the biggest mistake of her life. If so, he couldn’t blame her disquiet. She had far more adjustments to make than him.

Back in the kitchen, he found Elizabeth at the sink, doing dishes. She might be slower than sorghum, but he found her jaunty profile appealing. And when she wasn’t scowling at him, her smile warmed a man better than a hot brick at the foot of a bed on a cold winter night.

He dumped the wood into the bin then stepped outside for another load. Elizabeth followed behind, broom at his heels, sending flour, straw and dirt onto the stoop. Hustling back inside, she returned with a dustpan. Using one hand to hold the pan and the other the broom, she swept the debris into the dustpan, looked around, then shrugged and tossed the contents into the lilac bushes alongside the stoop.