Mail Order Bride: Winter (Bride For All Seasons 4)

“Yeah, Buddy is with me every step of the day. I even take him down to the Mercantile.”

“Ben doesn’t mind?”

“Nope.” Reese grinned. “Said if he’d thought about it, he’da got himself one, too. But he figures a new baby in the house will be about all the changes he’ll be able to handle, for a while.” Soft laughter and a few chuckles followed this frank observation.

“I heard that,” said his brother, reaching for Camellia’s cup. “If you recall, I added that we’d look into gettin’ us a good dog once the youngster is old enough. I think you maybe are startin’ a trend, Reese. Reckon Paul will be next. In fact, I’ve caught him headin’ over to the stable a couple times, wantin’ to see them pups.”

Someone asked Letty if she were still working with the doctor, her being a new wife and all. The intimation was that surely she would have enough to do, taking care of a house and a husband, without traipsing around dealing with nasty sick people.

“Oh, yes,” she assured the questioner—Grace Ellen, as it turned out, who ought to have enough to do herself, what with running a family and the Ladies’ Aid. “Gabe wants me to keep working in his practice, and I’ve learned so much. I’m really grateful that he’s been willing to help me progress as far as I have.”

From an area near the open kitchen, Gabriel, hearing this, snorted and replied to the company at large. “No helpin’ about it. She just barged right into my office one day and laid out her proposition, and I didn’t have no choice in the matter. These Burton gals—they are a handful.” He wasn’t looking in Hannah’s direction when he spoke, but he might as well have done.

“That’s a fact, all right,” agreed Reese, grinning at his own Burton gal. “Yep, sure bent on gettin’ their own way,” said Paul, clasping Molly’s hand. “Yank the bit between their teeth, and they’re off and runnin’,” was Ben’s response, with a wink for Camellia.

More laughter, more banter, as these Burton gals found themselves the center of teasing attention. Thanks to Gabe, once again.

From there, the talk turned to idle gossip about the town: quizzing for the Mayor as to this or that relevant issue (the subject of going “dry” on Sundays having been tabled indefinitely); concerns expressed about the physical and mental state of Lawrence Pope, whose funeral for his wife and baby had taken place some three weeks prior (with Doctor Havers fearing aloud that the man seemed to live halfway between exiling himself at the farm as a hermit and frequenting every saloon in town as a falling-down drunk); inquiries about the time set for special church services during the Christmas season. More importantly, questions about which items would be on sale at Forresters’ for gifts and goodies.

“Nothin’,” said Gabe, tongue in cheek, “like gettin’ in a little free advertisin’.”

Sam Tucker, a quiet man who managed the stagecoach line (and occasionally drove one leg of the trip between Roundabout and Manifest), mentioned that a couple of robberies had been executed within the last few months.

“Just wonderin’ what the law is doin’ about it, Sheriff? Won’t have nobody takin’ the stage if they have to worry about safety.”

“We’re workin’ on the problem, Sam,” Paul said. In his calm, stolid way, he continued diligently applying himself to a healthy portion of peas in mint sauce. No matter how exercised on the inside he might be about some criminal problem, his exterior remained the same. “Got some leads that my deputies and I have been followin’ up. As I told you the last time you asked.”

“Yeah, come on, Sam, this is a party, remember? We ain’t gonna discuss anything serious. Who wants more wine?”

Linus Drinkwater cheerfully lifted his glass. The hotel’s owner had come prepared to join the nearest thing to high society of which Turnabout could boast, in a rich paisley smoking jacket and charcoal gray flannel trousers. “I do believe I shall partake.”

“Well, there you go, then.” Even wearing dress shoes, Ben couldn’t help clumping across the floor as if still he were still in his everyday heavy boots. “Anybody else?”

In the lull, while extra servings were poured for everyone who wished them, Hannah, seated with both the Tuckers and Abigail, finally was able to mention the subject of that strange name she had turned up—without divulging its location, or purpose.

“Ualraig?” questioned Abigail doubtfully. “Not something I’m familiar with, I’m afraid. In reference to what, Hannah?”

“Oh, just something I ran across somewhere.” With a sip of the excellent claret, her answer was deliberately vague. “I was just wondering if anyone had ever heard the word before.”

“I’m not even sure how anyone would pronounce it.”

“Walrick.”

Abigail turned toward the table a short distance away, where Gabriel, with an air of extreme innocence, was chomping away at his cranberry relish. “I beg your pardon?”

“That’s how it’s pronounced. It’s a man’s name—Gaelic. Where did you say you’d seen it?” He swiveled sharply to Hannah, and their gazes locked with such sudden intensity that a fistful of lightning bolts seemed to gather force in the pit of her stomach to send electric sparks shooting out along every nerve.

“Uh—I didn’t say, actually. Just something listed at the newspaper.”

“Huh.” He looked her up and down for a moment, seemed about to say more—in dispute of her word, probably—then abruptly subsided and went back to his salad.

“So.” Abigail, in an attempt at playing peacemaker, smiled. “There you are. Walrick.”

Mystery solved. Hannah, having been served her portion of fruit cake and macaroons for dessert, picked up a fork. As far as she was concerned, she had had all the interaction with Dr. Havers for one evening that was tolerable. No need for more.

Except that, when everything was finished, and everything had been cleared away, and more wine was being passed around (and beer for those few with a more plebian palate), Molly decided a singalong of Christmas carols was in order.

“I’ve no piano available,” she admitted, dimpling, “but I can certainly help get us all started.”