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

“I do believe I’ve explained all this before. I can’t leave while—”

“Yeah, yeah, while Ollie is out.” Pasting a “Poor me” expression on his face, Gabe glanced around the crowded room. “Well, is there some place in here that the two of us can sit and have some coffee, at least?”

“This is hardly a restaurant. I don’t believe you’ve—”

“Look, if you can’t just lock the dang door and leave, I’ll go get somethin’ and bring it back. I wanna talk to you. You intrigue me, and I would love to get to know you better.”

“If you insist.” Still absorbed with her scissors and paste pot, Hannah gave a vague shrug. “There is a small table and chairs farther around the corner...”

“Perfect.” Gathering his coat more closely together against the frigid outdoor air, Gabe paused at the door to raise one dramatic arm and declaim, like an actor playing Shakespeare on the stage. “Fare thee well, dear maiden. I shall return anon, with foodstuffs galore and every sort of—”

“Sounds fabulous.”

She wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered or exasperated by his persistence. According to town gossip, he spent a good deal of his free time in the secluded area at Table, doing who knew what. Reading? Drinking? Making goo-goo eyes at the luscious store owner? With weather being both uncertain and inhospitable, he need to go no further than Abigail’s welcoming surroundings for the comfort of a roaring fire, a good stogie, sweet nibblies, and the adoring presence of Abigail herself.

“Ha. Here we are.” Cold air blew in with his return, flickering candle flame and meager stove flame alike.

“It’s an ill wind...” murmured Hannah, putting aside all the tools of her trade. She stood, stretched stiffened back muscles, and removed the ugly apron from her somber dark brown dress.

“Much better,” Gabe beamed, looking her up and down. “Where can I put this stuff?”

Taking the twist of her head to indicate direction, he wound his way around and through until he reached a small clear space. A loud “Plonk” sounded as he relieved himself of the wooden box holding whatever had been retrieved from whichever restaurant he frequented.

“Well, c’mon,” he urged, his voice, from behind the stack of equipment and supplies, sounding like an echo of itself. “You hungry, or what? We have a feast here.”

“One moment, please.” Her own voice sounded peevish: a reflection of her mood. “I would like to wash. If that will meet with your approval.”

From the tiny alcove set aside for employees’ use, she could hear the rustle of paper and the clink of dishware as he unwrapped, set out, arranged; a delicious rich aroma ensued. Then there was a, “Hey! What’s this?”

Hannah emerged in a hurry. “What’s what?”

Standing, so that in a display of courtesy he would sit only after she had joined him, Gabe held up a personal letter. “I accidentally picked it up. Didn’t read it. Only saw a tiny bit. Whatcha got goin’ here, Miss Burton?” His eyes twinkled like a forest imp’s as he waved the letter in the air, above her head, beyond her reach. “Some secret admirer?”

Oh, great stars above. She’d been writing off and on throughout the morning, as work allowed for interruptions and as thoughts struck. Then—how foolish. Her project lay forgotten, out for anyone to see. But who could have foreseen that this irritating busybody of a know-it-all might stop by today, with his out-of-the-blue plans for dinner?

She refused to dignify his childish behavior with a grab for what was rightfully hers. Her tone went from frost to ice to North Seas glacial, “Kindly return my property.”

“Why, sure nuff, sugarplum.”

“You can read it. I have nothing to hide.”

“Oh, okay. Just let me glance here—” He pretended to adjust a pair of non-existent spectacles, “—‘Dear Mr. Ualraig’...Why, bless my buttons. That name, that you questioned at Ben’s Christmas party—that wasn’t just drawn out of a hat, after all, was it?”

Her palm stretched out flat in the air, waiting.

“Hang on there...a minute, just a minute...Ah. ‘I have been apprised of your interest in’...Why, Hannah!” Astonished, he stared at her. “A wife? You’re lookin’ to become the wife of some nincompoop you’ve never met or even talked to?”

“Maybe,” she said with a smile. “My correspondence, if you please.”

“Huh.” Gabe was finally chagrined enough to hand it over. Lost in thought, he motioned for her to have a seat while he pushed a cheap earthenware plate her way. “Huh.” Dropping heavily down onto his own rickety chair, as if he hadn’t noticed whether or not one was available, he dug into his portion of beef stew without, for once, paying much attention to what it was that occupied his fork.

She ignored him. Extreme hunger has a way of replacing other thorny issues, and the meal he had procured was certainly satisfactory. For a little while they ate in silence, with only an occasional clatter of cutlery or the scuff of a boot sole across the floor to interrupt. Once, Hannah rose to fetch two enamel cups of coffee, always quietly cooking on the stove’s back burner.

Finally, the doctor ventured, in what was a mood of unusual humility, “I’m sorry for trespassin’ on your privacy, Hannah.”

“Huh.” A word—or sound—from his own vocabulary.

“Uh—so that’s where the name came from that you asked Abby about—a personals advertisement in the newspaper?”