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

“Oh, what is it?” Hannah, throwing caution to the winds, rushed to kneel at her sister’s side and pleaded anxiously for information. “Are you in pain? Has something happened? Is it starting?”

“No.” The spasm altered into an expression of utter radiance. “Here, Hen. Look. And touch.”

Gentle movements, like a washing-in of the sea upon golden sand, were rippling over the bulky surface of that abdomen. One lusty kick brought a surprised little “Oof!” from both prospective mother and prospective aunt.

Amazed, incredulous, rapturous, Hannah sent her wide-eyed glance upward. “Cam!” she burst out.

“I know. I think he’s not happy, being so confined.”

“You’ve seen this already?” she appealed to Ben.

“Oh, yeah. The little scallywag keeps me awake, of nights. Reckon he don’t much like sharin’ the bed with me, neither.” Although his mood still fulminated, with an almost visible scent of fire and brimstone in the air, a necessary calm was beginning to take hold; and he could only warn his bullheaded wife, as he had so many times, to please not take such foolhardy chances when she had no business doing so.

“Poor old Ben,” Camellia chuckled, sympathizing. “You had no idea when you married me, almost a year ago, just what you’d be getting into, did you, sweetheart?”

His sheltering, sweltering gaze took on a sudden gleam, as if the fervor of his mood had just shifted far south. “Darlin’, I had every idea. But, for now...” He bent, scooped the cumbersome woman up into his arms, and, with a good deal of his own huffing and puffing, managed to make it to the settee. There he gratefully deposited her onto the cushions and ordered her to stay.

“Stay,” muttered Camellia, displeased. “I am not a dog, Benjamin Forrester.”

“Didn’t say you were, honey. Still, I wanna see you sittin’ there when I leave the house, pretty soon, and I wanna see you sittin’ there when I get back. How about some tea? And maybe a nice hot water bottle for that backache I know is botherin’ you?”

The somewhat meager noon meal was nowhere near as elaborate nor as succulent as Camellia, with her acquired skills, might have provided. But between the two of them, Ben and Hannah, they did their best. Ben brewed a pot of coffee; Hannah boiled water for tea. While Ben sliced bakery bread and rummaged around for butter, Hannah scrambled eggs and cold leftover potatoes into an edible dish, and sliced a couple of fresh tomatoes, for good measure.

Camellia was being punished for her earlier shenanigans atop the stepladder. Banished to the parlor settee, she was at least served her repast on a nice tray, complete with napkin and condiments.

Small talk, about all and sundry, got them through dinner.

“And don’t you go gossiping about me,” she advised, at one point. “I’m right here; I can hear every word you say, you know.”

“Well, good,” said Ben, unmoved. “Then maybe you could kindly fill your mouth with edibles, ’steada complaints, so Hannah and I can get a word in edgewise. She said she wanted to check about somethin’ with me, and you been holdin’ us up.”

Turning curiously, to look over her shoulder, Camellia demanded, “Is that true, Hen?”

“It is, indeed. At the time, when Ben suggested coming here to speak in privacy, I didn’t realize it would end up being so complicated.” She chortled and spooned up more eggs. Grappling with her strong-minded sister made for hungry work, but she enjoyed getting back some of her own once in a while.

“Well, can I listen, too?”

“Of course, Cam. And you can even add comments, and voice your opinion. But I do need to keep the information confidential for a while.”

Finished, Ben took up his coffee cup, leaned back into his hard-backed wooden chair, and surveyed her. “All right, Hannah. Fire away.”

Briefly and concisely, Hannah described her last night’s visit to the Table, her chat with Abigail, and Abigail’s astounding announcement about deciding to jump into the town’s politics.

Ben’s denim-clad right leg, crossed easily over the left thigh. returned to the floor with a clunk. “You ain’t serious. She ain’t serious.”

Hannah scowled. “Of course she’s serious. Why wouldn’t she be?”

“Well, b’cause—b’cause she—well, it ain’t right for—I mean—Dagnabbit all, b’cause she’s a woman. She can’t go gettin’ herself elected to the town council!”

“Careful, there, Benjamin. Right now, sitting here, you’re outnumbered, two to one.”

The baby gave a sudden fierce kick that nearly knocked its mother off the settee. “Mercy! I do believe it might be three to one, Hannah. And she doesn’t appreciate her father being so chauvinistic.”

The blank expression on Ben’s rugged face had all the look of betrayal. How dare this infant, child of his loins, consider being born female? “You’re sayin’ that Abigail—the one that owns and runs Table of Contents—that Abigail—”

“Do you know any others in town?” Hannah asked coldly.

“—That she wants a seat to help run Turnabout?”