Mail Order Bride: Springtime (Bride For All Seasons 1)

They must make a fresh start. Mail order or not, she was his bride, and she deserved to be treated accordingly, with respect and approval and consideration. If he took the first step, maybe she would follow along, and they could put this devastating quarrel to rest.

Pondering over what they two could accomplish together, he was more anxious than ever to get home. What had she been doing while he was gone? How had she kept occupied? Shame on him for not being concerned about her well-being in a new life, in a new town, surrounded by a new populace and a new culture.

More to the point, had she missed him as much as he had missed her?

He and Balaam parted company at the livery stable, and both looked decidedly happier when each went his separate way. After paying Abel Norton for the privilege of renting his arrogant, strong-willed steed, Ben hauled his valise and his portfolio of business papers from the buggy and set out for the Forrester house.

Whistling. He was actually whistling.

Abel, who had encountered Ben Forrester in a number of moods—quiet, congenial, gloomy, intractable, but never actually lighthearted—stood scratching his head in puzzlement. Was the world about to end?

Ben reached his own front porch with an ebullient stride. Key in lock, door swung open, he moved inside and set down his bags. He paused to sniff the air, like a gray wolf roving into unfamiliar territory, and looked around. The room was familiar, and yet not.

Furniture had been rearranged, in a more pleasing, complimentary style, and the clutter of normal living removed. And the place smelled different. Um...fresh; clean.

Clearly Mrs. Forrester had been busy in her new abode.

But something felt off-kilter. Cotton-soft silence, muffling sound and motion, that might have been an actual physical barrier. A sixth sense told him—warned him?—that all was not right. And that, as home owner, he’d better see what was going on.

“Camellia? Hey, Camellia, you around here?”

It was possible she’d gone visiting. To see her sisters, perhaps. Or to have tea with a new friend she’d made. Ladies were big on having tea, and Turnabout boasted a nice little feminine tea shop, all ruffles and lace. Or she might be wandering amongst Main Street’s markets and emporiums, examining their wares.

After all, he wasn’t expected home for another few days.

A very slight noise in the kitchen caught his attention.

“Cam?”

Closing the door, he made his way toward the back of the house. The heart of the house, as far as he was concerned. In his mind, the kitchen would always be associated with warmth and comfort and every soothing panacea known to man.

“Camellia?”

The room had been deliberately darkened, with shades pulled against brilliant post-storm sunlight. Come to think of it, the parlor’s shades had been pulled, as well. That was one of the phenomena he’d subconsciously noticed, and filed away to be contemplated later.

She was sitting at the table, with a cup standing alone upon the cloth. So still, so silent, her form might have been drained of all living material and embalmed, like a mummy, stoic and upright.

A ripple of something like apprehension raised the hair on his arms as Ben approached.

“Too darned gloomy in here to see. I’ll just raise this shade a bit, and—”

“No!”

The protest came from a dry, cracked throat, with such force and terror that he was stopped, dead in his tracks. Carefully, as if he were dealing with some hydrophobic wild dog, he advanced close enough to take a seat beside her.

And then he gasped out an expletive.

“Camellia, what happened?”

Dimness obscured the worst of the damage. But even what he could see revealed the outcome of a shattering ordeal. A cheekbone reddened by the actual imprint of someone’s big brutal hand; a whole right side of the face, including temple and eye and jaw, blackened and bruised; a throat marked by nasty purplish fingerprints.

And more. At almost suppertime, she was still swaddled in her pretty beflowered wrapper; her hair, falling loose around both shoulders, had not been combed, and her poor swollen, tearstained face had not been washed.

Swallowing hard and creakily, Ben reached for the hand lying limply in her lap.

“Camellia—darlin’—can you tell me what has happened to you?”

It was the sweet, unaccustomed endearment that seemed to release her from the shell of ice in which she had been encased.