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

“Well, I still think he coulda been a little more considerate. It ain’t his wife about to give birth to her first child. Wait, take care, there.” Warningly, he took her arm as they approached an area of broken boards, jagged and splintered, detrimental to anyone unaware of what danger lay underfoot.

“What on earth—?”

“Dadrat that worthless Wilbur Knaack,” grumbled Ben, steering her carefully clear. “Told him earlier to get that hole fixed, ’fore somebody falls in and gets seriously hurt. Wait here on the bench a minute, will you, Hannah, whilst I go inside and have a few words with that lazy son of a gun?”

Hannah hid a grin as she swished a handkerchief across the bench’s worn seat and gingerly perched on its edge. After all this time, she had become well-versed with Ben’s famous temper. A deliberate oversight like this would have him wearing his mayor’s hat and spouting blue flame at the hapless restaurant owner.

Sure enough. She could hear the yelling from inside: a stream of growled invective (Ben’s voice); whiny but garbled protest (Wilbur’s); then Ben again, barking orders and a deadline. Several startled patrons, those new to the town administrator’s way of dealing with a problem, beat a hasty retreat, dashing past Hannah and scurrying off into less threatening environs. Within a few minutes, Ben emerged, with the effect of dusting off his hands in satisfaction at a job well done.

“How soon?” she murmured, as they started on their way again.

“This afternoon. I’ll let him get through the dinner hour. Then I’d better see a carpenter out here, sawin’ up planks and nailin’ the boards in place, or I’m gonna get hot under the collar.”

Amused, Hannah peered up at her companion from under the brim of her hat. “Oh, the cares and burdens of public duty weigh heavily upon the conscience of a responsible city official.”

“Huh? Oh. Well.” He gave her a sheepish crooked smile. “Forgot you’re a writer. Puttin’ flowery words together just comes natural to you, don’t it?”

“Sometimes. If I work at it. And how are you doing, Ben?”

“Me? I’m okay. What’re you talkin’ about?”

In a deliberate show of affection, and trust, Hannah tucked her hand into the bend of his ready elbow. “Everyone asks about Cam, and worries about her—as they should. It seems to me you might be getting left by the wayside.”

Again that sheepish smile. No wonder Camellia had fallen in love with this big brawny, occasional clumsy, often endearing man. “Sorta figured it goes with the territory, y’ know? No, I’m all right, Hannah. But thanks for askin’.”

Having reached the Forrester house in record time, they went in at the back porch, through the kitchen door. As Ben shoved his key into the lock, he called out a greeting, in case Camellia was napping on the settee.

No fear of that. Hannah crossed the threshold only to discover her sister balanced on the highest rung of a stepladder, cleaning cupboards that she couldn’t usually reach.

Shocked and angered, Ben flung aside his hat and reached for her. “What exactly in the name of Heaven are you doin’ up there?” he demanded. “Get back on solid ground right this very minute.”

Clearly his m

ood of the boardwalk incident—and the confrontation with Wilbur Knaack—was still simmering on low. Now, it was flaring up with new flames at this sight of the love of his life, and their not-yet-firstborn, teetering far above him in such a precarious position.

Her hair was tucked under a mobcap; her cheeks were flushed with exertion and grime; her apron wore a phalanx of dust, smudges, and cobwebs. “Ben, I truly don’t know how you have been able to put up with me. Hello, Hen, good of you to drop by. This place is filthy. Why, I’m ashamed of myself for letting things get into such a state.”

“You come down from there, this instant,” said Ben, between his teeth. It was not said with any degree of affection. “Have you gone plumb crazy?”

His rough hands grabbed her elbows as support, to guide her in descending slow, painful steps, one by one. When she was finally, safely on the ground, he forced her onto a chair while he simply stood, hands on hips, and glared at her.

Hannah, who could recognize all the signs of an incipient domestic quarrel, took a large pace backward. She had wanted only to confer with Ben; she had no desire to walk into the middle of a thunderstorm, complete with lightning and loud rumbles, between husband and wife.

Camellia smiled up in all innocence at the irate behemoth towering over her. “I didn’t expect you home for dinner.”

“Clearly.”

“Really, Ben.” Her hands were nervously busy with the folds of her dusting cloth, pleating, unpleating, re-pleating. “There’s no need to make a fuss.”

“Isn’t there? That baby is half-mine, remember. And you got no right riskin’ him, and yourself, doin’ such a fool thing as—as—”

“Cleaning,” she contributed helpfully. “I was just cleaning.”

He could hardly be expected to know all the ins and outs of pregnancy, especially when each, for each woman, was so different. An experienced mother, or her physician, might have explained that the nesting instinct is a common symptom during the last trimester, indicating that birth might be imminent. Ben had already noticed, to his increasing dismay, Camellia’s shortness of breath, her backaches, her heartburn, her fears about the ordeal she must soon undergo.

Where in blue blazes had Gabe disappeared to? It was way past time for him to be back in his office to respond to these concerns!

“Ohhh...” A spasm suddenly twisted Camellia’s features, and she pressed a palm flat to the rounded distension of her belly.