Mail-Order Marriage Promise. Regina Scott

for the lady?”

      Why not? It would keep John from saying more ridiculous things that would only give Dottie Tyrrell a further disgust of him. And the way his brother’s brows were wiggling, he had something to say to John in private.

      “I’ll be right back,” John told her. He nodded to James, who bowed again to Dottie and then headed out the front door.

      John fell into step beside him, arms still laden with clothing.

      “Who is she?” James demanded. “Where did you meet her? Why does she have a baby?”

      John started for the trees that marked the dividing line between his claim and James’s. “She’s a widow from back east. She and Beth have been corresponding for months, and Beth convinced her to relocate to Seattle.”

      James whistled. “So that’s the mail-order bride. I didn’t realize she’d arrived.”

      John jerked to a stop on the well-worn path. “You knew?”

      James shrugged. “Beth had to confide in someone.”

      “And you didn’t think to warn me?”

      “She swore me to silence.” James shook his head. “Besides, it wasn’t as if I expected the woman to agree to come. This isn’t exactly an admirable situation—far from civilization and the things a lady generally prefers.”

      John glanced back at the house, barely visible through the trees. “You think she can’t be happy here?”

      “Who knows?” James clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s what courtship is about, learning what the other person can tolerate.”

      John started forward once more. “We aren’t courting. She’s just staying here until she can determine her next steps.”

      “Ah, I see.”

      Somehow his brother made it sound as if he saw more than John intended.

      “I mean it, James,” John warned. “Mrs. Tyrrell and I are not courting. I have no interest in marrying.”

      James matched his stride. “Can’t say I blame you. There are already too many blondes at Wallin Landing, though none, mind you, with quite that glorious shade of gold. And a trim figure, while all the rage in Beth’s precious magazine, probably indicates she hasn’t the strength to muck stalls and haul timber.”

      “I’d hardly expect a wife to muck stalls or haul timber,” John protested.

      “No? How progressive of you. But it probably doesn’t matter. Very likely Mrs. Tyrrell is too educated for you.”

      John frowned at him. “You think so?”

      James barked a laugh. “No, scholar that you are. From what Beth tells me, you and Mrs. Tyrrell are evenly matched. I say propose and get it over with.”

      “No.” John could hear the obstinacy in his tone. “You and Beth may know all about her, but I don’t. And I’m not sure I want to. A woman like that is looking for a hero. I’m no hero.”

      James chuckled, but he didn’t argue the point. “It’s not me you need to convince.”

      “Mrs. Tyrrell and I understand each other,” John assured him.

      “Oh, very likely,” James agreed. “But you both may be outvoted. Do you really think you can resist the combined forces of the female population of Wallin Landing?”

      John felt as if the shadows of the trees crept closer. “You don’t think...”

      “I do. Once Beth, Rina, Catherine and Nora learn that Mrs. Tyrrell and her baby have arrived, you might as well go buy the ring, my lad, for you’ll be as good as married.”

       Chapter Six

      By the time John and his brother returned with the cradle, Dottie had taken herself in hand. She knew why she’d assumed John had a wife, but her reaction troubled her all the same. Everything she’d read in Beth’s letters, everything she’d seen so far, told her that John and his family were kind, helpful people. She didn’t want to judge them, or anyone else she met, by Frank’s behavior. Yet how could she trust her own judgment? She’d been wrong before, with disastrous results.

      “That should do it,” John said now, stepping back as if to admire the placement of the cradle next to the bed. The cradle was beautiful, the wood carved with doves and lambs and polished to a warm glow. Already Peter snuggled in the soft blankets, eyes drifting shut.