The Bridegroom (18 page)

L
YDIA STARED AT
J
ACOB,
stunned, though after a few moments of reflection, she decided she shouldn’t have been at all surprised by the encounter. On some level, she’d known all along that she hadn’t seen the last of her spurned bridegroom.

“Mr. Fitch,” she said, in stiff greeting, flustered and quite unable to hide the fact from him
or
the imposing deputies, one standing with his back to the fireplace, the other perched on the edge of a chair seat, as though prepared to leap up and give chase if she fled.

Thank heaven Rowdy was there, and clearly had no intention of leaving her alone with two strangers and the last man on the face of the earth she wanted to see.

Fitch approached her, stood so close that she could feel his breath on her face, fetid and hot. “‘Mr. Fitch’?” he countered, speaking gently for Rowdy’s benefit, and that of the deputy marshals. But
she
could see the dangerous fury in his eyes, the passion, not for her, but for revenge. “Come now, Lydia dear. You’ve never addressed me so formally before.” This was untrue; she’d never addressed him by his Christian name, but she did not refute the statement.

He lowered his voice then, to a whisper, a bare breath of air. “Are you—are you
untouched?”

Color surged into Lydia’s face, but the source of it was indignation, not shame. Her first impulse was to lash out,
to say that she had been
thoroughly
touched, but common sense warned her against it. In any case, it was none of Jacob Fitch’s affair, what had and hadn’t gone on between her and Gideon, nor was it something she would air in front of Rowdy and the deputies.

She remained stubbornly silent.

And something more frightening than fury moved in Mr. Fitch’s eyes then—a coldness that sent icy chills through Lydia. Of course he had interpreted her silence as an acknowledgment that she was no longer the virgin he’d reserved for himself.

In the next instant, he’d changed again. Become the magnanimous gentleman, willing to overlook an indiscretion. “Either way,” Jacob Fitch said, his voice swelling to fill the room again, “this silly little escapade is over.” He drew his watch from the pocket of his brocade vest, flicked open the case with a quick motion of his thumb. “If we hurry, my dear, we can gather the aunts and that
housekeeper
you seem to hold in such high regard, and catch the afternoon train back to Phoenix—where we belong.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Lydia said, knowing she might not have been brave enough to utter those words if Rowdy hadn’t been there, but equally certain that she would fight to the death if Jacob Fitch tried to remove her from that house by force.

“Don’t be stubborn,” Fitch crooned, taking Lydia’s chin between his fingers. Although the gesture probably
looked
like one of affectionate tolerance to the deputies and possibly even to Rowdy, it was, instead, a subtle show of power—only a shade more pressure, and he would have left bruises. “I haven’t sold your things, or your aunts’. Mother and I have moved in, and all we lack for a happy household is
you,
darling.”

Lydia finally found the strength to pull free of Mr. Fitch’s grasp, step around him, and approach the nearest deputy, the taller one, standing silently in front of the fireplace.

The man’s long face seemed wooden, and his deep-socketed gray eyes showed no expression at all. Overall, he reminded Lydia of Abraham Lincoln, with his melancholy countenance and homely features.

“I left Phoenix willingly,” Lydia told him clearly. “And I married Gideon Yarbro because I wanted to be his wife.”

The deputy’s thoughtful stare was unnerving. “Mr. Fitch here,” he finally said, his voice a deep and resonant base, “claims he and Mr. Yarbro exchanged blows, and then Mr. Yarbro carried you out of that house, kicking and struggling all the way. We’ve spoken to the justice of the peace and the other witnesses, Miss Fairmont, and they all confirmed Mr. Fitch’s account of the incident.”

“I am no longer ‘Miss Fairmont,’” Lydia said evenly. “Please address me as Mrs. Yarbro, if you don’t mind.”

The deputy’s smile came as a surprise, given his dour manner and plain features. “If you’re afraid to tell us the truth,” he said, quite kindly, but with an undercurrent of iron in his voice, “you needn’t be. Mr. Sullivan and I are duly sworn officers of the law. We will protect you and escort you safely back to Phoenix, I assure you.”

Rowdy gave a little snort at this, earning himself a scalding glance from the tall deputy. Out of the corner of her eye, Lydia saw that her brother-in-law was undaunted by the look, and silently blessed him for standing by her.

“I’m not afraid to tell you the truth,” Lydia said, holding her head high. “I have just
done
that. I am married to Gideon Yarbro in the eyes of God and man and I wish to remain so, and if you would please leave and take Mr. Fitch with you, I would be most grateful.”

The deputy took her left hand, briefly, ran a calloused thumb across the knuckles. “You’re not wearing a wedding band, Mrs. Yarbro.”

“We haven’t had an opportunity to purchase one,” Lydia replied.

Mr. Sullivan, the second deputy, rose from his chair and spoke for the first time. He was shorter than his cohort, and stocky, with bristly black eyebrows and jowls. “Mr. Fitch,” he said, swiveling his gaze to Jacob, “it appears the lady would prefer to remain in Stone Creek, with her husband. There is no more we can do here.”

Fitch seethed visibly, nearly shimmered with the heat of anger, and even from a distance of several yards, Lydia felt the impact of his fury as surely as if he’d drawn back his hand and struck her.

“This is outrageous!” he ranted, spittle flying from his mouth as he spoke. So much for the generous gentleman, swift to forgive. “Can’t you see—can’t either of you see—what’s happening here? Lydia is being held prisoner! And why has no one asked to see the marriage certificate?”

“I’ll thank you to keep your voice down, Mr. Fitch,” Rowdy said, in an ominously quiet tone. “My wife is not well, and I will not have my children frightened.” Then, going to a desk and opening a drawer, he brought out the ornate sheet of paper Gideon, Lydia and the minister had all signed. “As for the legal evidence that a wedding did take place, here it is.”

The Lincoln-like deputy took the certificate, examined it, handed it back. He hadn’t needed to see it, Lydia knew; he believed her assertion that she wanted to stay in Stone Creek, with Gideon.

The front door opened, in the near distance, though Lydia could not see into the entryway from where she stood, and
she raised a silent prayer that Gideon hadn’t gotten word that Mr. Fitch and the deputies had arrived. He would either hand her over to Fitch with apologies for spoiling the first wedding, or get himself arrested on the spot for taking his fists to the man.

For all this, Lydia was disappointed, as well as relieved, when Wyatt stepped into the parlor, accompanied by a young man who resembled Sarah, though his hair was light, instead of dark like Sarah’s and Wyatt’s.

This would be Owen, she thought, calmer now that she knew the matter at hand had been settled, at least for the moment. To herself, she observed that Sarah hardly seemed old enough to have a broad-shouldered son, nearly as tall as Wyatt.

“I will not tolerate this, Lydia,” Fitch raged, ignoring the new arrivals. All his attention was focused on her, and it burned like sunlight narrowed to a pinpoint through a powerful magnifying glass. “Do you hear me? I will not be played for a fool like this!”

“Seems a little late to avoid that,” Rowdy drawled. “And I won’t tell you to lower your voice again.”

“I’ll burn that stupid house to the ground!” Fitch answered, ignoring Rowdy, but he rasped the threat, instead of shouting like before. “Those precious paintings, the books and papers and bric-a-brac—all of it!”

The deputies closed in on either side of him, each taking an arm. “Arson is a crime, Mr. Fitch,” the tall one told him quietly. “Get hold of yourself.”

With that, the two men propelled a still-sputtering Jacob out of the parlor, into the foyer, and then through the front door.

Lydia hurried to the window to watch the trio struggle down the front walk to the gate, Jacob Fitch resisting all the way.

“Are you all right, Lydia?” Rowdy asked quietly, standing at her side now, taking a firm but gentle hold on her elbow.

She nodded, swallowed, straightened her spine.

“I’d best get back to Lark,” she said.

But her head swam suddenly, as she turned too quickly from the window, and she might have lost her balance, even fainted, if Rowdy hadn’t been so quick to take a second, and much firmer, hold on her arm.

“I’m taking you home,” he said.

She shook her head. “I’m quite all right, really—”

Wyatt spoke then. “Any fool could see you’re not,” he argued. “Owen, go and hitch up Rowdy’s buggy and see your aunt Lydia home to the Porter house.”

Owen nodded, and without a word, left the house to do Wyatt’s bidding. Lydia had learned, during the cleaning party at her place, that Wyatt was actually Owen’s stepfather, though Wyatt had adopted him soon after he and Sarah were married, and Owen had taken the Yarbro name.

“I don’t want to go,” Lydia protested. She had promised to spell Sarah, take over Lark’s care for the day, but that wasn’t the whole reason she resisted the idea. She was terrified that Jacob Fitch would somehow escape the deputies before they’d boarded the train and come in search of her.

The thought of Fitch confronting her at some unexpected moment sent a jolt of fear through her. He might lie in wait for her somewhere, awaiting his chance to catch her alone. And practically anyone on the street could tell him where Gideon Yarbro and his bride had taken up residence, seeing no reason to withhold the information. Suppose he came there while Gideon was working? She and the aunts and Helga would be alone, with no way to defend themselves.

She soon noticed that Rowdy was watching her closely;
he’d clearly guessed what she was thinking—or simply allowed common sense to lead him to the same conclusions. “Wyatt, I’d be obliged if you’d see Lydia home yourself, and stay with her until Owen fetches Gideon from the mine to look after his wife.”

The slight emphasis he’d put on the last two words reminded Lydia that Rowdy was still annoyed with Gideon, and it was her fault. She’d told him that Gideon planned to leave Stone Creek, after all.

Again, and sorely, she wished she hadn’t.

“Please,” she said, “this is all unnecessary—”

“I don’t think so,” Rowdy said flatly.

“Neither do I,” Wyatt agreed.

And so it was settled.

Owen set out for the mine.

Wyatt went out to the large barn behind the house to hitch up the horse and buggy.

Barely a quarter of an hour later, Lydia was home, sitting glumly at her own kitchen table, while the aunts polished things and Wyatt sipped coffee and chatted idly with Helga. He seemed relaxed, but Lydia couldn’t help noticing that he’d remained standing, and glanced out the side window every few minutes.

Perhaps half an hour had elapsed in this fashion when the back door slammed open and Gideon burst through the opening, wild-eyed and breathless. His gaze sought Lydia, moving from person to person, and landed on her with an actual impact.

“Holy Christ,” he rasped, sagging against the doorjamb.

“Mr.
Yarbro,
” one of the aunts scolded, though kindly. “Taking the Lord’s name in vain is hardly becoming.”

Gideon did not respond, did not look away from Lydia’s face, did not move even when Owen appeared behind him,
and was blocked from entering the house because his uncle was still standing on the threshold.

“Guess Owen and I will be going now,” Wyatt said, with a grin in his voice.

“And that’s enough polishing for one day,” Helga interjected, directing her words to the aunts. She’d been peeling potatoes for a stew, but now she dried her hands quickly on her apron, then removed it. “Miss Mittie, Miss Millie, get your shawls and parasols. We’re going out for a constitutional.”

The aunts seldom left home, let alone took constitutionals, but they fetched the specified items from their room and promptly vanished just the same, as did Wyatt and Owen.

Gideon, who had been forced to leave the doorway so they could all get out, closed the door with slightly more force than Lydia deemed necessary.

“Are you all right?” he asked, after a very long and very uncomfortable silence.

“Yes,” Lydia said, without moving from her chair. “And you may rest easy, Mr. Yarbro. You will not be arrested for kidnapping me.” She straightened a little. “Even though it would have been just what you deserved.”

That familiar, maddening grin crooked up one side of his mouth. He hauled back a chair, turned it and Lydia’s chair, as well, with her still in it, so they were face-to-face, with their knees touching.

“You started this,” he reminded her easily, even lightly. “You sent the letter.”

“Well, I
shouldn’t
have.”

“But you did.” Wisely, Gideon did not touch Lydia, except where their knees met, because if he had, she would surely have slapped his face with enough force to turn his head. “I wrote that letter at this table,” he said, thumping the surface
once with the knuckles of his right hand. “Do you remember?”