The Substitute Bride by Janet Dean Page A

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    Neither Elizabeth nor Ted said much on the trip to the farm. As dusk crept in and a full moon rose overhead, lights appeared in the houses they passed. Elizabeth kept her gaze off the man beside her, who took up more space than a mere man should, and focused on the fields. The turned-over earth exposed parched soil as cracked as old china. An owl hooted overhead, an eerie, lonely sound that crawled along her skin, raising the hair on her nape.
    “You mentioned a weakness for pie. Any other flaws I should know about?” Ted said at last, his voice laden with humor.
    No doubt an attempt to ease the tension crackling between them. Well, she’d do her part. “I’m emotional. A talker.”
    He turned toward her, his pupils reflecting the moonlight. “What do you mean, emotional?”
    She squirmed under his stare.
    “Are you a weeper?”
    “Just the opposite. I have a temper.” She pinched her fingers together then opened them a tad. “A teeny temper.”
    “Ah, I see.” He chuckled. “Thanks for the warning.”
    “Do you?” Elizabeth asked.
    “Do I what?”
    “Have a temper?”
    “Nothing makes me mad, except deceit. How can you trust a man if he can’t be taken at his word?”
    Fortunately for her, he didn’t say woman.
    Elizabeth fidgeted with her ring. “Couldn’t there be a good reason a person would lie?”
    “The truth sets people free.”
    She’d be set free, all right. If Ted learned about Robby, he’d rip this simple gold band off her finger and get an annulment faster than Johanna Van Wyld could spread the news.
    Ted shifted on the seat. “Seems odd to be married and know so little about you.”
    “I feel the same.”
    “It’ll take some getting used to, especially for my children.”
    Elizabeth gulped. She’d forgotten about Ted’s children. From what she could remember about Robby, babies cried a lot and forever needed a change of clothes. “How old are they?”
    “Anna’s seven and scared, I think. She understands a lot.”
    Robby had been six when Mama died. Even though Martha had taken care of her brother when Mama took sick, Robby had cried for his mother. Rose’s death had to be even more traumatic for Ted’s daughter.
    “Henry’s fourteen months. All he cares about are his meals and a soft lap.” He lifted a brow. “That is, if you’re one to cuddle a baby.”
    She’d cuddled Robby. No problem there. Besides, a lap meant sitting and from all Ted’s talk about work, sitting sounded good. “I’ll have a lap anytime he needs one—at least when you’re not available.”
    “As long as you’re gentle with my children, you have no need to worry about overstepping. I’ll expect you to mother them whether I’m in the fields or in the house.”
    Elizabeth suspected little ones cared not a whit about who you were, how much you owned or where you came from. Long as they had that lap and a ready meal.
    But cooking, well, she hoped Ted and his children had low expectations, bottom-of-a-burned-pan low.
    Approaching a house near the road, a dog barked a greeting, leaping along the bank as they passed. Inside, people gathered around the table. Good people who lived by the toil of their hands. Not trying to make money without working for it like Papa had, and losing most every time.
    Still, as furious as Papa’s gambling made her, she still loved him. He was an affectionate, jovial, handsome man who had a gift with words. In that careless manner of his, he loved her, too, and was probably worried about her now.
    Tears pricked at her eyes. She’d propped a note on her dresser, assuring him of her love. But love might not heal the breach she’d crossed when she’d defied him.
    Her attention drifted to Ted, which didn’t do much for her peace of mind. She shifted, trying to ease the tightness between her shoulder blades. How could she relax, knowing once they reached the farm, she and her new husband would be totally alone?
    Ted had made no move to touch her, other than to