Yankee Wife by Linda Lael Miller

Author:Linda Lael Miller
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 1993-12-04T16:00:00+00:00

Brigham told himself he was glad Lydia was going to live on Main Street. He had enough people underfoot as it was, he thought.

He sent his largest wagon and two teamsters to his place for furniture and other equipment Lydia would need to set up housekeeping. The men were to take their orders from Miss McQuire, loading and transporting whatever she chose to take.

The shriek of the mill saw gave Brigham a headache, so he went into his office and closed the door firmly behind him. There was an enamel crock with a lid sitting on a table behind his desk, and he ladled out some water to cool his tongue, his mind weighted with worries.

His first and foremost concern, at the moment, was Devon. His brother did seem to be on the mend, but he still hadn't come out of that deep sleep he'd been in since the accident in the woods. Despite Joe McCauley's predictions that Devon would recover, and Lydia's corroboration of that diagnosis, Brigham had a deep-seated sense of foreboding about the whole situation.

Then there was the mess with Polly. She had told Brigham the truth of the matter herself, when she'd sought him out in Seattle and asked him for work. She'd told him how she had duped Devon, and said she wouldn't blame him if he didn't want her ever to set foot in Quade's Harbor again. All she wanted, she'd gone on to say, was an opportunity to make amends and start over.

Brigham had been shocked, of course, and angry as well, but some instinct had urged him to give the woman a second chance, if for no other reason than that Devon had clearly loved her once. Besides, just about everyone he knew had some kind of shameful secret; the West was a magnet for adventurous misfits.

Like himself.

He smiled, sinking into the creaky wooden chair behind his desk, kicking his feet up and cupping his hands in back of his head. His favorite enigma was Lydia McQuire.

Brigham was fairly certain the woman had set her cap for him—after all, she'd nearly come apart in his arms that night in the cabin, when he'd introduced her to a singular pleasure. The memory made him harden, instantly and painfully, and he set his feet apart a little ways on the desk. He sighed and looked up at the ceiling.

Something must be wrong with him, he decided. Maybe he was getting old, set in his ways. He could have made love to Lydia, she would have welcomed him into the sweet solace of her body, and he needed that consolation sorely, but his damnable honor had interfered. Lydia was not a whore, and his conscience would not allow him to take advantage of her.

He frowned, dark brows knitting together. His certainty that Lydia found him appealing, much as she might wish otherwise, was unshaken. However, he was a pragmatic man and he couldn't overlook the fact that she'd refused his offer of marriage, not once, but twice.

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