Feeling foolish, Merrick entered the house. But his embarrassment disappeared the moment his nose caught the scent of something delicious. Sure enough, a pot sat on the stove, steam escaping around its lid. Next to it, something sat wrapped in a cloth that looked oddly familiar.
“Did you cook?” The question came out of his mouth before he realized how silly it sounded.
But Eleanor overlooked the obviousness of his statement. “I hope you like ham and potato soup,” she said as she scurried over to the stove. She grabbed a towel and lifted the lid to give the soup a stir.
Did he like ham and potato soup? The truth was, Merrick liked just about everything. He had yet to meet a food he didn’t enjoy eating. “I do,” he said as he took a few hesitant stepstoward the little kitchen. “But where did you get the ham and potatoes?”
She smiled up at him as she replaced the lid. “I met the kindest pair of ladies. Mrs. Carlisle—I believe she’s the one you mentioned?—and Mrs. Wiley. They came by to visit and supplied me with a few necessities. Including this loaf of bread and an apple tart.” She opened the oven door to show him the tart keeping warm inside.
Merrick’s stomach growled in response, and all thoughts of Miss Darby’s cooking fled his mind. He especially couldn’t wait to taste the soup that Eleanor had made.
Eleanor urged him toward the table. He sat and waited patiently while she ladled soup into two bowls.
“Thank you,” he said as she passed him the bread and sat down across from him. “I didn’t expect . . . Thank you.” He took a bite of unbuttered bread to keep from having to continue to speak.
“I enjoy cooking,” Eleanor said as she reached for a slice of bread. “And it was quite an adventure cooking for Rebecca and her children and the family we lived with after . . . .” She glanced down at her bread, butter knife in her hand. A flash of grief shadowed her pretty features. She shook her head, and it disappeared. Placing a small amount of butter on her bread, she spoke again, more quietly than before but with a smile fixed to her face. “I’m sorry. You don’t want to hear about that.”
Merrick opened his mouth to tell her it was perfectly fine. That he understood loss as well as anyone, but she continued to speak before he could say a word.
“Clara and Deirdre were so very nice. They offered to take me to all the shops I might want to visit and to introduce me to other ladies in town. I asked if they knew Mr. Whiteside, but neither one was familiar with the name.” Her brow furrowed as she lifted a spoonful of soup to her lips.
She was worried about her sister. It was clear when the minister said he hadn’t met Rebecca or her intended earlier that day. She must have grown even more worried since then.
Merrick wanted to reassure her somehow. “I’ll ask around tomorrow. Someone must know the man. If they’re living outside of town, we can make a visit—if you’d like.”
Her expression lightened. “Oh, that would be wonderful. I’d like that very much, Merrick.”
His face went warm, and he concentrated on the soup. It was hot and hearty, perfect for a cold evening. He devoured the first bowl. Without a word, Eleanor took his bowl and refilled it.
“Thank you,” he said. He ate the second bowl as quickly as the first.
After they finished slices of the tart, Merrick added more wood to the fireplace and settled himself into one of the chairs. Eleanor joined him soon after, sitting quietly in the other chair. Normally, he might peruse the newspaper from Cañon City, work on the ledger book he despised, or occupy himself in some other way.
But with Eleanor here, he didn’t know what to do. So he stared at the fire and tried to think of ways to start a conversation that didn’t sound utterly ridiculous or wind up with him wishing he’d never opened his mouth.
Just as he settled on asking her about her sister’s children, he realized she’d fallen asleep. With her head nestled against the back of the armchair, she looked the picture of perfection. How had he been so lucky to have a woman like her answer his advertisement? If it hadn’t been for Roman Carlisle and Jeremiah Wiley’s encouragement, he never would have gathered the courage to visit Mrs. Gilbert and place an advertisement with her mail-order bride service at all.
And now here he was, a married man.
The minutes ticked by, and Eleanor didn’t move except to breathe. Eventually, Merrick rose, needing to stretch his legs. The hour wasn’t very late, but it was clear the day had taken its toll on his new wife. And he could hardly let her sleep the night away in a chair.
He glanced at the bed in the corner, and then at Eleanor. Quietly, he crossed the room and pulled down the bedcovers. Then he moved back to the chair, and as gently as he could, wrapped his arms beneath her knees and shoulders and lifted her from the chair.
She stirred a little but didn’t open her eyes. Merrick froze. If she woke and actually found him doing this, he thought he’d melt into a puddle of his own embarrassment. But she didn’t wake, and ever so slowly, he carried her over to the bed.
She couldn’t sleep in her shoes, he decided. Gritting his teeth in fear she would wake, his fingers fumbled over the laces. Eventually, he freed them from her feet but not before noticing how they were nearly worn through. They wouldn’t do at all for winter in this valley. He’d need to see to that soon.
He placed her shoes on the floor beside the bed and drew the quilt up over top of her. She sighed and nestled into it.
And then he stepped away, leaving her to dream in peace.
