Free The Substitute Bride by Janet Dean Page A

return to the kitchen where he heaved the large bucket out from beneath the skirted sink.
    “The other bucket under here is a slop jar for the pigs. They eat most anything so you can dump table scraps and peelings into that one. Don’t mix them up. Pigs aren’t partial to soap.”
    He grabbed the full-to-the-brim drain bucket by the bail and carried it to the door. Beneath the weight, his biceps bulged. Her stomach did a strange little flop. As the door slapped shut after him, Elizabeth slumped into the wicker chair.
    She removed her beautiful silk slippers, now water stained. Irritating tears stung her eyes. What had she gotten herself into? She buried her head in her hands. “I can’t do this.”
    “Yes, you can,” Ted said softly. Ted wadded up a few newspapers, stuffing them into the toes. “That’ll help keep their shape. You can wear my mom’s boots until I can get a pair of shoes made.”
    “You make shoes?” She hiccuped.
    “They won’t be Sunday-go-to-meeting shoes but you can work in them. And save these.”
    She sniffed back her tears. Ted Logan might not spoil her like Mama had, nor bribe or cajole her like Papa, but the man could be kind. She’d give him that.
    He took her hand, his grip sending unwelcome heat through her veins. “Let’s have that tea.”
    At the table, Elizabeth tucked her stocking toes over the rungs of the chair and added a teaspoon of sugar to her cup. Ted drank his plain, the way he drank his coffee. While she stirred her tea, she thought about Ted making those serviceable shoes.
    What did he expect her to do besides work in the kitchen?
    “A farmer’s wife must be busy cooking, doing dishes and…” She let the words trail off, hoping he’d supply her with a list. A short list.
    “Besides caring for the children, Rose baked bread for the week, cleaned, mended, washed and ironed and weeded the garden. Oh, and collected the eggs. In the fall, she canned.”
    “With all that to do, how will I find time to sew dresses?”
    “Oh, you’ll find the time.” He gestured at her frock. “That won’t last long hoeing and gathering eggs.”
    Hoeing? Whatever that was, it sounded hard. The prospect of doing all those chores weighed her down. “What do you do all day?” she snapped.
    “Milk the cow, feed and care for the livestock, work the land from planting through harvest.” He ticked off each chore on his fingers. “Plow the garden so you can plant. I’ve got machinery to mend, the barn to muck, tack to clean and repair and firewood to chop. Now a pair of shoes to make.” He’d used his last finger so he stopped. “Always plenty to do.”
    “Can’t you get in some help?”
    His expression turned troubled. “I know I don’t have much to offer you, a woman who’s accustomed to a staff waiting on her.”
    “Those days are gone.”
    “What happened?”
    “Bad investments.” She threw a hand over her mouth to stifle a sudden yawn and further questions.
    “You’d best get to bed,” Ted said. “The day starts early.”
    How early? she wanted to ask but didn’t dare, certain she wouldn’t like the answer. She gathered her purchases. “I’ll say good-night, then.”
    He flicked out a section of the paper. “Good night.” He gave her the briefest glance then returned to the farm news.
    In the bedroom, she turned the lock, satisfied by the firmclick that followed. Not that Ted had given her reason to fear him. But something about the man made her insides tremble.
    She lit a kerosene lamp on the nightstand. An open Bible filled most of the space. Sally had called Ted a godly man and so he appeared. Compared to his untidy kitchen, Ted’s bedroom was immaculate. A chamber pot, dry sink with white pitcher and bowl, even a fresh towel. Under the window sat a black contraption with a spool of white thread on top. A sewing machine—another reminder of all she had to do with no inkling of how to do it.
    The bedroom had a chill in the air. Shivering, she didn’t