Free Yankee Wife by Linda Lael Miller

softly, certain the crime could not be anything really terrible. On the other hand, people often brought secrets with them when they came west; sometimes they were pursued by them.
    Polly gave a mournful wail and wept on, so Lydia waited patiently. It was in her nature to give comfort, she thought fleetingly.
    â€œPolly?” Lydia prompted, after a long time.
    She swallowed. “I'm in love with Devon!” she choked out miserably.
    For a moment Lydia was full of relief. Then she saw the look of torment in Polly's eyes. “Is that so bad?” she asked gently. “He's your husband.”
    Polly shuddered. “No,” she said. “It was all a trick.”
    Lydia just sat there, staring stupidly, horrified. “A trick?” she asked finally.
    Polly bolted off the bed and went to the bureau with resolve. She began jerking open drawers and snatching things out, and for one awful second Lydia thought she was packing to leave Quade's Harbor, and Devon, forever.
    â€œPolly, what did you mean when you said it was all a trick?”
    The erstwhile Mrs. Quade disappeared behind a changing screen. “I shouldn't have said even that much,” she muttered. Then she peeked around the ornately carved maple frame. “You're not going to tell Devon or his brother, are you?”
    By then Lydia's frustration had mounted to a dangerous level. “Devon Quade is a very fine man, Polly. If you do anything to hurt him, you'll have me for an enemy.”
    Again Polly looked around the screen. This time her eyes were narrowed. “Say. You'd better not have your cap set for my Devon,” she said. “If you do, I'll pull your ears off!”
    Lydia wasn't intimidated. “ Is he ‘your Devon’?” she Persisted.
    Again Polly's pretty face crumpled into tears. “I do love him, I swear it.”
    â€œBut you tricked him somehow,” Lydia pressed. “What happened back there in San Francisco?”
    Polly came out from behind the screen, wearing a dramatic green gown that set off her dark hair and lovely pale skin. She turned her back and Lydia automatically began fastening her buttons.
    â€œNat Malachi and me, that's the man I've been with since I came out to San Francisco, we had a good business going. He'd pose as a preacher and pretend to marry me to a miner or a timberman, and I'd steal hiS wallet after—well, when he was sleeping. We intended to do the same thing to Devon, except—except when he touched me, something changed. I changed.”
    Lydia was stunned. She'd read of such doings in the penny dreadfuls, but she'd certainly never encountered a perpetrator. For a long interval she just gaped at Polly in wonderment.
    â€œYou've got to tell him the truth,” she finally said, when Polly began to snuffle again.
    Polly shook her head wildly. “No. And don't you tell him, either. He'd throw me out in the street!”
    Lydia had a hard time imagining such a scene, although there could be no doubt that Devon would be furiously hurt when he learned of the deception.
    Polly approached, gripped Lydia hard by the shoulders. “You won't breathe a word of what I've said!” she cried in a hoarse whisper, the words forming both an angry plea and a piteous question.
    Rising, Lydia shrugged away the other woman's hold, forcing Polly to step back. Lydia's dignity was one of the few graces left to her. “I can't promise that I won't speak up,” she said evenly. She was still human enough, she noted, for an unseemly sense of triumph to race through her spirit, making her drunk with the knowledge that Devon was unmarried after all. This was fleeting, though, for Lydia knew he loved Polly, she'd seen it too clearly.
    Polly's hazel eyes filled with tears. “Dear God, he'll never forgive me,” she whispered brokenly.
    Lydia had no way of knowing whether that was true or not. She touched Polly's arm in an effort to lend some small reassurance, and