they were at Mrs. Hattie’s Boardinghouse.
Eliza reached forward and pulled the door open. Once they’d entered and she’d closed the door behind them, Eliza said, “She answered your mail-order bride advertisement. Only you didn’t know it was her—you thought it was me.”
He allowed himself to be tugged into a sitting room. The furniture was a little worn, but everything looked clean and in its rightful place. Her last words sunk in, and Jackson pulled his arm free of her. He’d not placed any mail-order bride ad and had no intention of marrying Mrs. Kelly or her friend Hannah. Just when he opened his mouth to say so she interrupted again.
“Oh, I’m making a mess of this, aren’t I?” Before he could agree or disagree, she continued. “Sit right there.” She indicated a rocking chair by the front window. “And I’ll go get the tea.” Her skirts made a soft swishing sound as she hurried away.
Did the woman ever stop talking? Jackson watched her disappear down a short hallway before he eased into the chair and took a deep breath. The smells of baking bread filled the air and his stomach growled in response.
What had he gotten himself into? He was in a strange town, without enough money to make it to Silverton, with a fast-talking woman who didn’t make sense. He rested his aching head in his hands and sighed.
“It’s not that bad,” Eliza said as she reentered the room. “I know you were expecting to get married today but—”
“What?” Jackson raised his head and looked at the woman. The sudden action sent new pain through his temples, and he groaned aloud. She’d taken off the silly bird hat, and dark brown hair curled about her face. A very pretty face. He still had no intention of getting married. As soon as she settled down, Jackson planned on telling her so in the nicest way he knew how.
He’d not be ruled by another woman.
“I am sorry, Mr. Thatcher.” She continued forward with a tea serving tray extended before her. “Since I didn’t write the letters, I would think you’d understand that I can’t marry you. I know this has to be a disappointment to you.”
Jackson held up his hand to silence her incisive chatter and tell her he was far from disappointed. He was surprised when the action worked. She placed the tea set and sandwiches on the table in front of him and waited.
The calluses on his hands scratched his cheeks as he ran them over his face. He shut his eyes for a brief moment to gather his thoughts and figure out a way to break the news to her. If only his head would stop hurting.
Jackson sighed and looked her in the eyes. “You have the wrong man.”
She picked up the teakettle and opened her mouth to speak.
He quickly raised his hand again to stop the flood of words that he was sure would be forthcoming. “My name is Jackson Hart, and I’m a blacksmith headed to Silverton, Colorado. I’m not your Mr. Thatcher.”
The metal teakettle slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. Hot tea splashed his legs and boots.
Chapter Two
Eliza placed a finger against the throbbing pulse in her neck and felt the color drain from her face. Her stomach did a flopping thing, and her hands shook. For the second time today, she felt as if she were going to be sick. Her mind frantically worked to make sense of his words. If he wasn’t Mr. Miles Thatcher, then who was he?
It abruptly dawned on her that she’d dragged a complete stranger into Mrs. Hattie’s boardinghouse.
Her gaze moved to his boots and pant legs. A dark stain ran down his limbs, and liquid pooled at his feet. “I am so sorry. You must think me a complete fool.” She picked up the teapot and saw a crack across the bottom. “Oh, I’ve ruined Mrs. Hattie’s teapot, your boots and pants. What more can I ruin today?”
Hattie hurried from the kitchen, carrying a dishcloth. “Are you all right?” she asked Eliza. Her eyes swept the room and landed on Jackson and the pool of tea he now stood in.
Tears sprung to Eliza’s eyes. “I’m fine, but I’ve made quite a mess of things.” A sob tore from her lips as she covered her face to hide her shame.
His clear deep voice echoed the statement she’d said to him earlier. “It’s not that bad, Mrs. Kelly.” When she uncovered her face, he continued. “I can take the pot to the nearest blacksmith and he’ll fix it up. Boots can be wiped off and pants washed, so see? No harm done.”
Hattie patted her shoulder. “He’s right. I have another teakettle and we can clean up this spill in no time.”
No harm done? Who was he kidding? She’d dragged him from the train station and rambled on about being a mail-order bride. And to make matters worse, she had no idea where the real Mr. Thatcher was or what he looked like.
She studied the man before her. How could she have mistaken him for a scholar? He was big, taller than her by at least a foot. Large sinewy hands and brawny arms marked him as a man who was used to physical labor. Guarded cobalt-blue eyes stared back at her. Fresh flames of heat licked up her neck and into her cheeks.
Eliza jumped to her feet. “I have to find the real Mr. Thatcher. I’m so sorry to have caused this inconvenience, Mr. Hart. If you will excuse me.” Hoping she hadn’t sounded as breathless as he made her feel, she hurried from the room and scooped her hat from the kitchen table. She took a couple of deep breaths before returning to the main room.
Eliza didn’t want to face Jackson Hart again but knew she’d have to go back through the main sitting room to exit the house. She exhaled and slowly walked back the way she’d come.
Hattie was wiping up the mess, and Jackson Hart still stood where he’d been a few moments ago. A bewildered expression rested on his handsome face. He held his hat in his hands and stared down at the mess she’d made.
She hurried across the room and yanked the door open to escape. Her shoes pounded the wooden sidewalk. It wasn’t until she was halfway to the train station that Eliza and her heartbeat slowed down.
Eliza stopped and tried to picture the train station as it had appeared when she’d dragged Mr. Hart away. She closed her eyes and focused, recreating the memory in her mind. Jackson Hart had been standing beside the platform with a pained expression on his face. She’d thought he looked lost. Her gaze had scanned the train yard. Seeing no other passengers emerge from the train, she’d assumed he was Miles Thatcher.
She sighed and opened her eyes. Maybe Mr. Thatcher had changed his mind and hadn’t come. Or maybe she hadn’t waited long enough for him to have exited from the train. What if he was lost and searching for her? He could be anywhere, she thought.
“He’s probably long gone by now.”
Eliza jumped at the sound of Jackson’s voice so close to her elbow. How long had he been standing behind her? Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, she turned to face him.
“You’re probably right.” The cracked teakettle dangled from his hand, and she reached for it. “I’ll take that to the blacksmith. I’m the one who broke it. I should be the one to get it fixed.”
He shook his head. “I’ll take it—I have business there, anyway.”
Nerves
