by Jo Goodman
Nothing was sure. No one could know for certain that the men they were seeking would be among the guests, or if they were, whether or not they might allow themselves to be photographed. There was no proof that the no-chins were part of the Putty clan. It seemed unlikely that the men who had worn the blue bandannas would appear at a reception with those same kerchiefs dangling from their back pockets.
And yet, they were hopeful. If Les Brownlee had accurately described the antics of the Puttys, there was a good chance they’d be drawn to an event that promised an opportunity to get liquored up and carry on. There would be dancing, carousing, plenty of food, a fair number of single women, and what might prove to be the irresistible urge to rub elbows with Phoebe Apple and the law. There would be a certain kind of satisfaction in getting close to her, perhaps even asking her to dance, confident in their anonymity. They’d see Jackson Brewer among the guests, maybe have a laugh behind his back, viewing him as the hapless sheriff who couldn’t track them down. It was easy to imagine them exchanging elbow jabs when they saw Remington Frost and recalled that he had been so helpless to stop them on the train that they had not cared whether they stepped on or over him.
Those were the behaviors Remington and Phoebe hoped to see, the reactions that could place them apart from others and make them worth watching as the evening wore on. No one was particularly worried that they would be an excess of trouble. Few guests would arrive wearing or carrying guns, and those that did would have them taken and put up to prevent mishaps. Breaking with what Phoebe had called a Frost tradition, this was not a shotgun wedding.
• • •
“He ain’t to be found,” Doyle said. He knuckled the flat bridge of his nose. “You know what I’m thinking, Willet. I’m thinking we was lied to.”
“Uh-huh,” Willet said mildly. “Seems so.” The newspaper rattled in his hands as he shook out the creases to give it a new fold. He largely ignored his brother, which was easier to do when Natty wasn’t around.
Doyle gave Willet a sour look before he heaved a sigh and leaned back on the wooden bench they occupied. The Harmony train station was hardly bigger than an outhouse. When he stretched his legs, the toes of his dusty boots touched the base of stationmaster’s counter. The stationmaster was no longer at his post but had stepped outside to smoke. Doyle could see flakes of tobacco and ashes dusting the floor so it was clear the old man didn’t always smoke out on the platform, but it suited Doyle just fine that the stationmaster didn’t seem to care for present company. Doyle didn’t much care for anyone at the moment either, including his brother, who had about as much to offer to their present dilemma as a side of beef. “Can’t believe the whore lied,” he said, mostly to himself. There was a large slate hanging on the wall behind the counter with the train schedule neatly printed in chalk. For lack of anything better to look at, Doyle stared at it. “Cashdollar. What the hell kind of name is Cashdollar? Fabricated. That’s what it is. A fabrication. You know what a fabrication is, Willet?”
Willet did not look up from behind his paper. “A goddamn lie?”
“That’s right. It’s a goddamn lie. She made it up, right there on the spot. There was money on her bureau. Bills. Cash. Dollar. See? Cashdollar. It probably inspired her. She died with a lie on her lips. She’ll have to answer for that when judgment’s passed. I reckon a lot of other things, too, her bein’ a whore and all.”
“There’s that.”
Doyle set his folded arms across his chest. “You figure she lied to them? The deputy? Frost? The Apple girl?”
“Maybe.”
“Then they don’t know any more than we do.”
“And maybe not,” said Willet.
Doyle’s hands curled into fists. “Damnit, Willet, I’ve got a good mind to put my fist through that paper, and if it connects with your face, then . . .” He shrugged. “You see where I’m goin’ here?”
Willet lowered the paper, gave it another shake, and folded it neatly into eighths. He held it out for Doyle to take, the item of interest centered on top. When Doyle showed no interest, Willet waved it in front of his face.
Doyle snarled, snatched the broadsheet as if it offended him, and held it almost at arm’s length to see. He still had to squint. He read it through quickly the first time and was nearly at the end when he understood the import of what he was reading. Once he did, he began again, more slowly. His lips moved as he read. When he was done, his lips moved around words that were not on the page.
“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” he whispered. “They’re gettin’ hitched.”
“Yep.”
“Am I readin’ this right? Open invitation? Friends, family, town folk, friends and relatives of town folk, friends and relatives of folks associated with Twin Star. That’d be merchants and breeders and stockmen. Lord, from what I’m seein’, it could be the whole damn county.”
“Yep.”
“Les is there.”
“Uh-huh.” Willet held out his hand for the paper.
Doyle slapped it into his palm. “Seems like we could go regardless, but havin’ Les there makes it better, I think. More . . .” He paused, searching for the right word. “Genuine. Like we have more reason to be there than other folks.”
“Don’t know about that.” Willet flicked the article with a fingertip. “It says right here that everyone’s welcome to come celebrate the nuptials. Real friendly.”
“Real quick, too. Saturday. Kinda makes you wonder why. Could be there’s some urgency. Maybe there’s really a baby on the way this time.” He shook his head. “She pulled the wool over our eyes on the train, and damn, but I hate to be taken for a fool. I wanted to drive my fist into her belly when I heard the truth.”
“Hope that’s behind you, Doyle. That’s not the sort of thing you’ll be able to do in front of witnesses, and I figure there will be a couple hundred of them there.”
Doyle shrugged. “Maybe not, but it warms me some to think about it. You reckon she’ll be there?”
“She’s the bride. Of course she’ll be there.”
“No, I mean Ellie Madison. Aren’t you curious how she’ll be if we show ourselves?”
“Not exactly curious,” said Willet. “But I figure this wedding is a fine opportunity to remind her how things stand. That’s a woman you don’t want gettin’ ideas in her head and speakin’ out of turn. She’s a loose end.”
“So that’s your game.”
Willet nodded. “You have somethin’ else in mind?”
“Maybe.” Doyle pointed to the newspaper in Willet’s hand. “You gotta figure that if they paid for the gal when she was just Miss Phoebe Apple, they’d pay that and more once she’s Mrs. Remington Frost.”
• • •
Phoebe brushed bits of hay off the bodice and skirt of her calico day dress and knocked Remington’s hand out of the way when he tried to pluck more bits out of her hair. “Attend to yourself,” she said, giving him a withering glance.
More amused than chastised, Remington finger-combed his hair and brushed stray pieces of hay off his shoulders, some of which drifted onto her dress.
Phoebe pointed to a spot three feet distant. “Move over there. You’re making it worse.” When Remington merely grinned, she scooted sideways. “I don’t know how I let myself get talked into coming up here with you.”
“Sweet talk. I sweet-talked you into it.”
“Yes,” she said dryly. “That must be it.” The smile he turned on her was a shade wicked, and Phoebe was reminded that talking, sweet or otherwise, had nothing at all to do with why she was in the barn loft. “You know, you’re getting to be as good as Johnny Sutton at shirking work.”
“I know. The boy is an inspiration.”
Phoebe tossed a handful of hay at him. “Work on that.”
Remington’s attempt was haphazard at best before he gave up. Leaning back, he stretched out comfortab
ly and supported himself on his elbows while he watched her. “Ben mentioned in passing that his mother is coming to the wedding.”
“I know. Fiona told me. He must have said something to Thaddeus.”
“Actually, I did, but that’s neither here nor there. Thaddeus had hoped Ellie would find a reason not to come, but he’s not going to insist she stay away. Ben still doesn’t know why his mother left—not the truth—and my father wants to keep it that way as long as Ellie does.”
“I’m glad she’ll be here, and only a little bit of that is because of Ben. I like Ellie, and I’m sorry it all ended so badly for her. I imagine that if I had a rival for your affections, I’d offer her money to leave, too.”
“A lot of money?”
“Enough to purchase the pine box I’d put her in.”
He laughed then sobered abruptly. “Wait. You’re serious.”
Phoebe merely raised an eyebrow.
“Well, that’s something to think about.” He batted away the next handful of hay that she tossed at him. “What did Fiona have to say about Ellie coming?”
“Interestingly, she wasn’t bothered at all.”
“So there won’t be a cat fight.”
“You probably should not sound disappointed when you say that.”
“Noted.” Watching her, he cocked his head to one side. Her meticulous grooming fascinated him. He could imagine her sitting at a vanity, her gaze looking past her reflection to where he sat on the bed. Maybe she was preparing to join him, or perhaps she was repairing the plait of hair he had unwound when she was lying beside him. It struck him anew how truly lovely she was, how indifferent she was to it, how unaffected. He couldn’t say when she had ceased to make unfavorable comparisons to Fiona, only that it had happened. She believed him when he told her she was beautiful, but she liked it better when he said she was clever.
He was tempted to test those waters as she plucked a long hay stem out of her hair, but he said nothing about the fact that she beguiled him. She was certainly astute enough to divine he wanted a chance at a second tumble. He picked up the piece of hay she dropped aside and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger.
“You know,” he said casually, “if you’d married me in Liberty Junction, you wouldn’t have to say your vows in front of a packed house on Saturday.”
“I’m aware. I’ve played for an audience before, so I know I’ll be fine, but I’m thinking you might have stage fright.”
“Maybe, but to be clear, we are not playing at anything. This is real.”
Unconcerned that she was burrowing into the hay again, Phoebe threw herself at him with enough force to drop him off his elbows. She cupped his face and kept it still while hovering above him. “I know this is real. Never doubt it. Perhaps I should not have offered our wedding reception as a means to capture Blue’s murderers, but it’s done and I’m unlikely to have regrets if we’re successful. As for the wedding itself, I have no regrets. None. Ever.”
She kissed him on the mouth. It surprised neither of them that this kiss lingered. And lingered.
Without quite knowing how it happened or what he had done to provoke it, Remington got his chance at a second tumble. He took it.
Chapter Thirty-nine
People began arriving shortly after the noon hour. They came, not bearing gifts for the couple, but cold side dishes and desserts. Scooter Banks and Ralph Neighbors were in charge of the spits where the sides of beef had been turning since early that morning. The aroma of roasting meat wafted in the air and guests caught the scent of it before they sighted the ranch house.
Johnny Sutton, much to his dismay, had labored alone for days constructing enough sawhorses to support a dozen long tables. Fiona insisted on covering the rough wooden planks with blue-and-white-checked cloths. She filled jars and pitchers and little tin pails with wildflowers she’d collected and arranged them carefully on the table tops, each equidistant from the next. Phoebe doubted the waitstaff at Delmonico’s took such pains to be precise, but watching Fiona being mindful of every detail had the power to blur her vision. She ducked behind the curtains in the front room before anyone saw her peeking out.
There was a general cacophony coming from the kitchen. In addition to the very recent hire of a housekeeper, the widowed mother of Jackson Brewer’s wife, Fiona was also paying for the services of three young women from town to assist with the reception. Mrs. Packer, a straight-backed, no-nonsense sort of woman who would have been comfortable wearing epaulets on her shoulders and brass buttons on her cuirass bodice, kept the girls busy and attentive to their tasks when she was in the room. When she stepped away, they tended to snarl and hiss at one another like cats trapped in a bag. Mrs. Packer was away from them now. Pots banged. Dishes clattered. Someone squealed. Phoebe avoided the kitchen.
The parlor was deserted. She stepped inside, closed the pocket doors behind her, and leaned back against them. She closed her eyes. Outside there was a swell of sound as more guests arrived. The back door opened and closed and opened and closed. Women came and went with their baskets. She could hear Mrs. Packer trying to organize the chaos, directing which platters needed to be taken out and which required to be placed on ice. Phoebe recognized Arnie Wilver’s strident voice inquiring of someone if it was time to tap a keg. A chorus of women, Fiona among them, informed him the answer was no.
Phoebe looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. She and Remington were supposed to exchange vows at one thirty. She had forty-five minutes to dress. Fiona had arranged her hair earlier, swept it up in a full pompadour so that it framed her face and sat high over her forehead. Where it was upswept around the sides and back, Fiona had dotted it with seed pearls that she’d picked out of an old necklace and painstakingly glued in her hair. It was a stunning look, Phoebe agreed, but she couldn’t help wondering if hay stems wouldn’t be easier to remove and better suited to a wedding where the men were wearing boots, the woman were wearing banded straw hats, and cows were roasting on spits. She kept this thought to herself. Fiona would have argued that, as the bride, she was expected to occupy center stage. Phoebe was sure that was about to happen.
She was wearing all the appropriate undergarments beneath her robe. Her white silk stockings were held up by ice blue garters, the exact shade of her tightly laced corset. She wore a sheer chemisette under the corset and a frothy, silk taffeta petticoat that rustled with her every step. The rustling sound was oddly seductive and it gave her a little thrill to know that at some point this evening that sound would be for Remington’s ears alone.
The knock behind her made the doors rattle. Phoebe jumped away then turned quickly to hold them closed. “Who’s there?” She was tempted to peek but didn’t dare.
“It’s me.”
“You can’t be here, Remington.”
“Why not? I can’t even see you.” He played with the doors, but it was more in the way of teasing her than out of any real attempt to part them. “Are you dressed?”
“Of course I’m dressed.”
“Mrs. Packer says the last time she saw you, you were still in your robe.”
“Which means I’m dressed.” She could hear him bang his forehead against the doors. She glanced back at the clock. “I have time. Besides, the last I looked, people were still arriving.”
“Sure, and they’ll keep on arriving all afternoon. You have to understand that the early folks are mostly good friends who want to observe the marriage rites; the stragglers will be here for the revelry.”
“I heard Arnie ask if he could tap a keg.”
“Then you probably heard the response. No serious drinking until anyone carrying has his gun put up and we’ve said ‘I do.’ They’re passing flasks, but they’re also getting anxious.”
Phoebe spoke directly into the narrow crack between the doors. “So am I, Remington. I’m wondering if we shouldn’t get married in here.”
&nbs
p; “I’m sending in Fiona,” he said in a voice that brooked no argument. “Unless you want someone else. Ellie’s here. She brought someone with her, which was good of her when you think about it. They look handsome together. Would it be better to send her?”
Phoebe shook her head before she realized he couldn’t see her. “No. Not Ellie. I want my mother.”
• • •
Remington held his breath as the front door opened. He was aware of silence rolling through the gathering as one by one people stopped talking and turned their attention to the porch. Standing at his side, Thaddeus whispered a caution. “You’re about to take the ride of your life.”
Remington was sure that was true.
She was something more than enchanting. When Phoebe stepped off the shaded porch and into the sunshine, she was very nearly ethereal. Light wreathed her hair; the seed pearls turned opalescent. A becoming blush colored her cheeks pink. Her lips were a darker shade of rose. Remington suspected she had been worrying them up until the moment she opened the door, and that she had found the courage to come out anyway, made him smile.
Her white silk dress fairly gleamed as she approached. In spite of everyone’s efforts, the carpet of grass the ranch hands had laid down had been trampled to virtually nothing, and the hem and train of the gown stirred puffs of dust where they dragged the ground. The cone-shaped skirt, supported by a rustling taffeta petticoat, flared wide and swung softly from side to side with each step.
The bodice fit her as closely as a kid glove, emphasizing the waist he could almost circle with his hands. From elbow to wrist, the sleeves were tight, but from shoulder to elbow they ballooned in the leg-o’-mutton style that was both fashionable and elegant.
There was an appliqué of beadwork in the bodice that extended into the skirt, a long curlicue that twisted and swirled until it disappeared into the folds of the gown. It teased the eye, winking and sparkling. It glittered, but no more than the flecks of gold in Phoebe’s green eyes. That’s where Remington’s real attention was drawn. The first chance he had, he promised he would lose himself in those eyes.
