by Jo Goodman
The opportunity presented itself sooner than he expected. She stepped into his circle, closer than arm’s length, and tilted her head upward. Her smile was shy, but her eyes were confident. He was prepared to drown in those unfathomable depths, but she took his hand and saved him from himself.
The ceremony was a civil one, performed by the Honorable Judge Richard Miner, the same judge who liked to play cards at the Boxwood, the one Phoebe failed to meet when he came to their table. He presided with a solemn, dignified air that he was rarely inclined to use from the bench, but then he was rarely as sober as a judge on those occasions.
He did right by them, articulating each word so they could repeat their vows clearly and with conviction. Some guests thought he sounded as if he were handing down a sentence, and some among them who were married, perhaps not as happily as others, thought a sentence described marriage exactly as it was.
Neither Phoebe nor Remington shared that view, at least not its undesirable connotations, and when it was time to give her the ring, Thaddeus had it at the ready. Remington took it from the heart of his father’s open palm at the same time he raised Phoebe’s hand. She held her gaze steady, her eyes awash with sudden tears. His own vision was a little misty. “My mother’s,” he whispered, slipping the gold band on her finger.
There were more words, then. Traditional words. Phoebe’s hand was warm in his, and only he knew there was a delicate tremble in her fingers. Only she knew how hard he had to swallow before he spoke.
Buggies and wagons were still arriving as Judge Miner called for the kiss in the manner of a man lowering his gavel. To the delight of everyone, Remington swung his bride back over one arm and made the moment a memory that would last. She gasped. He chuckled. The kiss began with a matched pair of smiles, a bit secretive, more than a bit wicked. There was whooping and hollering. Young girls blushed. Young boys stared open-mouthed and envious. Thaddeus caught Fiona by the waist and pulled her close, and when the kiss did not end in a timely manner, Johnny Sutton began a round of foot stomping and clapping that others quickly picked up.
It was like thunder in Phoebe’s ears, but Remington barely heard it above the pounding of his heart.
They were both laughing a little breathlessly when Remington ended the kiss and they were finally standing side by side. Judge Miner introduced the couple to another round of applause and, having completed his duties, called out for someone to tap a keg and be quick about it.
There was no formal receiving line, but it seemed to Phoebe that everyone, or nearly everyone, sought them out to wish them well. She glimpsed Ellie Madison several times, usually in a clutch of people that included Ben and at least one of the other hands. She understood why Ellie did not approach. With Fiona and Thaddeus standing close by, Ellie’s presence would have been, at the very least, awkward, and perhaps unwanted, and while all parties would have been on their best behavior, there was no good reason to tempt a drama.
Phoebe promised herself she would seek Ellie out later and make sure she was properly welcomed. Even Fiona had expressed feeling charitable toward Ellie of late; it was Thaddeus who, by his stony silence, communicated disapproval.
Remington inclined his head a few degrees toward Phoebe and whispered out of the side of his mouth. “If one more person congratulates me with a hearty clap on the back, I’m going to slug him.” The words were hardly out of his mouth when Jackson Brewer sidled up and did just that. Remington smiled through gritted teeth. “I am sorely tempted,” he said.
Only Phoebe understood what he meant and she ignored him in favor of greeting Addie Brewer, who she recalled was Remington’s first love when he was a student in her classroom. Those school days became fodder for some good-natured ribbing at Remington’s expense until Jackson swept his wife away.
Phoebe slipped her arm through her husband’s. “You bore that very well. And no one was slugged. I credit your deep well of patience.”
“Uh-huh.” He underscored his dry response with an even drier look.
Thaddeus closed in just then. “The dancing’s about to begin as long as you begin it. Les has his fiddle out. Hank Greely brought his and Bob Washburn has his banjo. I told them to set up on the porch.”
People parted around them as soon as Les Brownlee scratched out the first few notes tuning his instrument. When the playing began in earnest, Remington and Phoebe were ready.
It occurred to Phoebe that they had never danced together, but that did not seem to matter. Without knowing the steps or the tune or even if she would ever catch her breath again, she held him, held on, and followed his lead through a series of spins and dips and sashays that were unlike anything she had known. It was not long before Fiona and Thaddeus joined them, and then the sheriff and his wife, and soon the center of the front yard was filled with a kaleidoscope of color as men twirled their ladies and the ladies twirled their skirts. There was enough stomping to shake the ground and enough raucous laughter to wake the dead.
Phoebe changed partners frequently, beginning when Thaddeus caught her in his arms. At first she looked wildly around to make sure Fiona was not abandoned, but then she saw Remington stepping in with no hesitation and Fiona accepting in the same manner.
Thaddeus saw the direction of her glance. “They’ll be fine. Have you noticed? It is better every day.”
Phoebe nodded because speaking would have meant losing her rhythm. She was not as confident of Thaddeus’s lead as she had been of Remington’s.
“I am to be congratulated, of course,” he said. “Fiona called me a shadkhn. Am I saying that right?”
Phoebe nodded again.
“I thought she was cursing me at first, and perhaps she was. She didn’t think Remington was right for you, or you for him, but I knew. I knew from the first. And that was when I met you in New York, not when I saw the two of you together. Not bad, I think, for an old man.”
Before Phoebe could think of a response, let alone manage one, she found herself in the sheriff’s arms. And so it went from partner to partner until Remington caught her again and twirled her out of the center of the circle to the edge of it. Someone—she did not know who—put a glass of beer in her hand and she drank it with the gusto of a cowboy bellying up to the bar after months on the range.
Remington lifted the glass from her hand and finished it. He passed off the empty glass to someone walking by. “You’re flushed,” he said, looking her over. “And quite beautiful with it. Come on, we can sneak away for a few minutes while you catch your breath.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, turned her, and gave her a nudge toward the side of the house. Once she was moving in that direction, he took a beer from Arnie, who was holding one in each hand.
“Hey!” Arnie called after Remington, watching his beer being carried away.
Remington looked back over his shoulder and grinned. “Thanks.” He rounded the corner of the house, the relatively quiet corner, and found Phoebe leaning against the roughly timbered wall. “Here,” he said, giving her the beer. “Go easy. It’s early yet, the sun’s out, there will be more dancing, and you don’t want to stagger at your own wedding. That’s for other people to do.”
She thanked him and raised the glass. This time she was not greedy with the drink. She let him wipe a foam mustache from her upper lip. “I’ve seen more than a few no-chins. You?”
“Yes.”
“I danced with some. One of them had a poorly set nose. I could barely stop staring.”
“I know. I saw. And I didn’t like it.”
“Jealous? Or concerned for my toes?”
“Jealous,” he said. “And concerned for your safety.”
“Remington. What did you think could happen?”
“Remember the catastrophes you imagined when you were alone in Old Man McCauley’s cabin? It was like that.” When she laughed instead of offering sympathy, he confiscated the beer and enjoyed two large
swallows before he passed it back. “Did any of them introduce themselves?”
“Tim Brownlee. He’s Les’s youngest brother. Another was a cousin. Ned Washington. Oh, and the flat bridge was a Putty, or a Petty. I can’t be sure. He did not mention any connection to Les. He mumbled, and he was nearly as breathless as I was. Hoyle. Doyle. Royal. He did enjoy the dancing, though. You know, I had the oddest sense that I’d seen him before. It can’t have been on the train, so I don’t know where it could have been. I wasn’t prepared for that. I’ll have to think about it.”
“I don’t believe for a moment that his last name is Petty, and neither do you. I’m going to keep an eye on him.” He set his hands on either side of her shoulders and bent his head to steal a kiss.
Phoebe touched her mouth with her fingertips. “More beer foam?”
“Nope. I was just hankerin’ for a taste of your fine lips.”
She laughed. “Fool.”
He shrugged, helped himself to a second tasting, and then stepped back. “Did you see Ellie?”
“I did, but not who she brought. I want to be certain to speak to her and thank her for coming. I won’t let on that I know the reason she’s not working here any longer.”
“She probably thinks we both know.”
“I don’t care. I’m not going to confirm it and embarrass her.” She took another sip of beer and then placed the glass against her forehead. The beer was warm but glass felt cool against her skin. “Did you ever ask Thaddeus about Ellie being bought out by her husband’s partners?”
“Odd you’d ask me now. I just mentioned it to him the other day when we were banished because Mrs. Fish was here for your fitting. He said it was too long ago for him to remember the details, but that it sounded right.”
Phoebe frowned. “Thaddeus said he didn’t remember the details?”
“I know. That sounded wrong to me, too.”
“Hmm.”
“I let it go. It didn’t seem as if anything good would come of challenging him.” He saw Phoebe was about to respond, but before she could, Mrs. Packer rounded the corner and their marginal sense of privacy was gone. The housekeeper set her hands on wide hips and took a militant stance. It was very different than what Ellie would have done, but it was equally effective. “We’re coming, Mrs. Packer.”
“See that you do. Your guests are milling about the tables looking to help themselves. The children can barely contain themselves, and I don’t like shooin’ them away. Poor dears. It isn’t right. Come and get yourselves a plate so folks can have a bite before their bellies are full of liquor.” She started to turn, stopped, “Oh, and there’s a young fella looking for you. He was talking up Thaddeus and Fiona the last I saw him, and I think he’s already been into the blueberry pie.”
Remington and Phoebe exchanged surprised, then knowing, glances before they returned their attention to Mrs. Packer. They said his name at the same time. “Handy McKenzie.”
Chapter Forty
“Damn if I didn’t dance with her.” Doyle practically cackled with glee. He poked his brother in the ribs with his elbow. “Did you see? Didn’t think I did too badly. At least I wasn’t stepping all over her toes. Caught her gown once, but she just swept it aside and kept on goin’. You gotta like a gal who can do that.”
Willet dug Doyle’s elbow out of his side and pushed his brother away. “That hurts. You gotta stop jabbing at me. I get what you’re sayin’ without the physicality.”
“Physicality. Huh. I like that. You read that somewhere, Willet?”
“Shut up,” he said tiredly. “How much have you had to drink? I saw you posing for a photograph with some young gal on your arm. You think that’s wise?”
“Don’t you worry about me.” Doyle lifted his hat, raked his hair, and set the hat back. “You see her?”
Willet didn’t ask who “her” was. He knew. “Sure did. More important, I saw who’s with her.”
“Huh? Doyle looked around before he recalled Ellie Madison’s diminutive stature. The press of people around the tables, the roasting spit, and the liquor bar was too thick for him to find her without standing on tiptoes or stepping up to the porch. He gave up, trusted that Willet would tell him. “So? You gonna keep me on pins and needles?”
“Natty’s here.”
“What?” In contrast to Willet’s quiet answer, Doyle’s response was loud enough to turn heads.
“Would you mind yourself?” Willet hissed. “You damn well heard me so there’s no point in asking ‘what’ like you don’t know what I said. And I don’t care if it surprised you, keep it to yourself.”
“What’s he doin’ here?” asked Doyle. “He see you? You talk to him?”
“I don’t know if he’s seen me. I’ve been doin’ my best to stay clear, so you better believe I haven’t talked to him.”
“Damn.”
“I really wish you hadn’t danced with the bride, Doyle. Kinda hard to believe he didn’t see that.”
Doyle shrugged. It was done and there was nothing he could do about it. “Where is he now? I don’t see him.”
“He’s got a beard. Looks a mite different than you’re used to.”
“A beard, eh? Don’t reckon I’ve ever known him to have one.” Doyle didn’t think the beard was particularly important in locating their former partner. In contrast to Ellie Madison’s petite stature, Natty Rahway was almost six feet and should have been easy to spot. “Damn, where’d he get to?”
“I don’t know. I lost him. Ellie, too. They could have gone inside the house. Maybe the barn. I noticed Ellie hasn’t been much for helping, so I asked about it. Casual-like, you know. Seems she left Twin Star. Not long ago, but she’s here as a guest. She took a job at the Butterworth Hotel.”
“The Butterworth. Huh. Ain’t that somethin’?” He thought about it a little longer. “Why d’you suppose she did that?”
“Couldn’t say. But I have a mind to ask when we cross paths. And we will. I’ll make damn sure of it.”
• • •
Phoebe sank into the chair that Handy pushed against the backs of her knees. “Thank you. Oh, sweet Lord, thank you.”
Handy stepped around the chair so she could see him and gave her a wide toothy grin. “You want I should get you something to eat? To drink?”
“No.” The thought of eating or drinking anything at this point in the day made her slightly queasy. She had had her fill three times over, and in spite of the chemisette she was wearing under her corset, the stays were gouging her.
The sun had dipped behind the mountains and dusk was settling. There was a group of guests who left in the late afternoon, most of them with children in tow, but there were still dozens and dozens of people congregating in small groups of three and four, grazing at the long tables, dancing around the bonfire that Scooter and Ralph built where the spits had been. Les Brownlee and his fellow fiddlers were indefatigable with a seemingly endless repertoire of melodies at their fingertips. No one had been able to call out a song they couldn’t play, or at least one they couldn’t make up.
“Have you seen my husband?” Phoebe asked Handy. She liked saying “my husband” and used it whenever she could instead of his given name.
“I saw him go into the bunkhouse a while ago. Some fellows hustled him in there. Wedding shenanigans, Mrs. Tyler said, but I think there might be a card game. Leastways I heard Mr. Tyler say so, and he’s gotta nose for sniffin’ out a card game.”
Phoebe looked around and saw that Ben, Scooter, Ralph, Arnie, and Johnny all seemed to have disappeared. Most likely it was shenanigans, but she said, “Cards? At my wedding reception?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Phoebe could not muster the energy to affect even mild annoyance. She patted the bench beside her chair. “Sit here, Handy. Is Mr. Tyler in there with my husband?”
“No. His missus got a firm g
rip on his arm and steered him away.”
She sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to learn how to do that.”
“Oh, I think it’ll come to you natural, and ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t think Mr. Frost is going to give you much trouble.”
Phoebe couldn’t help laughing. Handy entertained her for quite a while, mostly with stories about his experiences at the Boxwood, and many of those were about Mrs. Jacob C. Tyler, who had returned to Saint Louis three days before the wedding announcement appeared in the paper. Except for those times when guests came by to introduce themselves and extend more good wishes, Handy happily chattered on.
Thaddeus strolled over. He pulled out a handkerchief as he sat beside Handy and wiped his brow. “I swear to you, dancing has me more tuckered than a week of roping and wrestling calves.” He pointed to Fiona, who was high stepping with a new partner. “She has not lacked for attention since the music began. I know it’s your wedding, Phoebe, but this is your mother’s coming-out party. I should have had some kind of shindig when I brought her out here.” He tucked his handkerchief away and looked around. “Speaking of inattentive and cloddish husbands, where is yours?”
“In the bunkhouse, according to Handy. I think your men are plying him with drink and feeding him the kind of wedding night stories that are not fit for female ears. It’s all right, though. He’ll tell me later.”
Thaddeus laughed. “Handy, if you would be so kind, I sure could use a beer.” Handy launched himself off the bench before Thaddeus could tell the boy he wasn’t to sample any of the drink.
Phoebe watched Fiona twirl like a dervish with her partner’s expert guidance. She lifted her chin in that direction. “Who is he?”
