RNWMP: Bride for Joel

by Amelia C. Adams

  “Yes, but they’re famous now,” Richard said. “Some people strive their whole lives for that kind of fame and never achieve it.”

  She laughed. “I suppose you’re right.”

  They walked along the edge of the woods, and Richard pointed out some of the different species of flowers Violet hadn’t studied yet. She, in turn, named the ones she knew that were specific to the Northwest Territories and weren’t found near Ottawa.

  As they continued, she paused for a moment, appearing to listen. “I don’t hear any birds,” she commented.

  “They know it’s bedtime,” he replied. “For that matter, we should be turning in too. I have an early shift tomorrow—don’t worry about making me breakfast.”

  “What if I told you I already did?” She turned to him, her eyes filled with mirth.

  “You did?”

  “There’s plenty of bread, and the chicken in the icebox is all yours.” She seemed so proud of herself—it was adorable.

  Richard couldn’t help himself. He reached out and lifted her chin slightly with the tip of his finger. “This is what I like to see,” he said.

  “I’m . . . sorry?”

  “Your eyes are sparkling, you’re smiling—you’re a beautiful woman, Violet Murray.” As he spoke the words, a tingle rushed through his finger and up his arm. He hadn’t expected to feel so attracted to her so quickly, but he did, and he rather liked the feeling.

  “I’ve never been told I was beautiful before. I like being called Violet Murray, though.” She seemed embarrassed, and he hoped he hadn’t done anything to ruin their budding relationship.

  “That’s your name now, isn’t it?”

  “It is. I just haven’t heard it used yet.”

  He took her hand again and squeezed it. “I like it too,” he said softly.

  They returned to the cabin, and he bid Violet goodnight. Then he lay on the sofa for hours, knowing he had to sleep or he’d be no good the next day, and yet, he couldn’t stop marveling at the transformation his wife had undergone. He couldn’t wait to spend more time with this new young woman who had emerged.

  ***

  Mrs. Dandy was extremely helpful to Violet when she went over to the general store the next day. Richard had left so quietly, Violet hadn’t even heard him, and she was grateful for it. After being awakened the night before by the light in the sky, she’d needed some extra sleep, and when she woke up at eight, she felt much better, although mortified at how lazy she must seem. Then she laughed. There was no one to see her—she could stay in bed another hour if she wanted. She was tempted, but then common sense prevailed, and she got up, dressed, and went over to the general store.

  “We’re so glad to have you young brides here in town,” Mrs. Dandy said as she wrote down Violet’s purchases. “We get a little tired of our own company sometimes, and you’ll be a welcome addition. Two tins of peaches.”

  “I . . . beg your pardon?”

  Mrs. Dandy pointed at the stack of merchandise. “Two tins of peaches.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “You should be sure to get involved in our little ladies’ groups. One small sack of flour. We do a sewing circle, and of course you’ll want to enter the pie contest this weekend. One pat of butter.”

  “I think I’d like that,” Violet replied, ignoring the side comments that weren’t meant for her anyway. “Thank you for the invitation.”

  “Can you get this home, or do you need some help?”

  “Oh, I can manage. Thank you.”

  When Violet moved to pick up her things, she wondered if she’d spoken hastily. But when she placed the flour on her hip like a baby and looped the handles of her sack over her other arm, she found that she could manage quite nicely.

  Carrying the flour that way put her in mind of what it would be like to tote a real child around. It would be lovely. Of course, there was the feeding and the diapering and the teething and so forth, but she couldn’t imagine that any of that would diminish the joy of having a little person look to you for their whole world. Gracious. She’d never thought so seriously about motherhood before. The missed sleep must be getting to her—or perhaps the newly acquired sleep was allowing her to see things in a new light.

  Richard took her for another walk that evening, but this time, he held her hand from the moment they left the house. She couldn’t ignore the feelings that coursed through her at his nearness. At first, she’d felt awkward about having him near, but now she found that she craved it. Her heart had nearly beat out of her chest when he came home, she’d had a difficult time not staring at him all through dinner, and now, on their walk, with her hand enclosed in his . . . it was a wonder she was able to form any coherent sentences at all.

  “When the earth was first created, there was no light,” he began as they walked toward the lake. “During this time, there were people who could turn into animals and back again. They took on different animal forms, but when they were humans, they interacted and lived in the same way as all the others.”

  “Another Inuit story?” she asked when he paused, and he nodded.

  “Also during this time, words began to take on magical meanings. No one knew why it was so, but when a word was repeated, it had a certain power. Well, one day, a hare and a fox got into an argument. The fox felt that darkness was infinitely better—it allowed him to steal from the humans. The hare felt that daylight would be a blessing. He could find food if he had light. As they argued, they went back and forth. Darkness! Daylight! Darkness! The more they argued, the more powerful their words became, and daylight was created. Now the world is as we see it, with alternating days and nights as they continue their battle to this day.”

  Violet smiled and motioned around them. “And the hare is particularly convincing up here in the Northern Territories?”

  “He must be.” Richard took her hand again and tugged her toward the lake. “I thought you might like to pay a visit to the beavers. I’d like to show you what I meant when I told you about the problems they’re causing.”

  “Oh, this is where they live?” Violet dashed forward, nearly tugging Richard’s arm from his socket. She scanned the bank eagerly until she saw a trail that led along the water’s edge, then cut across the grass and followed the trail. Richard chuckled as he followed her.

  “There it is!” She stopped and pointed. The beavers had done a wonderful job—it was quite a formidable structure reaching out into the water. If it took twenty minutes to chew down each tree . . . she tried to conjecture how long it had taken to build the entire dam, but she couldn’t. There would be moorings and so forth under the water where she couldn’t see them, representing likely dozens of hours more work. “Isn’t it wonderful how they just know what to do? It makes me think—are these skills that have been passed down from beavers of generations past, or do they work purely by instinct?”

  Richard chuckled. “I don’t know, but I’m having fun watching you think about it.”

  She turned to him. “You aren’t mocking me, are you? I thought you liked my curiosity.”

  “I do, and no, I’m not mocking you. I’m enjoying the fact that you are reveling in your element. There’s nothing better than watching someone do the things they’re good at. They come alive.”

  She nodded, embarrassed again. He kept doing that to her—saying nice things, complimenting her for being intelligent. It was so out of the ordinary, she didn’t know how to accept it gracefully. “I can definitely see the problem, though,” she said, changing the subject. “The water is definitely getting hung up and diverted.”

  Richard put his hands on his hips and looked out toward the water. “Yes, it is. It’s been very frustrating.”

  “So, why do beavers build dams?” Violet asked. She wished she had access to a library—there were so many things she wanted to know. Maybe Mrs. Dandy could order her in some books. She’d have to ask.

  “Well, I’ve never asked a beaver for his exact motivation, but I believe they do it so
their lodges won’t get washed away in the current,” Richard replied. “They want a safe place to raise their kits.”

  “Amazing. And that’s the lodge there?” She pointed to a mounded structure, and Richard nodded. Together, they watched as a beaver came out, looked around, and went back inside.

  “Oh, that must be Bob!” Violet clutched Richard’s arm.

  Richard laughed. “Why did Miss Hazel choose the name Bob?”

  “I don’t know—maybe because he bobs in the water? What would you have named him?”

  “That’s just it. I wouldn’t have named him. I’m not as imaginative as Miss Hazel.” Richard patted her hand where it lay on her sleeve. “Are you about ready to head back?”

  “I suppose we should, but I want to come out here again when we have more time to spend.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  As they walked home, Violet kept her hand tucked through the crook of Richard’s elbow. It felt nice, being so close to him, and when he brushed his lips across her cheek when he said goodnight, she didn’t mind at all.

  Chapter Seven

  The small restaurant in Flying Squirrel was the perfect place for the brides to meet up for a visit. It was decorated nicely, almost as though it had ladies’ luncheons in mind, and Violet settled into her seat comfortably.

  Adele had more adventures to share of her life with Liam, and Violet listened politely. She’d have to let go of her immediate dislike of the man at some point, but she wasn’t quite ready yet. Perhaps once the beaver situation had been resolved, she would, but for now, knowing that he was the ringleader, so to speak, she would just keep her mouth shut and not say more. The pie she was eating was quite delicious, and she could concentrate on that.

  Ethel, the proprietor of the restaurant, came over and refilled their teacups, then asked if they’d heard about the fair and pie baking contest that was being held that Saturday.

  “Mrs. Dandy mentioned a pie contest, but I didn’t know there was a whole fair,” Violet replied. That sounded like fun—she wondered if all the Mounties would be able to go, or if they’d be on duty.

  “It’s the event of the season,” Ethel went on. “The Mounties judge the pie contest, and there are games and quilt displays and all sorts of things. And that night, there’s a dance. It’s the perfect chance to meet the other families in the community.”

  “And to dance with your new husbands,” Miss Hazel added, and the women all laughed.

  “You have to stay that long, Miss Hazel. Your pie would win for sure,” Adele told her.

  Miss Hazel seemed pleased by the suggestion, and even agreed to teach Adele how to make a pie of her own so she could enter. Poor Adele wasn’t very adept at such things, but Violet couldn’t hold it against her—she hadn’t known how to cook meat until Miss Hazel came along. It seemed that good woman would be saving each of the brides from their weaknesses in one way or another. “Me too?” Violet asked. She could use a pointer on her crust—it was tasty, but never quite as flaky as she liked.

  “Won’t it be fun to see if our husbands can guess which pie is ours?” Caitlyn suggested.

  It would be tricky, practicing for the contest without Richard noticing. How would she go about it? She didn’t want the practice pies to go to waste, but she couldn’t feed them to him or he’d know right off the bat which was hers on judging day, and that wouldn’t be fair to the other girls. She’d have to figure something out.

  She and the other brides finished up their visit, and as she walked home, her brain was churning. Ideas … ideas … Hmm. Maybe. She stopped in at the mercantile and waited a moment until Mrs. Dandy was free.

  “I wonder something, Mrs. Dandy,” she said, glancing around to make sure she wasn’t being overheard. “I’m reasonably good at making pie, but I want to practice a few times before Saturday. I don’t want Richard to see what my pies look like because we’ve decided we want to put our husbands to the test and see if they can correctly identify the ones we made, so . . . I need to get rid of my practice pies in some way. Are there any families in need who could use such a thing?”

  “You’d just give away your hard work like that?” Mrs. Dandy asked.

  “I can’t keep them, and it seems like the best thing to do,” Violet explained.

  “Well, aren’t you sweet for thinking of it! Yes, there’s a family who lives on the west edge of town. She’s Inuit, and he’s from Toronto. He was out here on a hunting trip, fell in love with her, and they were basically rejected by both families for mixing their cultures. They’ve struggled some since, and I think a hand of kindness would go a long way. Their last name is Tremblay.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Dandy. They sound perfect.” Violet couldn’t wait to go meet this couple. Could anything be more romantic—falling in love, but having to fight every bit of conventional wisdom to stay together? It made her own situation seem much less dramatic than it had a week before, and much easier to overcome as well. She’d already won her husband’s approval—now all that was left was to win his love, and if the glances she’d been noticing were any indication, that wasn’t out of the question. She felt that perhaps her situation was really a blessing in disguise. If the society of Ottawa hadn’t turned on her, she never would have met Richard Murray, and that would have been a shame.

  ***

  Richard had to go a little bit out of his way to find some fireweed for Violet’s vase, but it was well worth it. He’d promised to bring her flowers on a regular basis, and her wedding bouquet was looking a bit worse for wear. It was time to replace it with something fresh. Ever since he’d kissed Violet’s cheek, he’d been thinking about giving her a good and proper kiss, and he hoped that showing up with flowers would help set the tone. He had to choose the right moment, though—their friendship was still delicately balanced, and he didn’t want to push the issue and cause that balance to topple.

  Violet met him practically at the door. “I’m making a pie for the contest on Saturday,” she told him, “and I’m going to take the practice pies to the Tremblays.”

  “All right,” Richard replied, a little surprised at this greeting. He’d expected a “Hello” or something. “And these are for you.” He held up the vase of fireweed, and she took it eagerly.

  “They’re so pretty, and thank you for the vase!”

  “I told you I’d get one. Now we can have a real flower arrangement on our table.” He picked up the jar that held her wilted bouquet and walked over to the front door, opening it and tossing the flowers outside. Then he put the jar next to the wash basin. “Now, what was that about pie?”

  “The Mounties’ wives are all going to enter, and you’ll have to tell me which pie you think is mine. You aren’t allowed to peek, so I’m going to hide all my efforts, and you won’t have any sort of advance warning. I think it’s only fair that way, don’t you?”

  “I do. And we must be fair about the fair.”

  She furrowed her brow. “What?”

  “The fair. On Saturday. Where the contest is being held. We need to be fair about it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That was a dreadful pun, and I’m going to ignore it. Also, I ordered a book through Mrs. Dandy about the flora and fauna of the Northwest Territories.”

  “That’s a good idea.” He paused. “So, about this pie. If I’m not allowed to see any until after the contest . . . that means no pie for me until Saturday.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But now I’m hungry for pie. I wasn’t even thinking about it before, but now I can’t get it out of my head.”

  She laughed. “Saturday’s not that far away, and I actually made you a cake this afternoon.”

  “You did? You’re the best wife I’ve ever had!”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Aren’t I the only wife you’ve ever had?”

  “Yes! So it wasn’t a hard contest . . . but you still win.” He grinned, loving their easy banter. “I’m going to wash up.”

  As he combed his hair, he studied
himself in the mirror. If he were a young lady, would he kiss that face? Hmm. He didn’t know—he wasn’t a young lady, and he didn’t know what they would consider attractive. He’d been told often enough that he was handsome, but that was often by friends of his mother’s, older women who were hoping to match him up with their daughters or granddaughters, and he wasn’t sure if their opinions should be entirely trusted. He supposed the best thing to do was to see how Violet herself felt about it.

  She was bustling around the kitchen, stirring something on the stove and then adding a little pepper, when he came back in and sat down. He found himself nervous. Kissing a girl was nerve-racking, but kissing one’s own wife? Shouldn’t that be more natural and intuitive?

  She carried a skillet of sausage and potatoes over to the table and set it down on a plate she was using as a trivet. He made a mental note to get an actual trivet for the table. It wasn’t the most romantic gift, but it would be useful. She slid into her chair and smiled at him brightly. “Grace?”

  Yes, she was graceful. He hadn’t pinpointed that trait as of yet, but now as he watched her, even the way she moved her hands was fluid, almost as if she was dancing.

  “Richard?”

  “Yes?” he replied, blinking.

  “Are you going to say grace?”

  “Oh. That’s what you meant. Yes, of course.” He bowed his head, knowing his ears were pink. He needed to pay better attention—he couldn’t keep mooning like this if he wanted the evening to go well.

  When he ended the prayer, he saw that she was looking at him strangely. “What did you think I meant?” she asked.

  “Um . . . I just didn’t hear what you said properly.” He scooped a serving of the potatoes and sausage onto his plate, hoping she’d be willing to change the subject. He didn’t want to explain himself any further—it was embarrassing.

  The meal was delicious, as was the cake, and Richard leaned back, utterly content. A pretty wife, a delicious meal, a cozy home, a satisfying career—he really didn’t know what else he could ask for.