The pastor glared at the man striding down the aisle, while Alistair glowered over his shoulder.
“We aren’t at that part yet, young man,” the pastor intoned. “Sit down.”
Alistair swallowed a chuckle at the pastor’s indignant tone. However, when Alistair realized how tense Leticia was as she stood next to him, he squeezed her hand. “It’s all right, love. I’m certain he is confused. Or he’s a drunken miner intent on mischief.” He frowned as she refused to meet his reassuring gaze before he focused on the indignant, yet triumphant man, coming to an abrupt halt behind them.
“This woman is a liar and an attempted murderess!” the man shouted as he pointed at Leticia.
A shocked gasp moved through the crowd, and the pastor closed his Bible and canted forward with curiosity as the dust-covered man made his proclamations. His brown hair was slicked back, greasy from days without a wash, and his unkempt beard held splotches of gray mixed with the brown. His dungarees were nearing their last wash, while any color in his calico shirt had long faded.
“She should be in jail!”
Cailean leaped to the front of the altar, wrapping an arm around Alistair’s chest and shoulder. Cailean pulled his brother away from the man interrupting his wedding and then dragged him a few feet from his bride-to-be and the pastor. “Easy, Alistair,” he murmured. “You don’t want violence today or to end up in jail, rather than with your bride on your wedding day.”
Alistair grunted and squirmed in his attempt to free himself from Cailean’s hold, only stilling when he focused on the horrified, yet enthralled looks on the faces of his wedding guests. He took a deep breath before nodding. “Let me go, Cail.” When he’d been released, he tugged on his jacket and waistcoat, remaining near his brother, to address the stranger. “Who are ye? And how dare ye interrupt my—our—wedding.”
The man gloated as his gaze moved from a distraught Leticia in a demure cream-colored dress with its small bustle and train to an irate Alistair. “Did the harlot tell you that she was a widow?” He laughed. “She’s married to me. Has been for nearly eight years.” He moved toward Leticia who screeched and backed up a step. “You miscalculated, darling.”
Leticia ignored the man calling himself her husband as any color in her cheeks faded, and she became as pale as the finest porcelain. She focused on Alistair, his posture more rigid with each moment, while his expression was more impenetrable.
“Is this true?” he whispered to Leticia, the pain and anguish glinting in his gaze like shards of glass.
“Yes, I married him.” She held up her hand to Alistair. “Let me explain,” she whispered as he remained standing next to his brother, rather than with her.
“Ye had three years, Lettie, to do that,” he rasped as he watched her with growing agony. He nodded as he watched her swallow and fight tears but remained mute. “Why would ye no’ tell me before?” He leaned forward to touch her, frowning when she flinched at his touch.
Tears coursed down her cheeks as she paled to match her wedding dress. “I can explain.”
“Why wait until now? Now that yer deceased husband has reappeared on the day of our weddin’?” Alistair asked, waving to the avid onlookers crowding the church, many of whom had not been invited but had snuck in at the first sign of a disruption in the ceremony. “Is he yer husband?” Any hope in his eyes dimmed as he saw the truth in her gaze. “Ye’re a liar,” he murmured, his gaze filled with disillusionment and pain.
“Yes, but no. Let me explain,” she wailed. She looked for an ally but found confusion and distress among the MacKinnon clan seated in the front pew.
The man calling himself Leticia’s husband held a hand to his missing waistcoat and addressed Alistair and the pastor, speaking in a loud-enough voice to carry through the entire church. “I am Josiah Fry. This woman”—he pointed at Leticia—“is my errant wife, Mrs. Lorena Fry. I’ve been searching for her for years.”
Leticia began to shake, fighting her tears. However, when she saw Josiah approach her daughter, Hortence, Leticia leaped toward him and pushed him away. “Stay away from her!”
“You know it’s a crime to separate a man from his child.” His brown eyes gleamed with devilry and triumph. “I’ll leave you now, as no wedding will take place today. But I’ll see you soon, dear wife.”
He turned to meet Alistair’s frozen gaze and smiled with sardonic joy. “You were as much a fool as she is.” His grin became even more triumphant as Alistair frowned in confusion.
Every gaze in the church followed Josiah’s lanky form as he sauntered down the aisle, whistling a triumphant tune. The door slammed shut behind him, as though tolling the end to Leticia’s dream with Alistair.
And Alistair’s dream with Leticia and Hortence.
Leticia fell to her knees, holding Hortence close. “It’s all right, darling. You’re safe.” She rose on unsteady legs, gripping Hortence’s hand. “Come. We must return home.” Hortence walked beside her mother dutifully, Leticia’s head ducked in an attempt to ignore the glowers from the townsfolk.
As Leticia walked down the aisle, the owner of the Bear Grass Springs General Store, Tobias Sutton, stood and blocked her path. “You’re a liar and a hussy and who knows what else.” He vibrated with righteous indignation. “And to think we welcomed you!”
Mrs. Jameson, the woman vying with Tobias for the worst town gossip, emerged from a rear pew and shrieked, “You are barely worthy of the Boudoir! How dare you sully our children’s minds all these years when you are nothing more than filth?”
As more townsfolk stood, blocking Leticia’s and Hortence’s path, Annabelle hurried down the aisle and put an arm around Leticia’s shoulder. “I would think you would show a bit of decency and charity, especially since you are standing in a church. Please, allow us to pass.” She glared at Tobias and Mrs. Jameson and pushed forward, past those who no longer celebrated, but ridiculed, Leticia.
When they had emerged from the church and moved a ways down the street, Annabelle paused. “I will leave you, Leticia. I’m afraid I won’t accustom myself to calling you Lorena.”
“Annabelle,” Leticia whispered, “please listen.”
Annabelle glanced toward the church and saw her husband leaving with his siblings. She shook her head as she said, “I can’t right now. Sometime soon I’ll find a way to speak with you.” She shook her head again. “I don’t know when I’ve been more shocked. Or hurt.” She glanced down at the tug on her hand.
“Will we still get cake?” Hortence whispered.
Annabelle’s startled laugh eased a small amount of tension between the women. “I will try to save you some, my little darling.” She ran a hand over Hortence’s head before looking at Leticia. “Good luck.”
Leticia watched as Annabelle spun to follow her family as they returned home. Leticia shivered at the realization she might never be welcomed in the MacKinnon home again before she dropped her head once more and trudged down the road to the small rented home she had planned to vacate today after her wedding to Alistair.
Alistair pushed his way out of the church, past the gleeful Mrs. Jameson and the other townsfolk who watched him with abject curiosity and pity. He ignored his brothers’ calls and raced to the livery. The large barn had a door at each end of the long center walkway, a larger opening on the side that faced the paddock to the rear, and a hayloft above. Stalls for animals were along either side of the long central hallway, with a separate room for tack, another for feed, and a tiny office tucked in the rear. Small trapdoors above each stall from the hayloft allowed for hay to be dropped inside each one after they were mucked out. Once inside the livery, Alistair fell against one of the large support beams and shuddered. When he heard the livery door open quietly, he rasped, “Don’t touch me!”
Soft footfalls entered, and he swiped at his face. He spun, glaring at the intruder, the fight leaving as he saw his brother Cailean. “I thought ye were … her.”
Cailean shook his head. “She has to attend to
Hortence. And we wouldn’t allow her near you just now.” Cailean pulled out two stools, setting one near Alistair and claiming the other. Cailean sat as though in contented silence while Alistair punched at a wall and remained turned away from Cailean.
After many minutes, Alistair collapsed onto his stool, abject desolation emanating from him. “Where are the others?” Alistair asked.
“The family is in the kitchen. I imagine they salvaged some of the food, although I doubt you’re hungry.”
Alistair grunted his agreement to that.
“The townsfolk will be at the Odd Fellows Hall. Musicians were paid for, and they’ll find an excuse for a dance.” He watched as Alistair stared into space.
“What am I to do?” he whispered.
“Take a few days to understand what happened, Al. Then determine what it is you want to do,” Cailean coaxed.
Alistair sat in stupefied silence a few minutes. “She never loved me enough.” He rubbed at his face. “Never trusted me enough.”
Cailean flushed red, unable to hide his anger from his brother. “I can’t be impartial, Alistair. Not today. Not as I sit here and watch as you suffer.” He sighed. “What do you need to do?”
Alistair huffed out a laugh. “I need to feel like a man again.” He sniffled. “I ken ye wouldna understand that. Ye have Annabelle.”
Cailean snorted. “I know very well what you mean. Most men would.”
Alistair ran a hand over his face. “I hate that man. I hate that he … touched her. That he has the right to destroy what I most dream of. That he’s not dead as he should be.” Alistair shivered. “I never thought to be confronted with the man. Fighting his ghost was difficult enough.”
Cailean frowned. “I don’t know what to say, Al. I’m so sorry.”
Alistair swiped at his cheeks and then rose as anger filled him again. He kicked at a stall, damaging one of the boards. “I treated her with kindness, patience, and respect, an’ the entire time she played me false.”
Cailean nodded. “Aye.”
Alistair looked at his brother, meeting his concerned gaze. “I … I need …”
Cailean let out a long sigh. “Aye,” he breathed as he rose. “I understand. Although it may cause more problems than it will ease.”
Alistair pushed away from the stall and was caught in a bear hug from his brother. “I’ll be back in the morning to fix the stall.” He rushed past his brother, out the livery door, through town, thankful the townsfolk were engrossed in gossiping about the botched wedding inside the Hall. Strains of music filtered outside as he stalked past it toward his destination.
Alistair pushed open the door to the Boudoir, and the scent of cheap perfume, whiskey, and sin enveloped him. The lights were lowered to enhance the shadows in the corners and to induce indiscretion. The faint lighting also hid fading red paint on the walls and scuffed, worn carpets on the floors. Alistair watched as the whores draped themselves over men in the lower room, whispering in their ears, caressing shoulders and legs. Some took advantage of the armless chairs, sprawling astride their intended target as though he were a horse. Bawdy music played in the corner on a piano, giving the room a carnival atmosphere. A small bar served watered-downed drinks to the thirsty horde. He saw men following women upstairs and others descending. The dozen women who worked for the Madam moved from downstairs to above stairs, depending on the desires of their clients.
The large brute, Ezekial, who was the Madam’s shadow, stood near the rear door to the main room, his silver gaze ever watchful for men who were forceful or out of control with the women. After accepting a glass of watered-down whiskey that cost twice as much as a regular glass at the Stumble-Out Saloon, Alistair sat in a chair. Soon a black-haired woman approached. He waved her away.
After he had dismissed a few more girls, the Madam sauntered up to him. She wore a shiny sapphire-colored dress with a demure cut to enhance her aging but attractive figure. Her makeup was tastefully done, unlike the garish, glaring rouge, kohl, and lipstick utilized by her girls. “Mr. MacKinnon. Such a surprise to see you here tonight.” Her eyes held a mocking glint. “Although I’m uncertain if it truly is a shock that one as virile as you should seek us out after such a trying day.”
He glared at her obsequiousness and her callousness. “Madam.”
“You seem quite particular in what you desire,” she said as she looked around at her girls. The majority were engaged with gentlemen, although a few hovered along a wall, smiling engagingly at those who seemed unconvinced. “What might tempt you tonight?” At his long pause, she pouted. “I’d hate to think you’ll be like your younger brother. Here for my whiskey and music and little else.”
The tic of Alistair’s jaw further evidenced his anger. “Nae,” he rasped. “I desire a light-haired lass.”
The Madam’s smile bloomed. “Of course.” She motioned for a woman to approach. “I believe you’ll find Divinity to your liking.” The blond-haired woman with brown eyes and a large bosom approached.
He drank the rest of his whiskey and rose. “Aye, she’ll do.” He motioned with his head for Divinity to precede him up the stairs and followed her. As they walked down the narrow hallway, he ignored the sounds emerging from the other rooms. Just as he was about to turn into Divinity’s crib, someone grabbed his arm.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Annabelle’s sister, Fidelia, known as Charity at the Boudoir, glared at him.
“I’m doin’ what any man with sense would do,” he snapped, freeing his arm from her grasp.
“You’re a fool,” she hissed. “You’ll regret this.” She shot a look down the hall to the retreating back of her latest customer. After another glare at Alistair, she rushed to catch up with her patron to follow him downstairs.
Alistair ignored her and followed Divinity into the small room, closing the door on his despair and anger as he pulled her into his arms, attempting and failing to forget the day’s anguish.
When Annabelle returned home, she entered the kitchen to find Ewan staring at the cake, Sorcha slamming a kettle onto the stove, and her husband and Alistair missing. “Where are they?”
“In the livery. I’d let them be. Alistair looked worse than a rabid wolverine,” Ewan said.
“An’ when have ye seen a wolverine? Rabid or otherwise?” Sorcha asked.
Ewan rolled his eyes and attempted a smile for Annabelle. “At least we salvaged the cake from the horde who still insisted on descending on the reception hall.”
“They can’t expect a party after such a disaster,” Annabelle breathed, slipping into a chair across from her brother-in-law.
“Seems they can. Any excuse for a party, one of ’em said,” Sorcha snorted with a glower. “When they complained that I was takin’ the cake, I told them how they disgusted me, an’ I hoped to dance on their graves.”
“You never,” Annabelle breathed.
“’Twas Tobias and Mrs. Jameson. An’ I don’t regret sayin’ it.” Sorcha swiped at her reddish-brown hair, stuffing it back into the loose chignon she had worn for the wedding ceremony.
Ewan grunted as Annabelle giggled. “Oh, I feel guilty laughing today. And I imagine much worse has been said to those two gossipmongers.”
“An’ they wouldna be missed,” Ewan grumbled. He set his hands over his belly. “Although I dinna ken as though Alistair will want to see that cake.” He nodded to the elaborately decorated confection with the letters A and L interwoven atop.
Annabelle stared at the cake. “I can scrape that off, and then it will just be a pretty cake for us to devour.” She rubbed at her stomach. “I hate to admit it, but I’m starving.”
Sorcha chuckled. “I am too but did no’ want to be the first to say it.” She paused as she stared at her brother and sister-in-law. “’Tis it normal to be filled with such rage?”
Ewan nodded. “Aye, ’tis.” He sighed. “I dinna ken how we can help him. His life has been shattered, and there’s nothin’ to be done.”
Annabel
le shook her head as she blinked away tears. “I thought I knew her. I trusted her. I can’t imagine how much worse this is for Alistair.” She grimaced as she swiped at her cheeks.
Their conversation came to an abrupt halt as Cailean entered through the back door to the kitchen. He swiped at his boots before entering, his intense gaze moving from his siblings to his wife. After sitting next to Annabelle, he slung an arm over her shoulder and let out a deep breath as some of his tension eased.
“How is Alistair?” Annabelle asked as she leaned into her husband’s side.
Cailean shook his head as he met his siblings’ worried gazes. “Irate. I’ve never seen him this angry.” He swiped at his forehead with his free hand. “Or this devastated.”
“Should I bring him some food in a little while?” Sorcha asked.
Cailean flushed. “He’s not in the livery.” He cleared his throat and thrummed his fingers on the table. “He’s gone to the Boudoir.”
Annabelle gasped, and Ewan rolled his eyes. “Won’t solve anything,” Ewan muttered. “He will no’ be with the woman he wants.”
“Men and their pride,” Annabelle muttered, earning a warning squeeze from her husband.
Sorcha set a loaf of bread to be sliced and a crock of butter on the table with a thunk as she glared at Annabelle. “Don’t go takin’ her side. No’ yet.”
Annabelle leaned forward. “I’m not. I can’t remember the last time I was so disappointed in someone.” She frowned as she thought of her elder sister, Fidelia, who Annabelle had not seen or spoken to in months. “And I told Leticia as much when we walked out of the church.” She met her husband’s and then her sister-in-law’s glares. “But now that I’ve had a little while to think about what happened, don’t you think there’s more to this story than what that man proclaimed in church?”
Cailean released her to place his forearms on the table. “Of course there is. But the fact remains that she lied to all of us. She misled Al for years, allowing him to dream and to think they had a future together. I don’t know as he’ll get past that.”
Montana Grit Page 3
