Four Weddings and a Kiss

by Margaret Brownley

  As with women’s dresses, Jack was no expert on music, but he’d heard Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1 performed in concert in Chicago last year and recognized it. While it wasn’t as impressive with only a piano and a single violin, not to mention a room without the proper acoustics, compared to a full orchestra and a concert hall, there was a beauty in the music—and in Molly’s playing—that caused Jack to stand straight and let it sweep over his soul.

  Her mother hadn’t exaggerated. Not in the least.

  He was . . . enchanted.

  When the last note drifted through the parlor, the small party of guests applauded, and the abrupt sound broke the spell that had held Jack captive throughout the concerto. He cleared his throat and looked around, hoping no one watched him. No one did. Their eyes were all on Molly at the piano and Reverend Lynch with his violin.

  Jack followed their gazes. Molly chanced to look toward him a heartbeat later. He smiled at her. She didn’t return the smile. If he didn’t know better, he’d have said she looked frightened. Frightened? Of him? That seemed unlikely. She was the bravest woman he’d ever met.

  She lowered her gaze to the piano keys.

  “Please, my dear,” her father said, “play another one.”

  Although he didn’t give into it, Jack felt a sudden need to leave, to put some distance between himself and whatever melody Molly might play next.

  Maybe he was the one who needed to be afraid.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MOLLY STARED AT HER REFLECTION IN THE MIRROR.

  I’m failing. I’m not trying hard enough.

  Where was her resolve to make Jack Ludgrove as miserable as possible? To make him want to leave Killdeer and go have his western adventures elsewhere? Oh, she’d made some halfbaked attempts, but he’d seemed to enjoy those efforts, not be offended by them.

  She closed her eyes, remembering that moment yesterday when their gazes met and he’d smiled at her. It had frightened her, that smile. In that moment, she’d understood this man could break her heart.

  Molly had been courted by several nice men after her family moved to Wyoming. Each time she’d hoped to fall in love—but she hadn’t. And when the courtships fizzled, she hadn’t been as disappointed as she thought she should have been.

  But Jack Ludgrove . . . He was different.

  She shook her head slowly, then looked into the mirror again.

  “It’s not as if he’s come courting,” she whispered. “He’s your editor. He’s your boss. You don’t even like him.”

  She could taste the lie of those final words on her tongue. Maybe she didn’t want to like him. Maybe she was trying her best not to like him. But her best wasn’t good enough. Not this time.

  “How could I let myself like him? He came west for adventure, not for love. And he took my job in the bargain.”

  Her reflection didn’t answer her. With a sigh, she left her bedroom and went downstairs.

  “Molly,” her mother called from the dining room, “I thought you were never coming down. Come and eat your breakfast.”

  She wasn’t hungry, but she obeyed.

  “Where’s Father?” she asked as she filled her plate from the dishes on the sideboard.

  “He already left for the office.”

  “Am I that late?”

  “No, dear. He was up early. But he took that book Mr. Ludgrove gave him for his birthday, so I doubt he’ll get much work done today. Mark my words. He’ll be reading it still when you get there.”

  Molly made a soft sound to let her mother know she listened.

  “Amazing, that young man and your father both have such a passion for ancient history. I never understood the interest myself. But it is nice that Roland will have someone with whom he can talk about it to his heart’s content.”

  “Mmm.” Molly sat at the table and put the cloth napkin in her lap.

  “Do you fancy him, Molly?”

  Her first bite of scrambled egg got stuck halfway down her throat. She had to swallow several times to get it moving again.

  “Because you seem different somehow.” Her mother studied her. “Not quite sure what it is.”

  “I don’t fancy Jack Ludgrove, Mother. He’s a nice enough man, I suppose, but he won’t settle long in Killdeer.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He said so himself. He wants to explore the West. He is looking for an adventure. Not a lot of that to be found in our little town.”

  “I don’t know about that, my darling daughter. Love can be quite an adventure.”

  Molly could tell that her mother thought of her father as she spoke. There was a certain look in her eyes, a certain smile on her lips, and it warmed Molly’s heart. It also made her wish for something she didn’t believe she could have.

  After a few more quick bites, she patted her mouth with her napkin and rose from the chair. “I must get to the office. I have a column to write.”

  “What is it to be this week?”

  “President Hayes’s veto of the Chinese immigration bill and what it means to California and other states and territories on the Pacific coast. And the unfair wages paid to the Chinese immigrants, especially by the railroads.”

  “Oh dear.”

  She stepped toward her mother, leaned down, and kissed her on the forehead. “I love you.” Then she hurried out of the dining room.

  Outside, it was another beautiful August morning, the temperature quite pleasant. Molly walked briskly toward town, trying to focus her thoughts on the column she intended to write. But instead she recalled her mother’s question: “Do you fancy him?”

  Molly might have given up on men and marriage, but her mother had not.

  “Love can be quite an adventure.”

  Her heart fluttered, and a strange light-headedness caused her to stop and draw a few deep breaths to steady herself. Then she continued on but at a more sedate pace. The odd feeling was still with her when she entered through the Sentinel’s front door a short while later. As she passed the doors to their individual offices, her father and Jack looked up and greeted her. She nodded to acknowledge them, then went into her own small office and closed the door.

  She sank onto the chair and only then realized how weak her legs felt. Was she ill? Did she need to see the doctor?

  No. Of course not. She was rarely ill. Whatever the cause, it would go away if she ignored it. She would write her column and by the time it was finished, she would be herself again.

  Jack leaned back in his desk chair and rubbed his eyelids with the pads of his fingers. He hadn’t slept well last night and his body was bone tired. When he opened his eyes again, he looked toward Molly’s office. The door remained closed, two hours since she’d come in. He wondered how her new column was progressing.

  Wondering about Molly was the main reason he was so tired. It had kept him up most of the night.

  Maybe he needed another horseback ride. A longer excursion next time. He’d like to take a trip up to Yellowstone, but he would need more than a week for such a journey. He couldn’t very well ask Roland Everton for time off when he was still new to the job. Exploring the national park would have to wait until next summer.

  He drew a deep breath as he rose from his chair. Then he walked from his office into the back room. Hank was at his desk, setting type for the upcoming issue of the paper. Most reporters and editors started out doing this job, but few had real talent for it. Not like Hank Morrison. The best typesetters could reach into the many drawers of typecase, withdrawing letters of the right size with surprising speed, as Hank was doing now. And as this was a Monday, Hank would be setting advertisements—the lifeblood of newspapers, large and small.

  Jack considered walking closer to observe the typesetter’s work but decided against it. Hank Morrison wasn’t one for idle chatter, nor did he need supervision. Best to leave him be. Instead, Jack returned to the front office and went outside onto the boardwalk. The day was warm and growing sultry, dark clouds approaching from t
he west. Rain was on its way. The wind had picked up and dust twirled down Main Street. Businessmen, cowboys, and womenfolk held on to their hats as they made their way to chosen destinations. It surprised Jack when he realized he could have greeted many of them by name. Almost as if he’d always been a citizen of Killdeer.

  Molly’s voice taunted him from his memory: “Then I don’t suppose you plan to stay long in Killdeer.”

  No, he didn’t plan to stay long, and feeling at home in Killdeer wasn’t going to change that.

  “Good morning, Mr. Ludgrove.”

  He looked to his right to see the Shoemaker sisters standing on the boardwalk. He nodded in their direction. “Good morning.”

  “Looks like we’re going to get some rain,” Ada said.

  “Perhaps it will cool things off,” Jane added. “It would be nice if the weather was cooler for the barn dance on Saturday.”

  “You are coming to the dance, aren’t you?” Ada asked.

  They were pretty girls, both of them, but young. Easily half his age. And he didn’t have to talk to them more than a time or two to know they had little in their heads besides finding themselves husbands. He could have told them they were wasting their time flirting with him. He wasn’t looking for a wife. Especially not a silly one. And besides, he liked intelligent women who weren’t afraid to show it.

  Like Molly.

  “Mr. Ludgrove?”

  He gave his head a shake to rid it of that last thought, then nodded. “Yes, I will be there.”

  The sisters looked at each other and giggled.

  The sound annoyed him. “Please excuse me, ladies. I had best get back to work.” He offered a slight bow, then turned on his heel and went inside the Sentinel.

  Molly’s office door was open. He walked toward it. She wasn’t there.

  “Jack,” Roland said.

  He turned toward his employer’s office.

  “Molly went out back for a bit of fresh air.”

  Jack nodded, knowing he should return to his desk even as his feet carried him toward the rear of the building. When he opened the door, he saw Molly pacing back and forth, hands clasped behind her back, eyes locked on the ground a few steps before her. For a writer, it was the look of someone not pleased with what she’d written.

  He moved toward her, unnoticed until he announced his presence by clearing his throat.

  She stopped and looked up, her surprise evident.

  “Not going well?” he asked, thinking Molly Everton had the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen.

  Those selfsame eyes widened, as if she’d heard his thoughts.

  He resisted the urge to clear his throat again. “I could look at it if you like.”

  “It isn’t ready to be seen by anyone but me. Not yet.”

  “Are you sure? Sometimes it helps to mull it over with someone else.”

  “I’m sure.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Molly stood a little straighter, head held high. “Have you ever written a weekly column, Mr. Ludgrove?”

  “Your father has started calling me Jack. Do you suppose you might do the same?”

  “A weekly column, Mr. Ludgrove. Have you ever written one?”

  She was a little like tinder. Just waiting for a spark to set her aflame.

  He answered, “I did. The year after I came back from the war.”

  “You were a soldier too?” There was a softening in her expression. Her right hand rose to press against her collarbone, a gesture of empathy. “Like your brothers who died?”

  He nodded.

  “You didn’t mention that before.”

  “Not something I care to talk about.” He drew a deep breath. “Long time ago now. Better forgotten.”

  “Can it be forgotten for those who lived through it?”

  A fierce need swept over him. A desire to take Molly in his arms and hold her close. He looked away, staring off into the distance in an effort to distract himself.

  Softly, she said, “Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak / Whispers the o’er-fraught heart and bids it break.”

  Shakespeare. She was quoting Shakespeare. He’d heard her do it before on several occasions but he hadn’t been sure of what she was saying. Now he was sure. Shakespeare. And he had the distinct impression it was a habit she was scarcely aware of. For some reason, it made him want to hold her all the more. Only with tenderness.

  “Mr. Ludgrove, perhaps it would be helpful to have you read what I have written after all.”

  Good. Back to the newspaper business. To columns and writing. A much safer place to focus his thoughts.

  “I’ll bring it to your office,” she added before walking toward the back door of the Sentinel.

  CHAPTER NINE

  KENDALL DOBSON STORMED INTO THE SENTINEL OFFICES late on Friday morning, his face red as a beet. When he saw Molly coming through the doorway from the back room, he glared at her, then shouted for her father. “Mr. Everton. I’d like a word with you!”

  Molly came to a standstill.

  Kendall Dobson. He owned the largest cattle operation in the southwest corner of Wyoming Territory. He’d come courting Molly less than a year after his wife died in childbirth. But Molly had known quite soon that the two of them wouldn’t suit, and she had told him so. As kindly as possible but leaving no doubt that he couldn’t change her mind. Besides, he’d needed a nursemaid for his infant son, not a wife for himself. He’d wanted someone to do his bidding without question. That definitely wasn’t Molly.

  Leaning heavily on his cane, her father came out of his office. “Mr. Dobson. What is the matter?”

  “This!” Kendall slammed a folded newspaper onto the front counter. “What on earth were you thinking, printing this claptrap? How do you think it makes me look?” He glanced toward Molly again and pointed at her. “She needs to be fired.”

  Jack was out of his office by this time and went to stand near her father. “Excuse me, sir. I am Jack Ludgrove, the managing editor of the newspaper. I decide what goes into each edition. Perhaps you would like to come into my office so we can discuss your concerns.”

  “I would not like to go into your office. I can stand right here and tell you. I serve on the board of directors of the railroad that’s bringing a line through Killdeer and on up into Idaho Territory.” He jabbed a finger at the paper. “Have you no idea of the sentiment toward Chinese immigrants these days?”

  “I am aware of it, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Dobson. Kendall Dobson.”

  “Mr. Dobson, I am aware of the opposition. Especially in California. But the president vetoed the bill restricting immigration as it violated the Burlingame Treaty of 1868 between the United States and China.”

  Kendall sputtered something. Words Molly couldn’t make out.

  “Sir,” Jack continued, “does Miss Everton’s column claim as fact anything that is not fact?”

  Kendall’s irritation was evident even as he answered, “No.”

  “Then I’m afraid I don’t see anything that can be done about it.”

  “We don’t need her making the Orientals who work for the railroad want more than they get. That’s what it’ll do. You should fire her for stirring up that kind of trouble.”

  “That isn’t going to happen, Mr. Dobson. Miss Everton did her job, and she did it quite well, I might add.”

  Kendall swore at Jack.

  “This conversation,” Jack said, his tone icy, “is at an end. Good day, Mr. Dobson.”

  With another curse, Kendall swept the newspaper off the counter and marched out of the building, slamming the door behind him.

  From behind Molly, Hank Morrison said, “What a windbag. Good for Jack for putting Dobson in his place.”

  Only then did Molly realize tears had welled in her eyes and her throat had grown too tight to swallow.

  The typesetter patted her shoulder. “Don’t let it bother you, Molly girl. Nobody cares what he thinks.”

  She n
odded, then made a beeline to her office and closed herself in. After sitting in the chair, she folded her arms on the desk and hid her face against them.

  How humiliating. That Jack Ludgrove, her new boss, should have to defend her to a former suitor. Please don’t let Jack know that’s what Mr. Dobson is. Let him just think Kendall is an angry customer.

  There was a light rap on her door. She straightened and wiped at her eyes before answering, “Yes?”

  The door opened and Jack looked in. “I hope he didn’t upset you.”

  She shook her head. A bald-faced lie.

  “It’s a good column, Molly. You have nothing to apologize for. Not to anyone.”

  “Mother thinks I should use the column to share household hints. Maybe she’s right. Who could get angry over a recipe for apple cobbler?”

  Jack grinned. “I don’t believe I would like reading those as much as what you’ve written in the past. I would miss the passion you feel for your stories.”

  Mortification drained away, replaced by a pleasant feeling she couldn’t identify. Or chose not to.

  Every chair at the dining room table in the boardinghouse was occupied that evening. Like Jack, one man and two women were full-time residents of the house. One elderly couple was in town to visit their son, the barber who lived in the back room behind his shop. A room too small to accommodate three adults. Another two men were salesmen, just in town until the next day’s stagecoach would take them on to the next place. And finally there was Bertha Simpson, the landlady, and her daughter, Louise Simpson, the schoolteacher.

  Dinner began with a minimum of conversation. Mostly what was said was “Thank you” as serving platters and bowls were passed counterclockwise around the table, followed by some idle chitchat that held little interest for Jack. His thoughts soon began to drift.

  It was Louise Simpson who pulled him back to the present. “I hear tell Mr. Dobson didn’t take kindly to Miss Everton’s column in today’s paper.”