Four Weddings and a Kiss

by Margaret Brownley

  “You okay?” Daniels asked.

  She gazed up at him. At that moment, his nearness was the only thing that seemed real. “What . . . happened?”

  His grin widened. “A miracle!”

  She still couldn’t believe it. “I’m free, right? I don’t have to go back to jail?”

  “Not if I can help it.” He glanced around. The street was crowded with people rushing toward the saloon to see if the news was true.

  “Let’s go.” With a protective arm around her, he led her along the boardwalk to his office.

  Away from the public eye, her brave front deserted her. Weeks of tension begged for release. Tears swam in her eyes before slowly rolling down her cheeks. Sobs wracked her body. Daniels pulled her into his arms and, trembling, she clung to him.

  She buried her head next to his throat and her eyelashes fluttered against his warm skin.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered, rubbing her back. His lips brushed against her brow as he spoke; his breath mingled with hers. Cupping her face in his hands, he thumbed away her tears until her sobs subsided.

  “What . . . what happened?” she whispered. “Why am I free?”

  “When Tall Pete called out ‘not guilty,’ everyone assumed at first that the jury had spoken. Fortunately for us, the judge is leaving town and didn’t have time to straighten out the mess. So he ruled in our favor.”

  “But . . . but that means that everyone still thinks I’m guilty.”

  “I don’t. Jesse doesn’t. God knows you’re innocent.”

  She looked at him with tear-filled eyes. “But the others—” She started to sob and suddenly found herself in his arms.

  “It’s okay, Grace. Don’t cry.”

  His breath warm on her cheek, he held her close. For several moments he rocked her until the tears had run their course. Tipping her chin upward, he kissed her, his mouth warm and sweet on hers. His kiss chased away the last of her dark thoughts. She flung her arms around his neck to deepen the kiss and waves of pleasure reached all the way to her toes.

  The door to the office suddenly flew open. “Ma!”

  At the sound of Jesse’s voice, they pulled apart like two children caught stealing candy.

  Grace quickly wiped away the last of the tears, but nothing could be done about her burning cheeks or her pounding heart. Or her mouth that still trembled with the memory of Brock’s sweet, tender kisses.

  Jesse ran into her open arms. “I heard the gunshots. Is it true?”

  “It’s true,” she said, smiling.

  “This calls for a celebration,” Daniels said, grinning. “How about I treat you both to a meal at Mrs. Wilson’s Inn?”

  “Thank you, but I just want to go home.” She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but the thought of spending another minute in the public eye was more than she could bear. Especially now that it looked like she’d gotten away with murder—yet again.

  “You can come to our house for supper,” Jesse said to Brock as he pulled away from her. “Ma’s a good cook.”

  More heat rushed to her face. “I’m sure Brock . . . Mr. Daniels has something more important to do.” Suddenly she felt shy, worried that their kiss a moment before meant nothing to the man.

  Daniels shook his head. “Nope, not a thing.” He gave her a meaningful look. “That is, if you don’t mind the company.”

  “We don’t mind,” Jesse said. “Do we, Ma?”

  Grace ruffled her son’s hair. “Of course not.”

  Daniels smiled. “Allow me to bring something. I’m not much of a cook, but I can pick up some groceries.”

  She did a quick mental check of her pantry. It had been weeks since she’d been home, but she could still recall every item on her shelves. Johnnycake would go nicely with roast chicken. So would the canned string beans left over from last year’s harvest.

  “I think I have what I need,” she said. If the birds hadn’t eaten all the berries, there might even be enough left to make a pie. They settled on a time just as Reverend Fields popped his head through the open door.

  “Heard the news,” he called. “Do you and Jesse need a ride home?”

  “Thank you, Reverend, that would be most helpful.” It would also give her a chance to express her gratitude to him for taking care of Jesse.

  Daniels walked them outside and helped her up the side of the wagon. Her hand in his felt almost as intimate as his kiss and her heart fluttered. She pulled her hand away as if it were on fire. He raised a questioning gaze but said nothing.

  Reverend Fields took his place in the driver’s seat and the wagon rolled forward. Jesse waved and Daniels called, “See you tonight.”

  People stopped to stare as they drove by and someone called out, “Hey, Black Widder. We know you done it.”

  Jesse opened his mouth to yell back, but she grabbed his arm. “Shh, don’t say anything.”

  “But, Ma—”

  “Your mother’s right, Jesse.” Reverend Fields snapped the reins to pick up speed. “The Bible tells us if we argue with a fool, we’ll end up just like him.” He paused for a moment before adding, with a twinkle in his eye, “And unlike someone I know, I have it on good authority that the man yelling his fool head off is not a democrat.” He frowned. “Not much of a Christian either.”

  The savory smell of roast chicken wafted from the kitchen as Grace checked the three place settings on the table for perhaps the eighth or ninth time. The cabin contained only three rooms, a kitchen, a parlor, and a bedroom. The wood-block table took up half the parlor.

  Jesse and the reverend had taken good care of the animals in her absence, and Mrs. Fields had even arranged to have groceries delivered to the house once the verdict was announced. Never had Grace known such kindness.

  Jesse had picked purple and white columbines for the centerpiece, but no amount of wildflowers could hide the mismatched dinnerware or the frayed tablecloth. A fine gentleman like Mr. Daniels deserved so much more than their humble home could offer.

  Just thinking his name made her heart pound and her knees quiver. And the kiss. Heavens to Betsy, how the man could kiss! His weren’t the first kisses to cross her lips. Oh my, no! So why did it all seem so new to her? No man had ever affected her like he did, that was why. No man had ever made her feel so alive.

  She glanced at Jesse stretched out in front of the fire, nose buried in a book. A feeling of inadequacy swept over her. Not only was she the wrong woman for Mr. Daniels, she was the wrong mother for Jesse. Much as she hated to admit it, he was better off with Reverend Fields.

  Shaken by the thought, she dropped a glass and it shattered on the floor. Jesse looked up. “You okay, Ma?”

  She nodded and he quickly returned to his book.

  She grabbed the broom from a kitchen cupboard and tried to steady her nerves. What was wrong with her? She’d just been given her life back and she was feeling so out of sorts. What did it matter what others thought? Or the names people called her? What was that ditty they sang in school? Sticks and stones . . .

  Sighing, she quickly swept the broken glass into a dustpan. A log rolled over in the fireplace, sending sparks flying up the chimney like little fireflies.

  “Do you know what habeas corpus means?” Jesse called to her.

  Jesse had been quizzing her on legal terms all afternoon. “It has something to do with a dead body, right?” she asked.

  He laughed. “Habeas corpus means a person under arrest has to be brought before a court.”

  She stood the broom in a corner and gazed at her son in wonder. All those strange Latin terms. And goodness gracious! Never had she seen such a thick book.

  A knock sounded at the door and Jesse jumped to his feet. “I’ll get it.”

  Surprised by the sudden thump of her heart, she patted her hair and smoothed her apron.

  Mr. Daniels ducked beneath the low door frame and entered the house. “Hmm, something smells good,” he said, offering gifts: a book for Jesse and a bouquet of red roses wrap
ped in newspaper for her.

  “Oh! They’re beautiful,” she said, sniffing the pleasant, sweet fragrance. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone gave her flowers.

  “My landlady is from England. Evidently growing a rose garden is a requirement of being British,” he explained.

  She laughed and hurried to the kitchen to find an empty canning jar. The two male voices floated from the parlor as she arranged the roses and put the finishing touches on their meal.

  “I want to be a lawyer like you, Mr. Moses,” Jesse said.

  “Well, Mr. Lincoln, a lawyer requires a good education. A good school helps and . . .”

  With a growing sense of dismay, Grace listened to them talk. She’d prayed for someone to come along and be a real father to Jesse. But a Philadelphia lawyer? What are You thinking, God? You know this won’t work.

  Jesse was fond of the man and that worried her. It worried her a lot. It was bad enough fighting her own feelings. Now that the trial was over, he was bound to lose interest in her son, lose interest in her. Once again, she and Jesse would be alone in the world. No sense wishing that this time things would be different. No sense praying for it either.

  CHAPTER NINE

  AFTER SUPPER, JESSE AND BROCK SAT IN FRONT OF THE fire playing a game of draughts. The clock on the mantel struck nine and Grace couldn’t believe it. Where had the time gone?

  “You have school tomorrow, Jesse,” she said, though she hated to end his fun. “You better get some shut-eye.”

  Jesse looked surprised. “You mean I gotta go back to school?”

  “You heard what Mr. Daniels said about getting a good education.” If nothing else came out of the whole terrible experience, she knew that she could no longer give Jesse what he needed. She couldn’t teach him anymore. Not like when he was ankle-high to a june bug. He needed a real teacher. She just hoped the rumors didn’t get to him. Children could be so mean. Adults too.

  Jesse made a face, but he picked up his book and left the room with a murmured good night.

  Mr. Daniels placed the wooden game pieces in the tin box but made no move to leave. “He’s really something, that boy of yours.”

  She smiled and her heart swelled with pride. Jesse was something—the best thing that ever happened to her. “Would you like some tea?” she asked. “Or coffee, Mr. Daniels?”

  “No, thank you.” He hesitated. “Isn’t it time you called me Brock? I’m no longer your lawyer.”

  “No, I reckon you’re not.” She’d call him by his front name if that was what he wanted, even if it did make it more difficult to keep her emotions in check. She moistened her lips and dropped to her knees on the rug in front of the fire, careful to keep a safe distance between them as she tended the flames. “I owe you a lot. I’ll try to pay you back but it might take awhile.”

  He snapped the tin game box shut. “I don’t want your money, Grace. The trial’s over. We don’t have to think about it anymore.”

  “It’s over for you, maybe, but not for me.” Even the orange flames seemed to mock her like wagging tongues. “It will never be over for me.”

  He turned his head to study her. “How can you say that?”

  She replaced the poker and pulled away from the fire. “I’ll always be the crazy woman with three dead husbands.” She hugged her knees. “The woman everyone calls the Black Widow.”

  “People have short memories. In time, they’ll forget.”

  “People don’t forget that easily.” She studied him. “Have you forgotten what happened in Philadelphia?”

  A muscle tightened in his jaw. “That’s different. I let a friend down. He depended on me and I failed him.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t you that failed. Maybe it was justice.”

  “Actually, it was a clever prosecutor. I was fresh out of school and thought I knew it all. I didn’t know enough to ask for help. I should never have defended him.” He grimaced at the memory. “I probably shouldn’t have even taken on your case.”

  The urge to smooth back the lock on his forehead was almost too much to bear. “Why did you?” she asked softly, her eyes narrowing.

  “Have you ever tried to say no to Jesse?”

  She laughed. “Oh yes.”

  His gaze lingered for a moment on her mouth and she quickly looked away. “Actually, he reminds me of a story Jesus told about the importance of persistent prayer. It’s about a widow and a corrupt judge. She kept pleading for her rights and finally her persistence wore the judge down.”

  “Is that what Jesse did? Wear you down?”

  “His persistence told me how much faith he had in your innocence. Just as persistent prayer tells God how much faith we have in Him.”

  She stared into the fire. What did she do to deserve such a fine, loving son? “When I was six, I asked my pa why my brothers got new shoes and I didn’t. He said I was a girl and had no right to expect anything new or good to happen to me.”

  “Your father was wrong, Grace.”

  He scooted closer. Memories of his warm embrace flooded back, forcing her to look away.

  He ran a knuckle along the side of her face. “If you let me, I aim to show you just how wrong.”

  A shiver ran through her and she hugged her legs tighter.

  He sat back with a questioning look. “Do I make you nervous?”

  “No.” Yes. “Why would you think such a thing?”

  “You hardly looked at me all through supper. Is it because . . . of what happened after the verdict? When I kissed you?”

  She looked at him now. The kiss that had worked its way into the deepest regions of her heart seemed to stretch between them like a bridge begging to be crossed.

  “Of c-course not,” she stammered. “You were just trying to comfort me.” She wanted him to deny that was the only reason he kissed her. When he didn’t, she added, “I don’t want you making promises you can’t keep.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “What promises are those?”

  “All that business about helping Jesse with his education. That was just polite talk. It don’t mean a thing.”

  Flames from the fire flared in his eyes. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

  “All men say things they don’t mean.”

  “I don’t.”

  She wished with all her heart she could believe him, but that would only open her up to more pain.

  “It must be difficult,” he said, “raising a child on your own.”

  She nodded. “Things are different now. I don’t need a man to take care of us. I’ve got this here property. I’m sure to get a handsome price for the land . . . at least enough to put Jesse through lawyer school, if that’s what he wants.”

  “You aren’t thinking of selling, are you? Of leaving?”

  “Thinking about it. Maybe go where no one knows my past.”

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. “I meant what I said about helping Jesse. He can work in the office with me after school and have full access to my law library.”

  “That’s kind of you,” she said, “but it won’t change nothing. Long as we stay here, he’ll always be the son of the Black Widow.”

  “Not if we find the real killer.”

  She scoffed. “How we gonna do that?”

  He stared into the fire as if the answer could be found amid the burning logs. “I don’t know. But I’ll do whatever I can to find him, and that’s a promise.”

  He sounded so sincere she almost believed him. Wanted to. Wished with all her heart she could. But sad experiences taught her that even promises made with the best of intentions were seldom kept.

  She yawned; she couldn’t help herself. It had been weeks since she’d had a good night’s rest. The warmth of the fire and Brock’s smooth, velvet voice had a lulling effect.

  Taking the hint, he stood and pulled her to her feet.

  “Supper was great. Thank you.” He held her hands and his gentle grip made her tremble. She pulled away, but his gaze on her lips felt like a kiss,
had the same impact on her emotions.

  As if catching himself staring, he turned abruptly and reached for his hat.

  Desperate to fill in the strained silence, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “T-thank you,” she stammered. “For everything. I wish I could do something to show our appreciation.”

  “Maybe you can.” A look of excitement flashed in his eyes. “I’m thinking about running for judge this fall. Maybe Jesse will agree to be my campaign manager.”

  She covered her mouth and stared at him over her fingertips. “Judge Daniels. Oh my. That sounds important.”

  “I don’t know about that, but I think I can make a difference. At least see that everyone gets a fair trial, guilty or innocent.”

  “Innocent like your friend,” she said softly.

  “And you.” He nudged a strand of hair away from her face with a fingertip and her pulse quickened.

  “I think it’s a g-grand idea,” she stammered. It was yet another reason why their kiss could never be repeated. Not only was she afraid to trust another man, she was also afraid she would cause him trouble. “But you best get another campaign manager. No one’s gonna vote for you long as your name’s linked with the Black Widow.”

  “Don’t say that. You’re not—”

  “To the town I am!” Not wanting him to see her sudden tears, she whirled about and opened the door. A blast of cold air brushed against her heated cheeks. “It’s late. You best go.”

  He hesitated a moment before walking outside. “Grace . . .”

  CHAPTER TEN

  SPRING TURNED INTO SUMMER AND STILL THE WHISPERS persisted. They greeted Grace like buzzing bees whenever she drove into town. Sometimes at night while lying in bed, she imagined that the breeze whistling through the trees and brushing against the windowpanes was actually voices judging her, judging Jesse.

  Sundays were the worst. Jesse had promised Reverend Fields that he’d attend worship, and if she wanted to teach her son anything, it was to keep his promises. So every week like clockwork, Grace drove the horse and wagon to the little white community church on Third Street.