Romancing the Bride

by Melissa Jagears

  A group of men, mostly bachelors, crowded in to hear Mr. Hucket’s words, leaving Annie able to see Jacob’s tall frame appear on the other side of the yard as he strode toward them. Considering the set of his mouth, he’d not found Celia and was none too happy about it.

  Evidently days under lock and key hadn’t altered her waywardness one bit.

  Leah leaned across the quilt and jiggled Annie’s arm. “He’s auctioning mine now.”

  After reading the contents, Mr. Hucket wiped his perspiring brow and called for bids. Not a single man in the crowd offered. Mr. Hucket stumbled for words to convince someone—anyone—to start bidding.

  Annie fidgeted on the blanket, amused by her friend’s exaggerated pout. “They’ve probably caught on that yours always contains a meringue pie.”

  Bryant finally lifted his hat from where he stood behind the crowd. “Ten dollars.”

  A collective gasp and happy mutterings swirled through the crowd.

  Leah’s face flushed an adorable pink.

  “Sold!” Mr. Hucket smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Whitsett.”

  How much would Jacob have bid on her basket if she’d put one up for auction?

  Silly to wonder such a thing when she’d cost him plenty of money already.

  A flash of his gold star redrew her attention as he skirted the crowd. The roguish look he sent her made her breath catch.

  Mrs. Tate walked past, her ample curves obliterating Annie’s view. “Morning, ladies.” The old woman dragged a three-legged stool behind her as she moved with a gait indicating her arthritis was flaring up. “I need to use that stump there for my table. I’m too old to eat off the ground.”

  The sawed off trunk was no more than five feet away. Seemed this nice, shady spot wasn’t the best place in the yard after all.

  And the hope for relaxation was carried off on the wind.

  Leah smiled brightly. “Pleased to have you.”

  The woman didn’t answer, and with a groan, sat her well-endowed posterior over the entirety of her little chair, not bothering to wait for Annie’s response. The old woman pulled out a doily from her knitted bag and placed it atop the stump along with two forks, a placemat, and a small vase containing two sprigs of white chokecherry blossoms.

  Annie couldn’t help but smile at Mrs. Tate’s elaborate picnic items. Mother would’ve likely set up a picnic just the same—if anyone could’ve convinced her to eat outside in the dirt and wind.

  Jacob gave Mrs. Tate a tip of his hat before strolling past her to take a seat between Annie and Spencer.

  As Mr. Hucket babbled in an attempt to auction off a basket that didn’t appear large enough to hold more than two sandwiches and a napkin, Annie looked surreptitiously to her right, where Jacob sat close enough to stop the cool wind from blowing through her hair.

  His hand was only inches from hers, and her fingers itched to creep over and lace through his, but she shouldn’t do so in front of Mrs. Tate.

  Despite the strong breeze, the older woman’s chignon somehow kept her every hair in place. And though she was not looking at them, her face seemed tense, as if their mere presence behind her caused her consternation.

  Annie’s heart fluttered at the fleeting vision of her mother being seated there instead of Mrs. Tate, her chin held at that same familiar angle of judgment.

  Annie stared down at the scar that trailed across three of the fingers on her left hand.

  Mother had cornered her in her father’s study only days before her sixteenth birthday. “Annie Lynn Saint, what have you to say for yourself?”

  Annie had backed up against a bookshelf. Why was Mother looking at her like that?

  “Mrs. Casings told me you were holding hands with that Brubaker boy.”

  She swallowed. That wasn’t such a terrible thing to do, was it? “He likes me.”

  “Please don’t tell me Mrs. Casings was telling the truth about him kissing you.” Mother’s smoldering glare made Annie’s face feel white hot.

  “I didn’t ask him to.” Though Johnny’s kiss had been nothing more than a quick peck on her cheek, a warm jolt had traveled all the way down to her toes.

  Had Mrs. Casings followed them home after the young people’s church gathering? Johnny’s cornflower blue eyes had captivated her, so perhaps she’d not noticed her mother’s friend.

  “How dare you traipse around town like a strumpet!”

  A ... a strumpet?

  “It wasn’t like that!” Though Mother would never consider the livery man’s son suitable for either of her girls, he had the sweetest dimples and could always pull Annie out of her low spirits with a random scripture verse—even if it didn’t apply to her situation whatsoever. “He might not be from the best family, but he’d never—”

  “Hush.” Mother snapped her fingers. “You will not mar the Saint name again with such carelessness. People rise and fall by rumor alone. How dare you give them something to talk about!” Mother’s lips pinched together, and her eyes darkened. “You may have already cost your father much with such foolishness. You’re far too old for me to have to give you this talk.” She snatched the letter opener off Father’s desk. “Hold out your hand.”

  Annie gaped at the blunt, knife-like edge. Surely Mother wouldn’t—

  “I said hold out your hand.”

  Jacob’s fingers curled through Annie’s, and with a gasp, she quickly snatched her hand from his.

  His eyebrows descended, confusion crinkling his forehead.

  Mr. Hucket’s calls barely projected over the crowd of bidders.

  “Sorry,” she whispered, swallowing against the sudden uptick of her heartbeat. “You just startled me.”

  A quick glance proved Mrs. Tate hadn’t turned to see why she’d gasped. And what did it matter if she did? Mrs. Tate wasn’t Mother, no matter how much her demeanor reminded her of the supposed saintliest of the Saints.

  With a deep breath, Annie wriggled her hand back under Jacob’s and entwined her fingers with his.

  He glanced down at their hands before looking up at her, his eyebrows nearly meeting in the middle.

  Oh, how cold he must think her for him to look so confused about his wife daring to hold his hand. A hand she’d offered that Brubaker boy without any hesitation—and Johnny’s glances had never made her insides churn like Jacob’s did.

  If it wasn’t for her mother, would she have naturally been more demonstrative? Though she likely would’ve never become as warm as Jacob.

  Once he realized she’d never become the doting type of wife Leah was, would Jacob regret marrying her?

  Not the time to be thinking such things! She shouldn’t think them at all. “I’m sorry.”

  He still appeared confused.

  “I’m trying.” She squeezed his hand a little.

  His brow relaxed and he nodded slightly, his mouth wriggling up a little as if trying to give her a smile. “It’s all I ask.”

  The voices of the two men bidding against each other on the last basket escalated, so Annie turned to watch. She’d never seen either man before, and the basket, though fancy, wasn’t worth such vehement bidding. Were these men trying to prove something to each other? Or perhaps they didn’t realize the ladies from the Presbyterian church sold ham and beans for those without baskets.

  Though having two men bid above three dollars for the basket was wonderful, Annie cringed on behalf of the basket’s owner. Neither man appeared as if he’d bathed in quite some time.

  “Anyone else want to bid?” Mr. Hucket patted his damp forehead and scanned the crowd.

  The uglier of the two newcomers upped his bid to four dollars.

  What if Celia had been old enough to auction off a basket?

  Annie leaned toward Jacob. “Why don’t you bid? I’d hate to think one day Celia would only have those two men fighting over a chance to eat with her.”

  Jacob’s gaze roved the clearing. “Do you know whose basket it is?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” She squee
zed his hand. “We’ll just have another guest for lunch.”

  “Five dollars!” The shorter man near the auction table glared at the uglier, dirtier one.

  Leah nudged Jacob’s side. “The money will go directly to your own children’s benefit.”

  Bryant, who must have come over while she’d been lost in thought, held out his palms. “I can’t help. I’ve already shoveled out ten bucks.”

  “Goodness, I don’t need that much prompting.” Jacob took off his hat to wave it at Mr. Hucket. “Ten dollars and five cents.”

  Bryant snorted and rolled his eyes. “Always have to outshine me.”

  Without giving the men a chance to bid again, the school master pointed to Jacob. “Sold to the marshal.”

  A smattering of clapping ended the bidding, and a man from across the crowd cried, “Let’s eat!”

  Bryant and Jacob got up to claim their baskets, and the two unkempt strangers glared at Jacob as he passed, but thankfully they turned away and disappeared into the crowd.

  Annie scanned the girls waiting up front and stopped at the smile Miss McGill was flashing at Jacob. Annie tightened her fists as red hot tendrils wrapped themselves around her heart in the same way Gwen’s arm slid around the crook of Jacob’s.

  Of course it had to be Gwen’s basket.

  The young woman’s maroon dress hugged her much younger, curvier figure, and the color enhanced her creamy skin. The way the luxurious fabric moved affirmed her wealth.

  And if that wasn’t bad enough, she looked as if she belonged on the arm of the most handsome man in Armelle. Voluptuous, attractive, graceful, a woman comfortable with displaying her adoration for all to see.

  Gwen was everything Annie wasn’t.

  Jacob’s face offered his escort nothing but politeness, but Gwen’s features bespoke more than thankfulness for being rescued from the two less than appealing men.

  “Whose is this?” Up at the table, Mr. Grayson held up the basket he’d won, decked out with drooping dandelions.

  A questioning murmur snaked around the mass of people, but no girl stepped forward.

  An inhuman shriek preceded a young girl’s piercing squeal, and Annie put a hand over her quickened heartbeat. Where had that sound come from?

  Near the schoolhouse, a few women screamed and stumbled into each other, while a roar of masculine laughter mixed in with the ladies’ shrieks.

  Jacob dropped Gwen’s arm to race toward the uproar with Bryant.

  “What is it, Mama?” Spencer jumped up and stood on tiptoe.

  A sudden split in the crowd revealed the black bulk of Lullabelle racing about as fast as a pig her size could run. A woman’s large chemise strangled her neck, and a pair of ladies’ drawers snugly encapsulated her backside. A garland of dandelions and twine held her floppy ears upright.

  “I think we’ve found the girl who belongs to your basket, Samuel.” A man hooted from somewhere in the crowd.

  Poor Mr. Grayson’s face drained of color.

  Mrs. Tate jolted, knocking over her stool, and placed a hand at her heart. “Well, I never!” Her fleshy arms flapped as she pointed at the bewildered pig. “Those are my— Those are my ... my...” Her face turned red, and she clamped a hand over her mouth and sat down heavily.

  Spencer cackled, and Annie poked him.

  He clamped his hand over his mouth, fell upon the quilt, and rocked in amusement.

  At least something had pulled her son from his doldrums, but poor Mrs. Tate! How would she live down having her unmentionables paraded about on a fat, bristly pig for the entire town to see?

  “Spencer,” she hissed, trying not to let his infectious giggle crack the stern façade she was trying to maintain.

  Jacob shooed the pig toward the street with a broken tree limb. “Mr. Sullivan,” he yelled.

  The pig’s owner, carrying a half-eaten drumstick, raced toward Lullabelle.

  The barrel-sized pig grunted at Bryant, who was waving his arms in an attempt to redirect her.

  Gwen stood with her hands on her hips, watching Jacob, Bryant, and Mr. Sullivan herd off the disgruntled animal. When the men disappeared behind the schoolhouse, she glanced at Annie and then toward her father. After what looked like a moment of indecision, she started toward Annie’s blanket.

  “Welcome, Gwen.” Once the girl was close enough, Annie patted the blanket on the side where Jacob had not sat earlier. Though Gwen’s haughty expression rankled, uncertainty showed in her hesitant steps as well. “What lovely things did you pack in your basket?”

  The younger woman gathered her skirts and made the fashionably large amount of fabric drape and swirl about her in one smooth transition to the ground. Seated, she looked like a doll atop an intricate cupcake. “I’ve got cold beef sandwiches, carrot salad, and cherry tarts.” She set down her basket. “But that doesn’t matter since Jacob didn’t buy it because of what’s in it.”

  “Still sounds wonderful.” Annie pulled out her rolls and placed one on each plate.

  Gwen propped herself up with her hands, leaned back, and stared at the clouds. “I knew Jacob would save me.”

  Leah’s right eyebrow lifted.

  Annie shook her head. They could inform the girl they’d prodded Jacob into buying her basket, but there was no need to make a scene—not if today was supposed to be enjoyable.

  Behind Annie, a ploomp and a grunt made the hair on her neck stand.

  Celia blew out a noisy breath and then snickered.

  Annie turned and frowned at her daughter’s hair, which looked as if a rodent had spent all night tugging strands from her braids. “Where have you been, young lady?”

  She shrugged. “Nowhere. But wasn’t that the funniest thing you ever saw? Can you believe someone actually got Mrs. Tate’s—”

  Annie’s elbow connected with Celia’s ribs, and she used her eyes to indicate Mrs. Tate’s location. The woman was sitting on her stool, staring toward the trees, chomping on her sandwich mechanically.

  Spencer leaned toward Celia. “How’d you know it was Mrs. Tate’s unmentiona—?”

  Annie tweaked Spencer’s ear. “Hush.”

  But that was a good question. A question that likely had no good answer.

  Her stomach sank like stone.

  Celia grabbed a roll and glowered at her brother.

  “Stop staring at Spencer as if he’s the one who did something wrong,” Annie muttered low enough Mrs. Tate wouldn’t hear. “What have you been up to?”

  Celia grabbed a handful of berries. “Talking with friends.”

  “I wonder when Jacob will be back.” Gwen sighed and pulled a cherry pastry from her basket.

  Annie stabbed her roll and crammed butter into the slit. Since Gwen had called Jacob by his given name long before he’d married, she couldn’t expect the girl to just stop, though she certainly could’ve said his name with a lot less wistfulness.

  “There he is!” Spencer waved at Jacob, whose long strides ate up the ground. “Did you have to put the pig down, Pa?”

  Slightly winded, Jacob lowered himself next to Annie. “No. We just took her back home. Bryant’s helping Sullivan de-clothe her.”

  Celia’s short burst of giggles ended with her choking in an attempt not to laugh full out.

  Annie thumped her daughter’s back as if she were choking instead of dying of laughter until her breathing returned to normal.

  “I’m so glad you were here.” Gwen batted her eyelashes at Jacob. “Saving us all from that awful ogre of an animal, and me from those nasty men.” She handed him a beef sandwich and a small bowl of thinly sliced carrots covered in a white sauce.

  How had she whipped those food items out so fast?

  “You’ll be happy you bought my basket.” She held a fork out to him. “It’s Grandma McGill’s secret recipe.”

  Jacob took the fork, shoveled in some carrot salad, and nodded. “It’s very good.” He set Gwen’s food down and looked Annie in the eyes. “Now tell me, wife, what did you pack?”
He rubbed his hands together. “I’m famished.”

  Annie kept her smile small despite it wanting to split her face. “Tomato sandwiches, pickles, rolls, applesauce, and snap peas.” She handed him a plate. “And butter cake for dessert.”

  “Excellent.” He set the plate in his lap and leaned over to kiss her cheek.

  Annie kept her gaze on her lap to keep from looking at Gwen.

  Minutes ago, she’d been worrying about what Mrs. Tate would think of her holding Jacob’s hand, and here he so easily declared his favor for her in front of a woman who wasn’t shy about displaying her affection for him.

  Gwen was the kind of girl she’d have expected Jacob to marry.

  But he’d not chosen her despite it being obvious Gwen had given him ample opportunity to declare himself.

  So why was she letting Gwen outshine her? She could at least do what the brazen young woman did: look at him as if she admired him, sidle up close, compliment him in front of others.

  She reached up to brush a crumb off the corner of his mouth with her thumb.

  He stopped mid-chew.

  She smiled and tilted her head like Gwen might when trying to peek up at a man through her lashes, but then realized she had nothing coquettish to say. Did flirty women like Gwen prepare their flattery beforehand or did such expressions just roll off their tongues? “Uh, do you mind if I offer one of our sandwiches to Miss McGill?”

  He only shook his head, and then looked back out into the crowd.

  So much for her first attempt at flirting. She turned to Gwen and gestured to her basket. “Would you like anything of ours?”

  A muscle in the young lady’s cheek twitched, making her look both vulnerable and offended. “No, thank you,” she muttered. She grabbed her half-eaten tart and threw the crust at a small songbird hopping and pecking near Mrs. Tate.

  Mrs. Tate’s steely-blue eyes scanned Annie’s family, stopping on how little space there was between her and Jacob before moving to stare at Celia’s mussed hair.

  The old woman harrumphed, then gathered her things in a basket and left.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The fiddler started a second round of “Turkey in the Straw,” and Jacob strode over to the clump of ladies Annie had buried herself in shortly after they’d finished their picnic. He knew it was rude to pull her out of a conversation, but he’d been bombarded with so many questions about the pig and the rustlers that he’d had no chance to dance with her yet.