Cal swallowed hard, so hard she could hear it. “That’s very kind of you Silas, but—”
“I’ve got some time tonight. I can sweep out the place for you.” Silas bent over and placed his empty bottle on the street.
Ginny looked at Silas’s face, covered with stubble and cheap beer stains, and he had never looked so beautiful. He’d provided the perfect opportunity for them to escape Mrs. Clinton’s terrifying schemes. “Thank you so much!”
“What’s this all about?” Lavender fabric bounced into the street as Cherry appeared. “And don’t you dare tell my aunt I was late for prayer meeting again. I’m going to just slip in the back while she’s pounding out piano chords.”
“Cherry!” Ginny grasped at her hand. “Mrs. Clinton is trying to plan my wedding.”
With one gloved hand, Cherry patted Ginny on the shoulder. “It was kind of unavoidable. You’ll get used to it.”
“No! I’m getting married in the sheriff’s office tomorrow. Silas offered his cell as temporary quarters while we get everything arranged. Would you like to stand up by me?”
Cal crossed his arms. The leather vest and gold star gave the arm-crossing a quite impressive aura. “We are not honeymooning in a jail.”
Cherry’s shrill shriek completely drowned out his voice. “Ginny Thompson, you aren’t missing your wedding! I won’t allow it. I have a gorgeous white dress all planned for you that we’re going to sew. And I just bought a whole booklet of love songs for you to pick from for your processional. Auntie’s already agreed to do the piano music and—”
Ginny’s gaze desperately roved about, looking for any way of escape, any friendly face, anyone with the moral fiber to oppose Mrs. Clinton’s torture. Silas gave her a cheery grin, but Cal still wore his stolid, “no honeymooning in jail cells” look. “It’s me that’s engaged. I should get to decide what I want,” Ginny started in a small voice.
Cherry flounced her skirt. “No buts. You’re showing up to your own wedding. And I’ll make sure every justice of the peace and reverend within a hundred miles knows you’re on the marriage blacklist until the wedding is properly planned.”
With a sigh that came all the way from the bottom of her rib cage, Ginny looked to Cal.
“A wedding could be fun.” His apologetic expression was worsened by his hopeful tone.
A black gloom slipped over Ginny. “Not with Mrs. Clinton.”
Reaching over, he squeezed her hand. “You kind of deserve it after the intoxication incident.”
“Cal Westwood!. If, and I say if, I agree to marry you in a Mrs. Clinton-planned wedding, you will feel sorry for me about every single detail and throw out any peonies or bronze candles.”
“I don’t think peonies are in season.” He didn’t let go of her hand.
“Cal!” Her shriek went all the way up to his face and she would have shoved him too.
“Fine. Fine. I pity you horribly for having to marry me. Happy?”
She laughed. “I like marrying you, it’s the other part.” The peonies perfume and the wedding arch smashed down into her mind again. All smiles faded.
“I’m running inside to prayer meeting before the two of you get completely out of hand.” Gathering up her flowered drawstring bag, Cherry brushed by them into the church.
Six Weeks Later
Tomorrow was her wedding day. Ginny sat on the back room settee next to Cal, leaning over the checkers game set on the bench in front of them. She could hop his checker there, but last time she did that it had been a setup and he’d hopped four of hers. She furrowed her brow.
“I love you.” He moved his arms under hers, pulling her back against him until her hair touched his shoulder and she was looking right up at him.
Pulling her legs under her, she twisted around to face him. “Why do you say that all the time now, and before you were always complaining that I poisoned you and inconvenienced your life. It scarcely seems rational.”
He laughed. “Tell me, Gina, why do you rationally love me?”
“Well,” she pursed her lips. “Marksmanship is a useful skill.” She cocked her head. “Though it won’t ease my domestic duties nearly as much as sweeping.” She bit her lip. “The sheriff’s salary is lower than a business owners’ profits.”
He made an unconvinced noise.
All at once, her face brightened. “But horseback riding is essential to the mountains. Marrying a man with a good seat on a horse is a very logical decision.”
“Tell the truth, Miss Thompson, you just think I kiss better than Mr. General Store Owner.”
Her hands jumped up to cover her lips as the heat of her blush descended from the top of her forehead to well below the neckline of her dress.
He leaned back against the settee, hands behind his head, one leg up on the bench as he looked at her. “What’s something you want to do the first year we’re married?”
She scooted an inch away on the yellow cushions as the sun sank beneath the mountains outside, bringing the time closer to that sad moment when Uncle Zak would make Cal leave for the night. “I want lilac bushes,” she said at last. “On our front porch and a swing. And I want to ride out to the mountains, just us, and have a picnic by the lake and go fishing and then dive into the water.”
“I don’t swim.” Cal shifted his boot on the bench.
“I’ll teach you and I’m going to be better than you for the longest, longest time and it’s going to be glorious fun.”
His blue eyes sparkled. Twisting on the cushions, he pulled the arm he had around her back tighter, drawing her near. His other hand crept up her cheek. She could smell the scent of male sweat, which for some vastly unfair reason smelled a hundred times better than female sweat.
Her fingers reached out, almost of their own accord, and stretched behind his shoulder. The fabric of his tan shirt drew tight and she could feel the solidness underneath.
“Are you really going to marry me tomorrow, Ginny Thompson?” His lips were close to hers.
She didn’t want to answer with him just a breath away. Instead, she closed that inch-wide gap and met his lips. It reminded her of sunshine, that feeling of warmth spreading up to cover her, enveloping her heart and sending light up to the furthest reaches of her mind. She wrapped both her arms around his neck.
A vigorous cough came from the doorway. Uncle Zak stood there. “I’m closing down the house for the night.”
The sun hadn’t even set yet, so it was entirely unfair of Uncle Zak. She was an incredibly responsible person. Though she had let Cal kiss her again. Uncle Zak didn’t know that. Heat burned up her ears.
Cal moved to get off the settee.
Leaning forward, she whispered in his ear. “When we have children, I’m going to let them stay up to any hour of the night and let their fiancés kiss them.”
“Just wait until they’re born.” His voice held skepticism.
“I said visiting hours are over.” Uncle Zak stood glaring quite impressively in the doorway and he even liked Cal. He really never had gotten over that Charles incident.
She bent forward again, closer to Cal’s ear. “No, I mean it. Any daughter of mine—”
“Will probably never get to the point of existing because of a pistol bullet if I don’t leave now. Good night.” Cal’s voice was soft enough that Uncle Zak couldn’t hear.
She raised her hand in a wave. “Until tomorrow.”
~*~
Torture, plain and simple. Ginny felt like her hair was being ripped from her head.
“No, I think I like it better this way.” Cherry twisted at a strand of Ginny’s piled-up hair.
Ginny tugged away. “Isn’t it enough that I let you talk me into sewing this whole ridiculously complicated dress?” Holding her arms out, Ginny showed off the white linen that scooped around her shoulders, swung in around her waist, and arched out into a sweeping skirt. The lace filigree edging the neck and making up the transparent sleeves had been the hardest bit.
“Oh, hone
y,” Cherry patted her shoulder, “I didn’t talk you into the dress. I forced you. And you look absolutely splendid.”
Removing her eyes from the clock in Miss Lilac’s dining room, Ginny took the time for one spin and a long glance in the standalone mirror. It was a gorgeous dress. But that clock must be broken. It had been saying ten o’clock something for at least the last six hours.
A radiant quality spread over Cherry’s pink cheeks, showing how truly weddings agreed with her. “Only a half hour and you’ll be Mrs. Calvin Westwood. How does it feel?”
A half hour? Ginny plopped herself down on a red plush seat. A nail from somewhere in the seat bottom pushed through and poked her. “Calvin means bald one.”
“You just made that up.”
“No, it’s true.” Ginny fidgeted with the trim of the chair.
“Anyway.” Cherry coughed loudly. “Your wedding. Your marriage day. How does it feel?” Her voice went dreamy.
Sweaty hands in front of her so they didn’t muss the dress, Ginny squirmed in her seat.
“Are you infatuated with him?”
Ginny noted the scratch pattern in the hardwood floor where Miss Lilac had moved furniture back and forth across the room for each year’s new arrangement. “What does infatuated look like?”
“Butterflies, skipping heartbeats, soaring on the wings of delight.”
“Oh.” Ginny’s voice sank to almost glum. “I like steady heart beats. My grandfather died of a heart attack, a great uncle, too.”
“You’re hopeless.” Taking a little spin herself, Cherry made the light green of her skirt stand out. She looked like a flower with her pink cheeks bobbing up and down above her green dress.
“Has Mrs. Clinton planned anything too horrible for after the ceremony?” That thought alone was enough to make her glum.
Cherry stopped mid-twirl. “There is the receiving line.”
Ginny shifted her eyebrows up. “Yes?”
“She’s had the whole guest list practicing a poem for the last four weeks. It’s about the joys of a family life free of drink. We’re all going to say it when you depart the church, and then we’ll uncork soda water and spray it on you.”
Eyes widening with horror, Ginny stared down at the white fabric she’d spent every day of the last six weeks laboring over. “What about my dress?”
“It is a pity about the dress, but Mrs. Clinton wouldn’t be talked out of it. The soda water is the part just before we ring a circle around you and Cal and kiss each button on your sleeves as a token of luck. Mrs. Clinton says the tradition is that for each kiss a button receives, you will have one child. If an animal licks the button that means twins. I was thinking about bringing Fluffy.”
Terror shot across Ginny’s face. “She can’t actually mean to do that!”
Cherry made no denials.
“She can’t!” Ginny’s voice rose almost like a wail.
“This is Mrs. Clinton we’re talking about, dear.” Cherry wrapped one green-clad arm around Ginny’s shoulders.
True. Ginny subsided into the red seat. The nail stub poked up again. Marriage—was it worth the wedding?
“Time to get over to the church.” Cherry’s voice was all too cheery.
“I—” Marriage was an awfully big decision. Ginny shivered in the pointy little shoes that Cherry had insisted she buy for the occasion.
“If you don’t want him, I’d be happy to stand in for you. Always liked Cal and all.”
Cherry and Cal? “No!” Ginny flew toward Miss Lilac’s front door, which opened out to the street to the church.
“Didn’t think so.” Cherry called after her.
~*~
The wood of the schoolhouse floor creaked beneath Cal’s firmly planted feet. Ignoring the wicker arch, which sprouted ruby flowers and bits of silk out of every wicker gap like so many ears, he stood, mesmerized.
At the piano, Miss Lilac struck the last note of Pachelbel’s Canon in D and from the side of the open schoolhouse doors, where a light September breeze puffed in, a flash of white cloth moved.
The piano music changed. This time, the sound that filled the room was a melody of awe and expectation. The rows were crowded. The congregation rose together, turning to the glimpse of white. Through the aisles of rustling people, restless feet, and ruby mums, he saw her.
Lovely like the lilies of the valley in the Bible, the white of her dress touched the faintly tanned skin of her throat, stopping there below the glorious mass of brown hair that she’d left innocent of veil.
She passed down the aisle and took the position across from him. The reverend placed both hands on the pulpit. “Do you, Cal Westwood, take Virginia Thompson as your wife to have and to hold in…”
Did he—? With all his soul? He wanted her more deeply than he’d thought it possible to want anything. He closed his hands around hers, his eyes on that beautiful face. The corners of her mouth tilted up just a shade, smiling. At him.
Now the reverend asked Ginny. All he heard of her answer was a yes. “You may now kiss the bride.”
Arms around the lovely curve of her waist, he touched his lips to hers. Was he actually married to Ginny Thompson—er—Westwood? She smelled like the fresh hay this month found the farmers gathering, and the bright September sunshine, and falling cottonwood leaves.
The recessional march started. Closing his Bible, the reverend smiled on the newlyweds and leaned over the pulpit. “What God hath joined in holy matrimony, let no man separate.”
Matrimony? Was she really his? Fifty or sixty years of wedded bliss ahead of him, the woman he loved—
Ginny’s voice broke the soliloquy of his thoughts. “Let’s run.”
He tilted his head. “Do what?”
“Run down the aisle.”
“Why?”
“To avoid Mrs. Clinton’s receiving line.” Still in his arms, she kissed him. Then, grabbing his hand, she tugged him toward the potted mums that stood in a gaudy rainbow of color beneath the pulpit.
He held back. “Ginny, it’s not civilized to run.”
“I don’t care!” Letting go of his hand, she gathered up her skirts and plunged down the stairs at breakneck speed.
For an instant, as he saw her lovely hair falling down from pins as her white dress swished around her running legs, he wondered if his life would ever be civilized again. Then he was two feet ahead of her and swung her up in his arms.
Her cheeks turned pinker than her lips as her high-heeled boots and a mass of petticoats hung down over his arm. Her lovely green eyes stared into his as she tensed. “Cal, you have to put me down. It’s not proper to do this.”
“Did you think Texan criminals were brought to justice by proper men?”
The two disappeared out the church door.
According to town gossip, Mrs. Clinton then said the couple looked like the picture of marital bliss, probably because she’d given them blue flowers to symbolize peace. Miss Lilac said she saw Ginny try to slap Cal and that’s why he grabbed her hand and kissed her halfway down the aisle. Cherry said the slap was merely a love pat and that was just Ginny.
As for Sheriff Thompson, he said if he had to tolerate a man kissing his niece right before his eyes like that, he expected some grandnieces and nephews right quick.
Thank you
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