Mail Order Bride- Fall

by Sierra Rose

  The church pews were packed to the rafters for the fifteen minute ceremony. Only a few naysayers or gossips would attend for the sole purpose of criticism and complaint afterward; most were well-wishers, familiar with Molly’s unhappy history and wanting just to send her off with their heartiest congratulations. The fact that she was plighting her troth to their popular sheriff merely provided the clotted cream and sweet burgundy cherry atop some spectacular dessert.

  Rev. Beecham hadn’t even finalized the traditional finish before Paul eagerly swept the new Mrs. Winslow into his arms for the sort of lengthy, suffocating kiss shared by a couple kept apart for too many months. The rapturous intensity of what they were witnessing sent the entire congregation into gales of sympathetic titters, even a ripple of laughter.

  “Mine,” he whispered exhultantly, when they broke apart at last.

  “Almost makes me wanna get married, myself,” confided the doctor in an aside to the best man.

  Ben grinned. “It’s mostly a pretty tolerable state to be in,” he confided back.

  “Gwan, you old hornswaggler. You’ve never been so happy since you and Camellia got hitched.”

  Another grin, even broader, was all the answer Gabe needed.

  In the vestibule, where the newlyweds stood together to accept felicitations from all those exiting, Molly’s simple but absolute radiance seemed to light up the rather dim area like a thousand candles. Her delight in everything today—this husband the love of her life, the nuptials as culmination of every dream, her perfect gown, the crowd surrounding her with warmth and cordiality—was positively palpable.

  The church women, bless their hearts, had taken charge of the post-nuptial celebration, directing guests to victuals and tables already set up in the adjoining hall, with extras, weather being clement, spilling over onto the lawn outside. When Molly, in an earlier consultation with the president of the Ladies’ Aid Society, Grace Ellen Tucker, had questioned the number of dishes being prepared, Mrs. Tucker had merely chuckled.

  “My lands, you must’ve seen how much these people can eat, when they’re in a partyin’ mood,” she said comfortably. “And, you get a few drinks in some of these men, why, they’re worse’n rats on a sinkin’ ship—they just devour everything in sight. No, honey, don’t you worry none about it. Nobody’s gonna go away hungry.”

  Futile to point out that she hadn’t been planning to serve any drinks, this being a church reception and all, with standards of decorum (and with the sheriff attending not only as groom but as watchful overseer of any hi-jinks). But how many saloons existed in this town, and nearly every one conveniently within spitting distance?

  It was a joyous day, crowded with pure happiness, and those who could leave their shops periodically wandered over to join in the festivities, lift a glass or cup, pick up a plate, and socialize. Paul, on first-name basis with nearly every resident in town, and Molly, not so much, had both issued an open invitation: come one, come all.

  And they did.

  At some point in late afternoon, during a lull of those lined up for the assembly line of covered dishes, covered containers, and casseroles, the informal group of music makers set up shop and began to tune their instruments. It didn’t take long for guests to start tapping their feet in time to the tunes being played. From there they moved on into a large area, where the grass had been worn away to not much more than bare ground by many previous occasions, to join in some of the spritely do-si-does, polkas, and schottisches. Some eagerly, some less so.

  The newlyweds had chosen a large table out of the line of traffic—and somewhat secluded from congenial but still intrusive gazes—to bill and coo.

  At least until Gabriel, cup of punch in hand, wandered along.

  “Plenty of time for that later on,” he observed cheerily. “You ordered this shindig; you gotta put up with everybody watchin’ every move you make. Got any room there?” Without waiting for their answer, he dragged a convenient chair over the grass and plopped down.

  Paul bent a friendly glance upon him. “Whatcha drinkin’ there, Doc?”

  Frowning, Gabe peered into his cup. “Some kinda pink stuff. Lemonade, I think. Tastes much more palatable with a bit of bourbon in it.”

  Molly, clinging like a limpet to her husband’s arm as if he might somehow escape, laughed. “Do you go through life half-befuddled, Gabriel?”

  “Why, no, honey, wherever wouldja get that idea? Wouldn’t be much use to my patients if I was snozzled, now, would I? No, I just indulge at parties. And family gatherin’s,” he added thoughtfully. “And maybe when I’m sittin’ all alone in my house at night.”

  “Poor, pathetic man,” tsk-tsked Hannah, coming up behind him. “Are we supposed to feel sorry for you?”

  Looking up at this black-haired young woman in her unaccustomed but becoming carnation pink, he grinned. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt, would it? Everybody could use a little sympathy now and then.”

  “Sympathy for who?” Reese was strolling toward them, hand in hand with his lady love.

  “Oh, Doctor Havers, here, has just been complaining about his lot in life,” Hannah said, grinning. She spread her lovely skirts and took one of the extra chairs simply sitting around waiting for her to decorate it. “He seems to feel he isn’t appreciated.”

  Revelry continued around those in this intimate family group, with some guests (mostly male) making their way through the food line once again, some guests (mostly older female) trying to contain and clean up, some guests (mostly younger female) pulling partners out for another dance. And some guests, all the children, racing around to chase early fireflies, roll hoops or play ball, and trip unwary adults in their passage to and fro.

  The Burton clan seemed to be holding court, as Ben and Camellia, looking about as blissfully tired and happy as anyone could be, emerged from the crowd to pull up chairs.

  “Oh, Molly, it was a beautiful wedding,” Camellia sighed, on a hint of more tears. “And you’ve been a beautiful bride. I hope this man of yours has told you that, and tells you that often.”

  The bride looked up at that man of hers with blinding joy. “He has. He will.”

  “Is that your elbow jabbin’ me in the ribs, Camellia?” Ben grinned. Slipping one arm around her shoulders, he leaned slightly sideways to nuzzle her ear—not yet the father, but ever the lover. “You know you always look beautiful to me, darlin’, whether I say so or not.”

  “But, I—but, you—”

  “I know. It means more if I say the words.” He glanced around at the others, who were smiling or chuckling sympathetically. “I can always savvy when I’m in the doghouse.”

  “Oh, Ben, you don’t—”

  “Listen, Cam, I was just thinkin’.” Ben decided to throw a monkey wrench into the works, just to see that charming, slight fluster of hers. “Now that your sister and my new brother-in-law are gonna be movin’ that dadratted big piano into their house—”

  “Now, wait a minute,” Paul began to vociferously protest. “I didn’t say—”

  “Hush, dear.” Molly touched a very wifely forefinger to his lips, but she smiled disarmingly as she did it. “We already agreed on that, remember?”

  “You mean durin’ that conversation when you had me so dizzy with wantin’ you in my—”

  “Hush!” Her cheeks blazing poppy red, she dared not send a glance around the table. “Private moment, Paul. Not for pitchers with big ears.”

  Silence for just a minute, while the music for a Virginia Reel swirled around and gathered them in, and someone thoughtfully began to light a few lanterns for safety’s sake. At the far edge of the church property, a bonfire had been set burning; wood crackled, bright embers floated up into the air, and autumn fragrance was added to everything else going on.

  Then Hannah injected pointedly and somewhat flatly, “About that piano?”

  “About that piano,” muttered Paul gloomily. “Gonna have to build an extra room onto my house, just to hold the blasted thing. Sure didn’t k
now, when I took me a wife, she’d come with her own full orchestra.”

  “Oh! Yeah, that piano.” Ben picked up the thread of his own interrupted conversation. “So, anyway, Cam, once that monster piece is gone, whatddya say we turn the barn into a stable? Get a couple horses from Abel, buy us a nice surrey. In the long run, financially we’d be smart to do it, and Lord knows it’d be nice to have a rig right here, convenient, ’steada havin’ to hike over to the livery every time, and—well, it just seems right. What’s your opinion?”

  “Ben, you have many brilliant ideas. This is one of your better ones. Let’s do it.”

  Beaming, he tightened his clasp, then openly, deliberately, spread a palm across her middle. “Well, then.”

  Four men, four women, taking their ease during a delightful and satisfying celebration. Three of each holding hands, in the gathering dusk, when a few twilight stars were making an appearance, each occasionally murmuring or responding to the good wishes of a guest who approached. Only the doctor sat separate and apart, only Hannah relaxed in her seat at the end of the table; not a couple, unless they might be considered sparring partners in a boxing ring.

  Molly was trying to persuade a reluctant Paul to take her out for a waltz, Ben was checking to ensure that Camellia was not feeling overtired, when Letitia made a move to rise. Solicitous, Reese bent toward her.

  “Somethin’ you need, Tish?”

  “M’h’m. The air is getting a bit cool, Reese, and I want to fetch my shawl.”

  “I’ll go. Whereabouts might I find this thing, and what does it look like?”

  She gave him a quick description: dressy black lace, with silky fringe, and a fragile pink rose embroidered at each corner; and its possible location: inside the church, draped across the second pew toward the altar.

  It seemed that all activity had moved from the rather stuffy hall to the outdoors, where so much self-made entertainment was going on. Both vestibule and sanctuary showed as full of shadows, with only dim, muted light from the kerosene lamps edging through the windows to ease Reese’s way inside.

  The wooden floor creaked slightly under his black dress shoes, purchased as accessory for his gray frock suit. Couldn’t escort his lady wearing the customary frayed woolen trousers and heavy boots, now, could he? Maybe the brand spanking new duds could serve for his own wedding ceremony. Smiling, Reese reached for the shawl.

  And froze.

  The cold hard muzzle of a revolver had just been shoved into his ribs, and stuck there, with the snick of a hammer being drawn back to add to the sense of menace.

  “Well, well, ain’t you the tough one to track down,” said a low, gravelly voice close to Reese’s ear. “Been followin’ you a long time, Cole Forrester. And I finally have you caught, dead to rights, since you ain’t b’hind bars where you’re s’posed to be. You got a hangin’ tree handy in this Podunk town? Think we’re gonna need one.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE BOBBLE OF LIGHT issuing forth from a lantern being carried low and the soft thump of approaching footsteps interrupted. “What on earth is going on in here?” demanded a surprised voice.

  “Reverend,” stiffly acknowledged Reese, as warning. Both his arms were raised, in the classic pose of surrender, while the man at his back tightened hold. “You might wanna stop where you are.”

  “Why, I’ll do no such thing, young man.” The lamp was lifted, enough to throw illumination over the two men pressed up against a pew, and Martin Beecham frowned. “I came inside to put some things away. Now I find you, here, Reese, and—you, sir?”

  The man laughed: in the stillness, it was a hollow, ugly sound. “Reverend, huh? From what I understand, you got a weddin’ under your belt. D’ you take care of funerals, too?”

  “I take care of whatever needs doing in this town,” the minister said sharply, “in the sight of God and the sight of man. Who are you, and why are you hiding? Do you seek sanctuary?”

  “Not hardly, Preacher. More like the wages of sin. Since you asked, my name is Justice, and I’m here to serve it.”

  “Whatever you’re after, put that gun away,” Martin ordered. “You are in the house of the Lord, and this is sacrilege.”

  “Aw, now, there you have me, Padre. I just can’t do that. Y’ see, I just captured a dangerous criminal, and I’m haulin’ him off to your hoosegow.”

  Stunned, the minister looked from one to the other. “Dangerous criminal? Reese? Surely you can’t be serious. What are you talking about?”

  Clearly the intruder was losing patience, for he growled a command even as he waved one hand in dismissal: “Enough yappin’. Get outa the way, old man. We’re headin’ to jail. And I’m prepared to shoot this outlaw dead if he so much as blinks wrong.”

  “Then I,” said Martin firmly, “shall accompany you. Just to ensure that doesn’t happen. Here, out the side door, so as not to disturb anyone and attract attention.”

  “Reverend—” began Reese, with an imploring glance.

  “Don’t worry, my boy. We’ll get this matter straightened out.”

  Turnabout’s two deputies, Austin Blakely and Colton Bridges, had been taking turns manning the fort since the wedding celebrations had begun, so that each could enjoy a couple hours of dancing, socializing, and chowing down. Austin, having met a sweet young thing from one of the outlying ranches, had discovered he was in love; and Colton had been casting admiring glances toward the unattached Miss Hannah Burton, although she seemed a bit too independent for his taste.

  They were ensconced now in the sheriff’s office, drinking some very bad coffee and shooting the breeze, when the door burst open and a very unlikely-looking trio strode in.

  “Lockup,” rasped the stranger, indicating that set of iron bars to the rear with one motion of his Colt 44. And shoved Reese forward.

  Both deputies were instantly on their feet, ready to paw for holstered weapons in response.

  “Gentlemen.” The town’s enormous respect for Rev. Beecham showed, in that every movement halted with his single word. “We have a very confusing set of events taking place here. And, much as I hate to disturb the sheriff at his own nuptials, I fear it must be done. Austin, please go fetch him. Quietly. And you, Mr. Justice, kindly put aside your side arm.”

  Austin grabbed his hat and bolted.

  “Now,” said the minister, spreading the tails of his frock coat. “Let us all just sit and wait.”

  Thick, heavy silence filled the room, an almost visible miasma of suspense and foreboding. Colton, seated behind his boss’s desk, fiddled with paperwork on some unimportant matter; Justice had taken a chair near the door, with his weapon laid ominously across one thigh; Reese, feeling the jaws of this trap about to snap shut around him, stood in the corner like a condemned prisoner.

  The wait was brief. Very shortly, Paul, looking exceptionally handsome in his wedding finery, hastened in, with Austin at his heels.

  He looked around, at the motley collection of individuals inhabiting his office, and blinked. “Somebody mind tellin’ me what’s goin’ on here?” he said mildly.

  Colton had already risen and moved away from the sheriff’s chair, in anticipation.

  The reverend had also risen. “My apologies for interrupting the festivities, Paul, but I’m afraid it was necessary. I hope your lovely bride was not disturbed?”

  “She doesn’t know what I’m about; I slipped away without tellin’ her the truth. Letty, on the other hand—” He glanced meaningfully toward Ben’s brother.

  Reese’s thin face twisted in anguish. “She’s worried?”

  “You’d been gone a long time, and she doesn’t know what happened. Told her you were prob’ly off at one of the saloons, and I’d see what you’d gotten yourself into. Who’s this?”

  “About time somebody took notice of me.” The stranger’s sneer endeared him to no one. “I take it you are Sheriff Winslow, the one responsible for keepin’ this murderer under lock and key. My name is Justice, Sheriff, Pennyroyal Justice
, and I am a bounty hunter about to collect on my fee.”

  “Not in my town, Mr. Justice. What makes you think this man here—” The sweep of his arm indicated Reese, “is the one you’re lookin’ for?”

  Justice smirked. He, too, had unfolded himself to come upright, whipcord lean and tough. The only person still sitting amongst all this male chest-pounding and bravado was Rev. Beecham.

  The smirk grew wider.

  “Been in contact with Marshal Westley, out in San Francisco; he let me know where Cole Forrester is hangin’ out these days.” He sent a baleful glare toward the errant cowboy, who was looking about as downcast and dispirited as anyone could. “I’ve been on your trail through a lotta places, Forrester—big towns, little towns, wild unsettled land. And now I want my money.”

  “The amount of reward shown on that poster—”

  “One thousand bucks, dead or alive. And from what I can see, Sheriff, it don’t make me no never mind which one he ends up bein’.”

  “Ah, but here’s the thing, Mr. Justice. You maybe haven’t been in touch with our marshal friend as recently as I have. And I got more information for you.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “Heard from him only a few weeks ago. You tryin’ to cheat me outa what I earned fair and square?”

  “Not at’all. But, y’ see, I reckon that’s old news. ’Cause this telegram was delivered to me just this mornin’. Ain’t had a chance to follow up on it today, what with havin’ my mind on other things—” Paul’s tone dripped with vitriol, “but—well, here. Siddown and read it.”

  Still suspicious, Justice reached out for the single sheet of yellow paper. That reading any document might not be one of his strengths was evidenced by the fact that it took him so long to do so, and the fact that he moved his lips as he spoke. Finally, disgruntled, he read the message again. Aloud, for everyone in the room to hear.