The Piper_The Eleventh Day

by Amanda McIntyre

  Gus leaned closer. “Well, only if you promise not to say anything just yet. I want to tell Jack myself.” He waggled his bushy brows. “I been whittling her these little animals.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. “She’s right taken with my talents.”

  Zeke nodded. Could this day get any stranger?

  A loud squawking split the early morning quiet. Zeke and Gus stepped outside the store in search of the sound. “Is it coming from the mine?” Zeke asked.

  “Appears that durn goose is creatin’ havoc again.” Gus let out a laugh and slapped his knee.

  Woody had his chickens and they’d been known to create a ruckus now and again, but he didn’t know anyone who had a goose. He caught the sight of a man and a woman running around the side of the Nugget saloon in heated pursuit of a frightened bird. He narrowed his gaze, not trusting his sight. “Is that Storm Thornton?”

  “Heeheehee,” Gus cackled. “That’s the most excitement gone on around here in days.” Gus glanced at Zeke. “Meaning outside of the bedroom, that is.”

  Zeke raised his brows at the old man’s comment. A woman’s voice screaming someone’s name pulled Zeke’s attention back to the trio. The feathered one was heading straight for the Cayuga River that ran along the back of the businesses to the north of town.

  “I’m guessing his new wife’s pet goose got away from her again,” Gus said, chuckling. “She brings that varmint with her everywhere she goes.”

  Zeke held up his hand, unsure he’d heard the old man right. Storm Thornton wasn’t the marrying kind. They’d had many a conversation over the very topic. “You mean to tell me that Storm got married?” Zeke sputtered. What the hell was going on in Noelle? Wait…maybe he was dreaming, or maybe this wasn’t really the sleepy little town of Noelle?

  Zeke looked at the old man. “It seems to me that while I was gone hunting these past few weeks, our little town has gone to hell in a handbasket.”

  Gus raised his shaggy brows and looked at Zeke. “Well, then son. You probably haven’t heard about that matchmaker gal who brought all those women to town the other day. Arrived on Christmas Eve. Since then, the single men in town been droppin’ like flies. You best be watching yer back.” He grinned.

  “Matchmaker?” The word put a bitter taste in his mouth. He’d had his own nightmarish experience with arranged marriages. The death of his brother, followed by an attack by a four-hundred-pound grizzly had convinced Zeke that perhaps there was more to life. He had once believed that settling down, raising a family was what he needed to quell the numbing loneliness he carried inside.

  In a vulnerable moment, he’d read an advertisement in the Noelle paper about young women seeking suitable companionship for purpose of marriage. Although there’d only ever been one woman he’d given his heart to--and out of common decency he’d left before his emotions could outweigh his reason. She’d remained in his heart--the elusive love that could never be his.

  Perhaps hoping to quell his loneliness, to start fresh with a new wife, he’d debated long and hard before deciding to answer her ad and give a mail-order marriage a try. In time, there was the chance he’d come to love her as she might come to love him. Gathering his meager savings, he’d sent her the money to travel west.

  She’d arrived at the rail station in the town where the line stopped eight miles from the mountain pass into Noelle. She’d batted her pale blue eyes and offered a smile somewhere between seduction and innocence implying the promise of a future together. They made a beeline from the station to the judge in town, and Zeke had spared no expense in getting a room for their wedding night, promising the road back through the mountain pass to Noelle was far easier and lovelier by day. He’d thought naively that a few scars from his attack would not affect his new bride. He was a virile, stable, young, and strong. But what should have been a blissful wedding night was short-lived when, after he’d removed his shirt, his new bride screamed, horrified by the welted scars of the bear attack across his shoulders and back. She’d insisted he sleep elsewhere and by the next morning he’d returned her to the train before it departed. Weeks later, he received a note that the marriage had been annulled.

  “A matchmaker in Noelle,” Zeke grumbled. “Now, don’t that just beat all.”

  Gus smiled. “It’s a shame you weren’t here when they drew straws, young fella.”

  Zeke chuckled and shook his head. “Oh, no thank you.” It was the first time that day that Zeke had been grateful for his extended hunting trip. “You make sure my letter gets mailed, Gus.” He shook the man’s hand and strode back to the stable, bent on fetching his horse and pelts. The sooner he got his tasks completed the sooner he could retreat to the peace and quiet of his home in the hills. Taking a glance down main street, he noted the large hand painted letters of the Golden Nugget Saloon. Zeke decided he needed a drink.

  Chapter 3

  “Woody?” Genevieve stared at the man as he pulled the scarf from around his neck.

  His face was pale, his expression looking as though he might be sick.

  “Woody, would you please shut the durn door, you eejit,” cried Seamus.

  All at once there was a flurry from behind the tree. Frightened by the bartender’s angry admonition, the goose with a strangled honk broke free, causing the tree to list as it scurried, wings flapping wildly out the open door.

  “Daniel!” Molly screamed and grabbed her skirts in pursuit of the fowl. Storm caught the tree, righting it, then raced out the door after his new bride. Despite their many differences, it was ironically his willingness to care for Molly’s pet goose that most endeared him to his new bride.

  Startled, Woody leapt aside as the bird and his owners disappeared in a chaotic sprint around the side of the saloon.

  “What is it, man?” Pastor Hammond asked, trying not to let the agitation edge into his voice. He was a patient man, or so it appeared, but even his patience had been stretched this morning. The deadline of the contract made with the railroad hung in the balance, only hours away. Noelle’s survival depended on there being no other catastrophes.

  Brought to his senses, Woody pushed against the fierce wind and managed to close the door. He leaned against it, panting to catch his breath.

  One final bob of a tree branch caused an ornament—a silver pipe made of painted glass to roll off the branch and shatter on the rough wood floor. It broke with a pathetic tinkling sound.

  Genevieve’s heart sank as she noted it was the smoking pipe ornament marking Penny’s wedding to Silas.

  Woody’s terrified gaze flickered from Penny to the preacher and back to Genevieve. He swallowed hard. “Got some bad news, preacher. Silas Powell took one of the horses from the livery. Saw him just a while ago riding up the street. I was tending the mules when I saw him. I yelled for him to stop, but he didn’t hear me.” Woody’s gaze went to Penny’s. “I’m sorry, ma’am. But I thought you should know.”

  Pastor Hammond flashed a look at Genevieve. She saw his silent plea to assist in this awkward dilemma. Genevieve met Penny’s unwavering look.

  “Told me bad luck has come to town. Mines dryin’ up,” said one of the men who had worked alongside Silas. He glanced at the stoic bride. “Heard him talking about it last night.”

  The jilted woman lifted her chin and Genevieve saw her struggle for control.

  “I can round up some of the men and go find him, Pastor Hammond, if you want me to.” Woody Burnside, as far as Genevieve could tell, was as earnest and helpful as they came. “He couldn’t have gotten far.”

  “No,” Penny said emphatically. She paused seeming to regain her composure. “No, thank you, Mr. Burnside. That is most kind, but not necessary.” She looked at Pastor Hammond. “Very well, then, I think we’re done here.” She glanced at Genevieve, then pulled off the veil and handed it back to Birdie. “I won’t be needing this.”

  Genevieve reached out to touch the woman’s shoulder. She backed away. “I’m so sorry, Penelope.”

  She squeez
ed her eyes shut. “No need. I shouldn’t have agreed to this. We both knew it.”

  Genevieve shook her head. “No, that’s not true. This isn’t about you, it’s about Silas and…his greed.” Genevieve looked over at the group of rugged men standing and joking about what had just happened. “Surely, there are men left here in Noelle.” She raised her voice to be heard clearly from across the room. “Good, decent men, who by now have seen the improvement marriage can make in a man’s life and have changed their mind. Why, any one of these fine gents would be honored to take Silas’s place. Isn’t that so, gentlemen?” Genevieve turned then and eyed the stunned faces staring back at her.

  They held her gaze but for a moment before all of them rushed for the door like a herd of elk being chased by a mountain lion. They fell over each other to get out of through the door.

  Genevieve pondered whether to follow them and keep walking until she made it back to Denver. “We can fix this, Penny.”

  The woman left at the alter opened her mouth to speak, but Pastor Hammond intervened. “Ladies, it has been a trying morning. Why don’t you take Miss Penelope back to the house and fix her a nice cup of tea? I need to speak with Mrs. Walters.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Penny said over her shoulder.

  “I swear to you, Penny that by days end you shall be a bride,” Genevieve called after the departing group. She collapsed at the nearest table, her head propped on her hand.

  “I must find her a husband,” she said, trying not to let despair filter into her thoughts. “She is wonderful, warm, and bright. She has so much to offer the right man. It’s finding the right man that has been most difficult for her. I so want to help her find happiness.”

  Pastor Hammond sat down beside her. “Here. This will help...some.” He handed her a small glass half full of amber liquid.

  “I don’t drink.” She gently pushed it away. “Thank you,” she added as an afterthought.

  The preacher slid it back in front of her. “I didn’t either. Trust me. One glass has an interesting way of putting life in perspective. It’s only when you hit four or five that you care less about perspective. At that point, you’re just trying to forget.”

  Genevieve eyed the glass, then tilted it to her lips and took a sip. Her eyes watered, her lips burned. It felt like liquid fire sliding down her throat. She covered her mouth as she fell into a fit of coughing.

  Pastor Hammond patted her back. “I’m not sure that we can force anyone into marriage if they aren’t willing.”

  Genevieve frowned. “Did you see how those men ran over each other as though I was asking them to give up an appendage?” She sighed. “Ten brides, Pastor Hammond--you and Felicity, Culver and Kezia, Woody and Meizhen, Jack and Birdie,” she said, holding up a finger for each couple. “Draven and Pearl—and trust me, I wondered about those two. Storm and Molly—yet another questionable match. Liam and Avis, Cara and Dr. Colin, and then there’s Nacho and Fina, and Hugh and Minnie—all complicated stories to be sure—but turning out happily for all involved.” She sighed. “Ten weddings and only two more to go.” She glanced at the pastor. “I had such high hopes for Penelope, in particular.”

  “There, there, Mrs. Walters. Perhaps this is all a misunderstanding. People come and go frequently in Noelle.” He punctuated his comment with a heavy sigh. “Perhaps Silas will have a change of heart,” he said.

  “Or he’ll run into hostile Indians and get his just rewards,” she muttered. Eyeing her glass, she took another drink, longer this time, glad for the way it seemed to warm her blood. “I’m sorry, that’s not a kind thing to say. At any rate, I doubt Penelope would be convinced to take him back were he to change his mind.”

  “Yes, and well…there is that matter of turning the other cheek,” the pastor said, before sampling his own drink.

  She pointed her finger at him. “What we need is to convince the single men left that there is nothing at all to these silly superstitions that Penelope in some way carries an aura of bad luck around her.” She paused. “And you’re just the man to do it, preacher,” she said, poking his shoulder.

  He looked at her, his expression skeptical. He shook his head. “I’m not sure we have that much time, Mrs. Walters.”

  Not to be defeated just yet, she tossed back the remainder of her drink. This time the burn felt good going down. The pastor had been right. Her perspective was actually becoming clearer. “Well, it seems to me if you can’t convince them, then we must find a man who is not privy to the backgrounds of the women I’ve brought from Denver. Someone who has not been swayed by the rumor mill.” She smiled and lifted her glass. It was a superb idea, really, if she did say so herself. “I find this drink quite amiable once you get used to it. What is it, exactly?”

  Pastor Hammond smiled and Genevieve returned it. God was lucky to have a man so charming on His side.

  “Well, in times like these I always remember the assurance that God gives us in Matthew 9:26…with God all things are possible.”

  “Ah.” Genevieve pointed her glass at him. “But in your case, sir, time is of the essence. Let’s hope that Noelle has had enough chaos today to warrant God’s attention.”

  Pastor Hammond smiled. “Don’t lose heart, Mrs. Walters. I firmly believe that when God closes one door, He opens another.”

  The saloon door opened and, with a rush of wind, blew in what appeared to be a large, rather deformed grizzly bear carrying a belted stack of fur pelts over one shoulder.

  Genevieve’s eyes widened as the fur-laden creature strode in, slamming the door with such force that the remaining ornaments on the tree quaked in the aftermath. Mud and debris left a trail behind the fur boots wrapped snugly around his calves. Her gaze crept slowly upward taking in the muscular thighs covered in doeskin trousers, every firm muscle showing beneath the tight covering as he moved.

  Genevieve licked her lips, blinking two or three times to make sure that her sight was not influenced by drink.

  He wore a jacket made from what appeared to be a heavy blanket, tethered around his waist, giving greater definition to his broad shoulders. On the belt hung an intricately tooled leather holder, presumably for a large knife that would usually lie against his hip. Perched atop a mass of dark, straw-colored, shoulder-length hair he wore a hood, fashioned from the head and shoulders of a bear. A scraggly beard and moustache covered most of his face.

  He tossed the pelts onto the sleek polished mahogany bar and pushed back the ghastly looking hood from his head.

  “Them things better not have claws that scratch that wood,” Seamus warned as he approached the man with a bottle and glass in hand. “Mr. Hardt wouldn’t take kindly to his bar getting roughed up.”

  The man glanced at Seamus without expression. “Hardt can come see me if he has an issue,” he said quietly.

  Seamus raised his brows. “Just trying to keep things peaceful, Kyi-yee.”

  He poured a drink and set it on the counter.

  “Who…or what…is that?” Genevieve leaned over and whispered to the pastor.

  “He is our resident hermit. Goes by the name, Kyi-yee. It means “bear”, so I’m told. The name was given to him by the Ute tribe that he trades with. Most of the Indians have been peaceful to deal with, others not so much. It has been beneficial to have him around when tensions arise. He lives alone somewhere up in the mountains.”

  “Does he have a Christian name?” she asked, unable to keep from staring at the way the doeskin stretched over his backside when he leaned forward against the bar. She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry.

  “I’m sure he does. But he was here before I came to Noelle. That is what the townsfolk call him.”

  The man hadn’t acknowledged their presence. Instead, he tipped back his head and in swallow, emptied the glass.

  “Was that what we drank?” she asked in whispered awe.

  Preacher leaned close. “That’s Seamus’s special hooch. Well over one hundred-proof, I understand. Kicks like a mule.”


  “He doesn’t seem at all affected,” she marveled.

  Pastor Hammond seemed to do a double-take. “Mrs. Walters, whatever is going on in that lovely head of yours, I think it best to let it go,” the preacher admonished.

  Seamus turned to leave, bottle in hand. The large man reached out without looking up and snatched the bartender’s arm.

  “As agreed. Five pelts for a bottle,” he said in a low-timbered voice that sent a shiver skirting down Genevieve’s spine and, lord help her…lower.

  Seamus scowled, nodded, and left the bottle. He grabbed the pelts, eyeing them briefly before carrying them through the curtain to the backroom.

  The man straightened his shoulders, raked a hand through his unkempt long hair, and poured himself another drink--downing it as quickly as the first. He certainly appeared healthy—exceptional physical health from her observation. Genevieve was surprised by her visceral reaction to the stranger. It had been ages since a man had affected her in such a way. Perhaps it was the alcohol that led her to see his stellar qualities of a desirable companion—self-sufficient, fearless, ruggedly handsome. Probably, beneath all that hair. “I would imagine he is also good with his hands,” she said, more to herself. Upon seeing the pastor’s shocked expression, she realized she’d uttered the words out loud. “Meaning, he’s likely a carpenter as well. Perhaps grows his own food.”

  Pastor Hammond raised an impervious brow. “Of course, I thought that’s what you meant.” He turned his face, but not before she saw him grin.

  “The truth is, he likely knows nothing about any of the brides or their backgrounds.” She narrowed her gaze, attempting to determine his age—around mid-thirties, she estimated. “This hermit—this mountain man, as you call him--surely, he could use a woman in his life, don’t you think?”

  Pastor Hammond shook his head. “No, ma’am,” he said quietly, and turned to face her. “I don’t think that is a good idea.”

  The man downed a third glass and Genevieve wondered if he was thirsty or trying to forget—and, if the latter, what could it be?