6 The Wedding

by Melanie Jackson

  The Wedding

  by

  Melanie Jackson

  Version 1.1 – March, 2012

  Published by Brian Jackson at KDP

  Copyright © 2012 by Melanie Jackson

  Discover other titles by Melanie Jackson at www.melaniejackson.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Prologue

  Chuck was not on bended knee. We were ice fishing and sitting on campstools with tennis balls on the feet, which Big John swore was safest when the ice began to show signs of weakening and could be punctured with sharp implements. Not that the ice was weak—of course not. But just in case, we should stay near shore and put tennis balls on our stools, eh.

  I wasn’t supposed to be there at all, since this was a father-son outing, but Horace had been delayed in Seven Forks and Chuck had asked me specifically to come. We hadn’t seen as much of each other as we would have liked since he had become a roving agent for the RCMP, so I said yes even though ice fishing held all the appeal of a bath in snowmelt.

  Chuck may not have assumed the classic position, but I recognized the look in his eyes. The last time I had seen this, it had caused terror in my heart. This time I was calmer. My Mountie was handsome, sober—mostly—and solvent. He came with a quirky father, but Horace was usually more blessing than curse. True, Chuck did work for a governmental agency we did our best to avoid, but as baggage went, he was traveling lightly compared to most of us in McIntyre’s Gulch.

  Usually I am risk-averse, but Chuck and I had been to hell and back in the course of the last year, and he’d spent much of that time defending us—even at the cost of his position of trust—and I was confident that he could handle anything that life, or the Gulch, might throw at him.

  Also, I was tired of being alone. There would never be a perfect situation for me to get married and have a normal life. Fugitives don’t get perfect situations and normal lives. But Chuck was the perfect partner for the life I had to lead, and if he needed to be married in order to feel comfortable then married we would be.

  Besides, I was pretty sure that our wedding wouldn’t actually be legal.

  “Butterscotch,” he said softly, reaching into his pocket for a small velvet box. “If you don’t say yes this time I’m going to drown you in the lake.”

  I started laughing.

  “How could I possibly refuse an offer like that?”

  Chapter 1

  “Patience, Max. We’ll go soon. You know I can’t let you out when the Bones is smoking his venison. Remember what happened last time.”

  My wolf sighed heavily in reply. I felt like sighing, too, and not because I was missing a meal of half-smoked deer. My woes were not many—really just two. But they were an important two and causing me a lot of heartburn and headaches.

  It was sweet of Madge to lend me her wedding dress, especially since all the ones in the magazine the Braids had given me were so expensive. But the dress was … big. The Madge Brightwater we knew now was a lean, mean mushing machine, but once upon a time she had been more full figured and given to girlie tastes in clothing.

  My own body is built along less belligerent lines with fewer aggressive curves, and so many lacy ruffles just look silly. The Flowers had pinned the gown carefully after we plucked away the stitching that held the bodice’s appliqued lace in place. After much strategizing, we had agreed on how to best take it in and it seemed straightforward enough at the time. But now there seemed to be acres of slippery satin spilling all over the bed and miles of stitches that needed to be laid on the jumbo-sized bodice before the lace appliques could be reapplied. It was enough to cross the eyes and bruise the fingers.

  I couldn’t give up though. I respected Madge, who had once saved one of her dogs during a sled race by giving it mouth to mouth and CPR and then carried it to town. She had worn this dress on the day that she had married her only true love. His name was Tennyson—Tennyson what, I didn’t know since Madge was reticent—but he had been her husband for only seven months when he died somewhere in Africa. Madge made it sound like a tragic Red Cross incident that sometimes happens in war zones, but I didn’t think it was. One did not move to the Gulch, change one’s name, and take up dog racing because one’s husband had died doing charitable work in the Congo. At a guess, I would say he had been gunrunning. It might also explain the scar in Madge’s leg, the one shaped like a bullet hole.

  I glanced at the battery-powered wall clock. Chuck had insisted that we needed one so I had given in and gotten one, though I hated to hear its ticking. Most days I never looked at it, but today I needed to keep track of the time. I had an interview with John McNab at three. I say interview because I was by no means certain that I wanted him to officiate at our wedding. I had not forgotten the recent funeral for the hand of Janet Dee (eaten by bears) and how Reverend McNab had gotten lost in one of his interminable, unamusing stories which he indulged in whenever he had a captive audience.

  There was also the little matter of his being willing to marry us without a marriage license. Somehow, I didn’t think that this proposal was going to go over well. Not that Father White was a much better choice. He was grumpy, older than dirt, and given to name-calling of his erring parishioners. This was woe number two, and Chuck was not there to support me in choosing the lesser evil because he had been called away on a case. The screw-up of choosing a bad officiant would be mine alone.

  “Okay, okay,” I said to Max, who jumped to his feet at my tone of resignation. “We’ll go for a short walk before the reverend comes. But I expect you to stay far away from the Bones’ smokehouse.”

  Max’s big eyes said that he promised. I didn’t put much stock in this though. Oh, Max meant his pledge in that moment, but the smell of venison did something to his short-term memory. I would have to watch him like a hawk.

  * * *

  Anatoli pulled his Kawasaki trail bike to a halt at the bend in the uneven dirt path. The Mountie slid awkwardly to a halt beside him, adding to the dirt in the air. They each removed their dust-covered riding goggles so they could see more clearly. While Chuck used the pause to survey the beauty of their surroundings, Anatoli consulted his portable GPS and map.

  “Still on course?” the Mountie asked.

  “We make, how do you say, beeline for Soda Springs,” Anatoli replied.

  “Good. I’d like to arrive tomorrow morning if we can manage it.”

  “Is good chance, if luck will shine on us.”

  Both men removed the scarfs from their faces that they’d used to keep the dirt and bugs out of their mouths during the ride. They used them to wipe the sweat and dirt from their goggles and necks. They were fully clothed in parkas, jeans, boots, gloves, and helmets which protected their bodies from the filth of the trail, but their clothes were covered in grime from the long ride. Chuck used his gloved hand to swat the worst of the filth from his riding outfit. Anatoli smiled at him and shook his head, choosing instead to let the filth remain until the ride was over for the day.

  “I don’t know about you, but I could use a short break,” Chuck said.

  “Water and stretch of legs would be good,” Anatoli agreed.

  Chuck was thankful that the younger, more athletic man had agreed to the break. He suspected that Anatoli had agreed solely for Chuck’s sake. So far it had been a challenge keeping up with the Russian who was by far the more experienced rider. In fact, though Chuck refused to admit it, even to himself, the speeds at which they traveled had
almost caused him to ride off the trail several times. Laying his helmet and gloves on a bed of pine needles, Chuck stretched his sore muscles while running his fingers through his sweaty hair.

  Looking out over the misty valley that lay before them, Chuck felt yet another pang of regret at the way he’d been forced to leave Butterscotch. The call had come in on the radio at the store. The Braids had rushed to get him, and he had taken the assignment even though they were getting awfully near their wedding day.

  “It sounds like there’s trouble at Soda Springs,” the Braids had announced.

  The Mountie had looked to Butterscotch with concern in his expression, then grabbed his parka and left her cabin to take the call. It was a shaky voice that greeted him on the other end of the line.

  “Mountie, we have trouble here,” a man announced. “Old Woody has gone plumb loco. He’s come out of his cabin in the woods and into town to wreak havoc. We need help and fast.”

  “Hold on now, whom am I speaking with?” Chuck replied.

  “This is Andy Smith,” the voice replied, and there was a wheeze that almost sounded like a laugh. “Oh no, here he comes again.”

  The radio went dead. Chuck had no way to make a call back. He consulted a map provided by the Braids and found that Soda Springs was a secluded community two days’ drive into the woods in rough terrain. There was no airfield at which to land. Chuck knew the Russians had had some dealing out that way and he went to the Moose and called Anatoli to see if the Russian was available to guide him to the remote village.

  Then he was forced to face Butterscotch with the bad news. He could see the tears welling in her eyes as he announced his need to leave. That they were as much tears of frustration as sorrow hadn’t helped.

  “Look, it should only take a few days. If all goes well, I’ll be back in plenty of time for the wedding. So, there’s no need to change our plans.”

  “I don’t feel good about this,” Butterscotch replied. “Did the man add any details about the trouble they were in?”

  “None, but I have to go anyway. It’s my duty,” the Mountie concluded.

  After that there was nothing left to do but pack and kiss the love of his life goodbye. She’d felt good in his arms the last time he’d held her. He could almost feel her, smell her, standing next to him that moment as he stared off into the woods. He’d hitched a ride with the Braids from the Gulch to Seven Forks and from there Anatoli and he had ridden off into the denseness of the Manitoba wilderness.

  Now, more than ever, he was regretting his decision to leave.

  “You miss the woman, don’t you?” Anatoli prompted.

  “I pray you’ll never know such longing,” the Mountie replied.

  “She is good woman. Good hips for making babies. Will make good wife.”

  Chuck had to laugh at Anatoli’s evaluation. The Russian clapped a hand on his shoulder which produced a cloud of dust.

  “Come, the trail waits.”

  They rode until it was nearly nightfall. Chuck found that the longer he rode the more adept he became at handling his machine. By the time they dismounted their bikes, it was obvious that they’d arrive in Soda Springs the next day. The Mountie was sore as he laid out a blanket amidst the pine needles so he could lie down and rest his weary bones. Meanwhile, Anatoli gathered wood and laid a fire to use in preparing their evening meal.

  Anatoli roused Chuck from a light sleep so that he could share in the goulash the Russian had somehow concocted over the campfire. The Mountie ate ravenously, both servings, and cradled more than one steaming mug full of coffee in both hands against the cold. It was now fully dark outside. By the light of the fire, Chuck could see that Anatoli had placed his sleeping bag beside the blanket on which he lay and set his rifle next to the bag. Chuck assumed that Anatoli had already hoisted the pack with the remaining food high into a distant tree to discourage bears.

  Chuck rose to unroll his sleeping bag out on his blanket. He grunted loudly when he had to bend to unlace his boots. Removing all his clothes, all except for his long johns, the Mountie slipped into his sleeping bag and lay on his back contemplating the multitude of stars lighting up the heavens.

  “Anatoli?”

  “Yes, comrade?”

  “Are they worth all the pain and trouble?”

  “Who?”

  “Women?”

  The Russian chuckled.

  “Sleep well, my love-smitten friend.”

  * * *

  Sasha, formerly known as the Butcher of Minsk, lumbered with his box full of experimental fireworks to the outskirts of town, a safe distance from property and people should things go wrong. Horace Goodhead pranced beside him like a schoolboy who couldn’t wait for the final school bell announcing summer vacation had begun. Sasha and Horace had been working on several sample pieces for a new fireworks display all morning and were now more than ready to see the results of their labors. Sasha looked to Horace as they trudged through the compost of rotting leaves and shared a knowing smile.

  “I can’t wait,” Horace admitted gleefully. “This is going to be great.”

  “It was good idea of you to give fireworks as a present to wedding party,” Sasha agreed. “I only hope that show is good.”

  “Good? This is going to be fantastic. Once we work the last of the kinks out, the display should be flawless.”

  Sasha dropped his cardboard box in the dirt and together they considered their arsenal.

  “What to begin with,” Sasha pondered.

  “We agreed that we wouldn’t set off any loud explosives without first notifying the town,” Horace said, placing his hand to his chin in contemplation.

  “All we have are loud explosives.”

  “And we can’t notify the town without giving our secret away.”

  “Why not firecrackers? They aren’t so loud.”

  “They’re a little more like small sticks of dynamite, but what the heck?”

  Horace flipped open his lighter and held the flame steady as Sasha selected five of his firecrackers from the box. Touching each fuse to the flame, he distributed the tidy little bombs in a neat line several feet away. The two men then stepped back several paces, just in case.

  “Hey, I only see four fuses,” Horace pointed out.

  “I thought I saw squirrel playing with last firecracker.”

  The explosives went off in line as planned, producing a loud crack with each detonation. One explosion occurred behind a nearby tree and was accompanied by flying debris and a loud splat.

  “No worries,” Sasha announced. “The squirrel carried firecracker behind tree.”

  “Yuck,” Horace responded, still not entirely used to rural life.

  “I give firecrackers two thumbs up,” Sasha said, smiling.

  “Make that four,” Horace added. “As long as we note that they should be kept out of the hands of hungry squirrels.”

  “What now?”

  “The pinwheel?”

  “The pinwheel.”

  Sasha bent down and removed the pinwheel from the box. It was composed of a round piece of plywood with four rockets attached such that the plywood would spin on its central axis when the rockets were ignited. There was a hole in the middle of the plywood for use in mounting the pinwheel to a stationary surface.

  “Here,” Sasha said, handing a bolt, a wing nut, and a hammer to Horace. “Go pound bolt into tree so we can mount pinwheel.”

  Horace actually giggled at being given the task. After choosing a suitable tree, he placed the butt end of the bolt against the trunk and began to hammer. The bolt had been filed down to make one end pointy in aid of embedding it in the wood, so the chore was relatively easy. After Horace was done, Sasha stepped forward and slipped the bolt into the hole in the center of the pinwheel. Using his lighter, Horace was given the honor of lighting the fuses. Again, the two men stepped back several paces.

  “Oh man, this is going to be great!” Horace exclaimed.

  “Wait! Did you place win
g nut on end of bolt?” Sasha asked.

  Sasha looked to Horace’s hand as he opened it to see that the wing nut that should have been used to keep the pinwheel on the bolt was still in the palm of his hand. The men raced to the pinwheel in a mad rush to abort the launch, but they were too late.

  The rockets ignited in sequence and the pinwheel began to spin at a furious rate, sending sparks flying in all directions and producing a loud whirring sound. Soon the pinwheel began to wobble on its loose axis before coming off the end of the bolt entirely and falling to the ground. To the horror of the two spectators, the pinwheel didn’t just roll over and play dead. Instead, it landed on its edge and began to pinwheel toward town.

  “It’s loose,” Horace announced. “Quick, after it!”

  Sasha and Horace gave chase but there was really no hope of them ever catching up with the whirling dervish. They stopped running after only a few meters and watched as the pinwheel proceeded down the center of Main Street. The pickup being driven by the Braids managed to swerve and miss the errant firework. No such luck for the communal Dumpster at the other end of town. It could neither zig nor zag, so the pinwheel embedded itself in its overflowing contents and soon ignited the seepage from the old barrel in which Big John disposed of his used grease. The fire spread quickly and soon the Dumpster and surrounding trash became a fiery conflagration.

  Sasha and Horace walked the full length of the street and came to a stop when the heat of the blaze would allow them to advance no further. Whisky Jack stepped out of the Lonesome Moose to join them.

  “Nice job, guys,” Whisky Jack commented with a chortle. “What’s your next trick, blowing up the general store?”

  Whisky Jack began to bray a tuneless melody and shuffle his feet to a count that only he could hear. The Braids walked up from behind, took off her gloves, and began warming herself at the fire. The sun was out but the wind was brisk.