“Boys, do we need to have another talk regarding the use of explosives in town?” she asked.
“We’re awful sorry about this mess, Mrs. McIntyre,” Horace said with contrition.
“Me too,” Sasha added.
“I guess we’ll just have to order another Dumpster,” the Braids conceded. “I just wish the damn things would stop catching fire and burning.”
“You mean this isn’t the first time?” Horace asked in surprise.
The Braids simply laughed and shook her head as she walked away back to her pickup.
“Make note,” Sasha said. “Attach wing nut to bolt or wedding is disaster.”
“Duly noted,” Horace replied. “I sure am glad that Chuck is out of town.”
“Yes, is best if Mountie Chuck Goodhead does not see this.”
As the fire began to die down, Sasha and Horace returned to retrieve the remainder of their fireworks, leaving Whisky Jack to cackle in the light of the smoldering embers.
* * *
“Mary, Mother of God, what is that?” Father White gasped, squinting out the window of the community room. “It looks like a burning bush.”
His eyesight wasn’t very good. Bushes aren’t usually box shaped.
Father White wasn’t supposed to be there, but when he had heard that Reverend McNab was coming to town to discuss the possibility of officiating at our wedding, he had invited himself along to get in his licks about why he should be the one to marry Chuck and me. I got the feeling that he missed doing weddings since probably no one in their right mind would let him officiate anymore.
Compassion had forced me into lying that I had planned to talk to him next Sunday when it was his turn to preach in the Gulch.
“It’s not a burning bush. The Dumpster at the market is on fire again,” Reverend McNab said with mild interest. He pet Max’s head. I give him credit for not being nervous with my wolf.
“So it is,” I agreed, recognizing the four silhouettes that had gathered near the flames. I would have felt compelled to rush out and organize the idiots, but the Braids was there already so I knew matters were well in hand.
“Well then, lass. Have you thought about which scriptures you would like read,” McNab asked, seating himself again and getting back to the matter at hand.
Neither minister had raised an eyebrow when I told another whopping great lie about Chuck and me having a civil service in Winnipeg and wanting this wedding to be held “in the eyes of God.” I think Reverend McNab might have seen through me, but Father White was smiling benevolently at my choice of words.
“What about First John?” the reverend suggested.
I blinked and then pulled in my scattered wits. He probably meant 1 John 4:16-19—So we have come to know and to believe the love that God has for us.
“That’s a nice one,” I said.
“Or what about Corinthians?” Father White said. “You can’t go wrong with Corinthians. Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude.”
“Also a good choice.”
“Or Ephesians,” suggested McNab, looking sly.
“No Ephesians. Nobody does Ephesians anymore,” I said firmly. That was the one about wives submitting to husbands. It seemed best that I take control. “Chuck is fond of Ruth. You know the part about your people shall be my people?”
Both men beamed.
“Very appropriate, lass, with him coming to live here.”
“You might also consider Matthew—Therefore a man shall leave his father and his mother and hold fast to his wife.”
“Perfect,” I said, just to get things over with. “Father White, you’ll do the verses from Matthew and Ruth? You have such a lovely voice.”
“Gladly.” He looked pleased with the compliment and his consolation prize.
“Reverend, you’ll do the ceremony?” It seemed the lesser evil. At least he wouldn’t call anyone a bad name and threaten them with hellfire. Probably.
“Of course. Now, let’s talk about readings from friends. And did you say that it is Horace Goodhead who shall be giving you away? Has he been saved?”
It was all I could do to throttle a groan. Max sighed for me. He’s good that way.
Chapter 2
It did not surprise me to find Wendell waiting on the wooden bench outside my cabin. Max had begun to ululate the moment we left the community center and he often does that when Wendell is nearby. Wendell’s uncle, Old Thunder, had passed away last autumn and Wendell had been spending more time in town since then. Usually he went to the Moose, but often he came to visit Max and me.
“Want to come in for some tea?” I asked by way of greeting.
“Sure,” he said, giving Max a quick ear-rub. Wendell raised Max when he was a pup and still had his sire. Max’s dam had recently whelped and there were new puppies.
“I heard the Janus brothers were in town.”
Janus, for the two faces of God’s representatives. Wendell wasn’t terribly fond of either man, but he followed the old ways and was therefore considered by them to be a godless heathen. Which was unfair because he definitely had a god. Or maybe several. We never really discussed it.
“Yes. They’ve come to talk to me about the wedding.” I knew I sounded glum and tried to find a smile as I pulled the tin kettle out of the coals. It was nearly June but nights were still nippy and I had left the fire banked after baking some scones.
“Oddly enough, that’s what I’ve come to talk to you about too. You have options, you know. You needn’t do this, if you don’t want to.”
I froze for a second, the kettle in one hand, teapot in the other.
Wendell and I had been an item—very briefly—the summer I came to the Gulch. We were still fond of each other though there had been nothing romantic between us for years. Still, I had a bad moment when I feared that he might be trying to talk me out of getting married.
“You know that I have been studying with the people.” He went on. Wendell meant his native tribe, the Brokenhead, who were part of the Ojibway people. Wendell had opted to live away from the birthplace, for reasons unexplained, but since his uncle’s death he had been visiting them more often, sometimes traveling with Linda Skywater, the Bones’ common-law wife, when she went home for visits. “I would be honored to perform the Wiidigendiwin for you.”
I began pouring hot water into the teapot. I didn’t know what he had just said, but he apparently wasn’t trying to talk me out of marrying Chuck.
“The what?”
“The Ojibway marriage ceremony. I’ve been studying to become a Midewinini.”
“Oh. Well. See, the thing is, we are kind of set already.” Wendell’s face fell and I rushed on. “But I still need friends to do readings. Maybe you could lead us in a prayer.”
Wendell began to look happy again.
“I could do that.”
“Good. Is there something traditional for a wedding, or do you write your own?” I put the lid on the pot and let it begin to steep. Wendell likes his tea strong.
“There is a traditional prayer, of course.”
So no hope of constructing something bland and acceptable if the prayer were offensive. Father White was going to give birth to kittens when he heard about this, but what could I do? Wendell meant more to me than Father White did.
“Tell me about the prayer,” I invited. I made no offer of milk for the tea. None of us take it that way because dairy is scarce. We have no farmers in the Gulch. There are some small livestock, like sheep who give wool, but no one is trying to earn a living with a shovel and hoe, or keeping cows that would have no natural grazing eight months of the year.
* * *
Anatoli and the Mountie arrived in Soda Springs early in the morning. The moment they rode into the tiny town, Chuck could tell there was something wrong. The place was too quiet. There was no smoke rising from the chimneys of the few rough cabins on the main street. The Mountie stopped his bike at the outskirts of town and held h
is hand up for Anatoli to do the same. He lifted his goggles onto his helmet and surveyed the street, looking for any sign of life. There was no movement. There were several broken chairs, tables, and other household debris littering the dirt thoroughfare. The Mountie removed his scarf and looked to Anatoli, cocking a questioning eyebrow.
“Yes, comrade, there is something wrong here,” Anatoli said, agreeing with Chuck’s silent question.
The Mountie dismounted his bike and laid it down in the dirt on its side. He removed his helmet and gloves and set them on the end of the handlebar. Anatoli did the same. The Mountie retrieved his rifle from a scabbard tied to his motorcycle. Anatoli followed suit. The two men walked cautiously into town, stepping off the dirt track toward the first cabin. The door was ajar.
“Hello, is anyone in here?” the Mountie called, nudging the door open with the barrel of his rifle. “This is Chuck Goodhead with the RCMP.”
There was no verbal response. Chuck was about to leave when he heard a thumping sound coming from inside the cabin. He entered the building cautiously. The knocking was being produced by a man sitting on the floor with his hands bound behind his back and around a wooden post. There was duct tape covering his mouth. He was knocking his head back against the post to get their attention.
Chuck looked around the cabin and sensing no threat rushed in to kneel beside the man. He laid his rifle on the floor, peeled back an edge of the duct tape, and then ripped off the rest. The man’s eyes went wide and he almost screamed in pain. Chuck’s hand shot out to clamp itself over the man’s mouth.
“Quiet,” Chuck said.
When he received a nod of agreement from the bound man dressed in long johns, he removed his hand. The words that came gushing forth were expressed in a harsh whisper.
“Boy, I sure am glad to see you, Mountie. I’m Andy Smith, we talked on the phone. It’s old Woody Sykes. He’s gone nuts. He came out of the woods and started tearing everything up. He was going wild. Kept mumbling something about his daughter, but he doesn’t have a daughter. He stuffed this note into my pocket for you when he found out you were comin’.”
The Mountie looked down and saw that there was indeed a piece of paper poking out of the man’s shirt pocket. He fished it out and began to read.
Mountie, come get me. I am at the end of town in the old church. I have the town folk. If you want to see them alive, you will come get me. Watch out for the traps.
The Mountie handed the paper to Anatoli to read. Meanwhile he untied the man on the floor who then stood and tried to rub the feeling back into his hands.
“What does old Woody mean by writing, watch out for the traps?” Anatoli asked, handing the note back to the Mountie.
“Any ideas, Mr. Smith?” Chuck asked, handing the note to Andy.
Andy read the note carefully then looked up to address the Mountie.
“Oh, that’s not good news, Mountie. Old Woody’s an expert tracker and trapper. If he’s laid traps in town for you then you’re in serious trouble.”
“Perhaps we should go through woods to church at far end of town,” Anatoli suggested.
“You don’t think old Woody has planned for that possibility?” Andy challenged. “My guess is that you’ll encounter fewer traps if you play by his rules and go through town.”
The Mountie weighed the man’s words carefully.
“The option, the one I’d suggest, is that he hightail it out of town and leave the rest of the folk to their own good fortune,” Andy added. “Woody’s nuts. Hates the Mounties.”
Chuck looked to Anatoli questioningly.
“I don’t like this, comrade. But.…” He shrugged.
“Me neither,” Chuck replied, not bothering to order Anatoli away since he knew that the Russian wouldn’t leave. “Let’s get going.”
Anatoli and the Mountie stepped out into the middle of the street. They had the butts of their rifles resting against their hips with the barrels pointed to the sky. The old church was clearly visible at the far end of town. Chuck felt as if he was starring in the movie High Noon, only he was facing down a building rather than a gang of outlaws.
The Mountie began to walk with the Russian at his side. On his fourth step he felt resistance to his gait and heard the tripwire twang and the trap release.
The Mountie stopped in place knowing that he was a dead man and he wouldn’t be making it back for his wedding after all.
* * *
Days were long by then and we still had pretty good light at nine o’clock when I heard the Wings’ airplane overhead. Curious, and also hopeful that he might be carrying Chuck, I pulled on a sweater and stepped out onto my porch to watch the landing. Wendell followed. We watched as the Wings set down on the one paved street and then we began walking toward the plane. We weren’t alone. The unexpected arrival had brought the Braids, Big John, and the Flowers out too.
The Wings’ door popped open and he hurried around to the far side of the plane. He looked harassed and maybe even a little frightened.
I thought at first that he was helping an elderly person down from the plane, but that wasn’t it at all.
“It’s a child,” I said blankly, staring at the small-bodied boy with red hair. “The Wings has a kid with him.”
“Ricky?” the Flowers’ voice was strangled and carried enough shock that I was able to rip my eyes away from the diminutive male person and stare at my ghost-white friend who was running toward the airplane.
“Judy!” The little boy, maybe five years of age, began running towards the Flowers, little legs flying like he was being chased by wolves. “Daddy’s gone! The police took him. I’m coming to stay with you!”
Judy dropped to her knees and received the child into her arms.
“It’s okay,” she said, hugging him. “Everything is okay.”
Big John was smiling, but Sasha who had come out onto the porch looked surprised, telling me that though the Flowers’ father had known about this child, her husband had not.
The Flowers had a child?
I forced myself to move forward. Though the Flowers kept saying everything was okay, I had the feeling that it wasn’t. Of course, no one likes to hear the news that Daddy has been taken by the police.
Or did they? There had to be a reason that the Flowers had returned to the Gulch and never spoke of her ex-husband. Or whatever he was. I didn’t actually know that they had been married.
“Hi,” I said, smiling at the grinning child and laying a hand on the Flowers’ shoulder as I knelt beside her. “Welcome to the Gulch. My name is Butterscotch.”
“I flew in an airplane. In two airplanes. A big one and that one,” the child said excitedly. His eyes were dark, not at all like the Flowers’. In fact he didn’t resemble her in any way, except the hair. “I only got sick three times,” the boy added proudly.
Three times. No wonder the Wings looked harassed.
“Wow, that’s good. Some people get sick hundreds of times when the Wings flies fast,” I said, exaggerating slightly, though the Wings had a certain style of flight that tended to make people ill.
Judy gave the child another hug and then stood up.
“What happened?” she asked the Wings. Her face was a portrait of bewilderment. “Why.…”
Yeah, why? Like why hadn’t the Wings radioed ahead? But I had an answer even as the question formed. Possibly he hadn’t wanted anyone to know that he was carrying a child.
“I don’t know much. A neighbor—I gather she was a friend of yours—had the kid out shopping when the police came to the house. When she saw what was happening she called the number you left, and some guy named Gavin picked the kid up and flew him to Chicago and then on to Winnipeg. He dropped the kid at the hanger and said to bring him to you.” There was a question at the end of this statement.
“He’s my stepson,” Judy said softly. “His mother.…” She shook her head, not willing to say that she was dead in front of the child.
I found myself sighing. I ma
ke no judgments about people because, better than anyone, I know that sometimes you do what you have to do to survive even if no one else understands or approves. But I couldn’t picture the Flowers ever walking out on her own child no matter how dire the circumstance.
Big John joined us.
“Hi, Ricky,” he said in his gentlest voice. He took a knee beside me and offered his enormous hand. “I’m Big John. I’m the Flow—I’m Judy’s dad. I guess that would make me your stepgrandpa.”
Ricky took the offered hand solemnly and gave it a shake. Then he yawned violently and began to shiver.
“Does he have a coat?” I asked, realizing the child was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. His tiny, cold body made me feel helpless and inadequate, but also protective. The mosquitoes would be out soon. We needed to get him covered up.
Judy was pulling off her sweater and wrapping it around the small form.
“He has nothing but what he’s standing in,” the Wings said. He looked calmer now that someone else had charge of the child.
“Well, we’ll fix that soon enough,” I said. “Maybe the Braids—” I stopped. The Braids wouldn’t have anything in her little store that would fit a child.
“I’ll call down to Seven Forks,” Big John said. He would have to. There were no children in the Gulch so no parents we could borrow clothing from.
“I will go and get clothes for child,” Sasha said, finally speaking. Looking more awkward than even Big John, he knelt down and offered Ricky his hand. His voice was gruff. “My name is Sasha. I am the husband of Judy. That makes me stepfather-in-law?”
We all began to laugh though this question wasn’t all that funny and Sasha wasn’t smiling.
“We may be a while sorting out relationships,” I said, getting to my feet. Max had stayed with Wendell while I talked to the child, but he whined when I stood up, asking to come forward. “Ricky, would you like to meet my dog?” I asked, when I noticed the child’s fascinated stare.
“Okay.”
“Okay, Max. Come on over.”
6 The Wedding Page 2