Plum Pudding Bride

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  “Get off the road.” Peter’s arm went around her waist as he dragged her to the dead weeds by the side of the road.

  He was stronger than she’d expected. His arm felt solid against her waist and the smell of wood shavings, likely from the packing material for canned goods, clung to him. But Arnie was twice as big, a real mountain of a man at six-foot three, with a brave personality to match. She was almost sure of that.

  A careening wagon sped towards them, skidding over deep ruts in the uneven dirt.

  Standing on the bouncing buckboard, a highly non-recommended pose at that rate of speed, the man driving the wagon pulled back on the reins. Mud splattered up as he came to a skidding halt in front of them. The man jumped to the ground and pulled out a gun. Staggering, as if one leg was injured, he pointed the gun at them.

  Peter directed an accusing glance at Kitty.

  Her sister couldn’t have possibly known they’d encounter a thief when they took this lonely road.

  Patience’s fingers clutched her reticule. As much as she was loathe to part with the twenty cents it contained at the moment, being held up by a desperate highway robber was a rather romantic adventure. She’d tell this story to her babies as they clustered peacefully around her feet in Arnie’s rustic home.

  “Hands in the air,” the unshaven man said. His voice was gruff and the smell of liquor clung to his tattered clothes.

  “How about I just toss you my reticule?” Patience reached down to unclip the quilted thing.

  The man swung forward and shoved her in the chest.

  The blow sent her reeling back, boots slipping out from under her. She landed, backside in the mud, only to look up into a pistol muzzle. She gulped.

  “I don’t take kindly to orders being disobeyed.” Leveling the gun at her, the man cocked the trigger.

  Her life, all twenty-five years of it, flashed before her eyes. She should have cooked the grits more often in the morning and not made Kitty do it. She should have spent more time in her Bible rather than reading Les Miserables for the seventh time. She should have been kinder to Peter. He meant well, after all. She brought her arm up in a vain attempt to shield her head from the coming bullet.

  From somewhere to the left, she heard Peter’s voice, the last voice she’d hear before the angels singing and glory.

  “Was this really necessary, Kitty?” Then Peter ran towards the man.

  The robber swung his gun over to Peter.

  Ducking, Peter charged forward, head down, and grabbed the man around the waist. He twisted the man’s wrist with his other hand.

  The man swung forward with a fist. The blow landed on Peter’s jaw and he grunted something that sounded like “Kitty.”

  If he was thinking about her when he was this near death, maybe he did have feelings for the girl.

  Using both hands, Peter threw the man backwards.

  The man stumbled into the mud but recovered his gun arm.

  Peter stood there fearlessly, as if the man couldn’t end his life with just the click of a trigger. “Hand over the weapon.” Peter’s voice was as matter-of-fact as if he was sorting preserves.

  She’d never taken him as the type to be calm in the midst of danger.

  “Never.” Raising himself on one arm, the man aimed the gun.

  Peter kicked the man’s hand and the gun went flying back onto the road. The impact made it discharge, sending a bullet up into the trees.

  Peter stared at the quivering leaves where the bullet had passed, and then he leapt for the gun. Grabbing up the weapon, he pulled back the hammer and aimed it at the ground. He squeezed the trigger. Dirt spat up from a bullet, but his wrist held the gun steady despite the recoil.

  Patience’s eyes opened a little wider. She’d never seen him discharge a gun before. The gun smoke puffed up to his chest and powder residue covered his hands. She’d never noticed how strong his hands were.

  Jerking to his feet, injured leg notwithstanding, the criminal ran forward.

  Raising the gun, Peter brought the pistol butt down hard over the man’s head. The robber fell unconscious.

  “Kitty.” Peter’s voice was tight. “This gun is loaded.”

  His first thought was for her sister, not her? Patience got up, brushing the mud from her destroyed skirt. Peter always thought of her first. Even that time at the barn raising when she was competing in the cornhusking bee and he’d slipped her five of his ears so she could win the heifer she wanted, he’d thought of her first.

  “That’s not the man I hired.” Kitty’s face was pale as death.

  Hired?

  “Oh.” Peter took a deep breath and swallowed so hard Patience could hear it. “Well.” Peter paused.

  He glanced over to the wagon the man had been driving. One of the horses had spooked in the gunfire, but the other stood steady, dragging the wagon around in a circle. There was a length of rope in the back. “I guess we’ll get this man to Sheriff Westwood.”

  Peter bound the man and, with a few heaves, managed to roll him up into the wagon.

  A noise came from behind.

  Patience turned towards it.

  Far back on the road, another wagon careened down the road, raising dust.

  A scowl crossed Peter’s face. “We’re going home.” Grabbing the arms of both young women, he handed them up to the buckboard.

  ~*~

  Patience winced as she put weight on her left foot. It had bruised in her tumble on the road. But it wasn’t bad. There was just enough pain to be a thrilling reminder of the excitement of that hour. She placed the raspberry jam behind the boysenberry.

  Peter was sweeping the store with vigorous brushstrokes. The dust sailed knee-high as straw broom bristles thwacked against the wood. He almost made the activity look heroic. And the way he braved gunfire today…it had been spectacular. A manly black-and purple bruise stretched from the right side of his jaw to his ear.

  Standing the last peppermint stick in its place, Patience sidled closer. She smiled at Peter. “You saved my life today.”

  “It was unintentional.” His teeth gritted shut. Setting down the broom, he pulled out his ring of keys and marched to the back of the store.

  For the first time in a long time, she followed him. She really must express the depth of her gratitude.

  In the back, he shoved aside several bolts of calico and dug his key into a heavy lock. The cabinet swung open with a puff of dust.

  “I wanted to say—”

  He pulled a pistol out of the cabinet and stuck it inside his pants.

  “I didn’t know you carried a gun.” She stared at him.

  “I didn’t.” His jaw was set and he didn’t look at her as he shoved his shirt back in, covering the gun handle.

  This wasn’t the Peter she knew. “Thank you again for saving my life.”

  “I let you come within seconds of death. I should have shot the man the minute he stepped off that wagon. Next time, I will.” Peter stooped to pick up a box of canned goods and swung it up to his shoulders.

  “Oh.” Her lips parted as her jaw sagged a bit.

  “I have a present for you.” He set the box on top of another.

  “For me?” She tried to drag her gaze off the bulge of the pistol on his hip. She’d never noticed how easily he swung up those crates of merchandise.

  “For you to give to Kitty. I thought she’d like it.” Peter was still speaking uncharacteristically gruffly as he grabbed another box.

  “So you had a good time with Kitty?” It was what she wanted. Her sister and Peter. But how quickly he’d switched affections. Peter had loved her since forever, so shouldn’t he take at least six months to mourn her marrying another man?

  “Superb.” Leaning over another crate, he pulled out a parcel tied in brown paper. He stuck the book-shaped package in her hands and turned back to the next crate.

  Teasing the brown paper open behind his turned back, she sneaked a peek inside. Ivanhoe emblazoned the book’s front cover in shi
ny new letters. A sigh of desire escaped her lips.

  “Give Kitty my best.” Peter turned back with another large crate in his arms.

  She hastily creased the paper back into place. “All right.” She tried to catch his gaze. But he moved back to his shipping boxes without glancing at her as he usually did. And the worst of it was, Kitty wouldn’t even appreciate Sir Walter Scott’s masterpiece.

  ~*~

  Kitty was in the kitchen, humming happily as she stirred a kettle of soup with more than necessary exuberance.

  “Here’s a present for you.” Patience held it out doubtfully. Peter seemed to be moving dreadfully fast. Kitty was only seventeen, after all.

  “A present for me!” Abandoning the soup spoon, Kitty tore open the brown paper with a complete disregard for preserving it for future uses.

  Patience let out a sigh. The copy wasn’t old and yellowed like the only books she’d been able to get her hands on. It was so new the paper wouldn’t lie flat when Kitty opened it. And the cover was exquisite, a colored-ink drawing of a man holding a saber while a beautiful maiden looked down from the tower she was imprisoned in.

  “Ivanhoe.” Kitty squealed in delight.

  “You don’t like the classics.”

  “It’s exactly what I asked Mr. Foote for just yesterday.” Kitty did another enthusiastic little hop.

  “You’ve been going on outings without me as chaperone?”

  “Yes, I mean, it was just here at the house and Mother was in the kitchen, but you can’t expect two people in love to wait on your schedule.” Kitty giggled.

  Outings every day, presents, mentioning love, it was all much too fast. Suppressing the sick feeling in her stomach, Patience contemplated the cover. It beckoned, calling out like mythical sirens.

  With a flick of her wrist, Kitty flipped pages to somewhere in the middle.

  “I know you don’t like to read. I could take this off your hands and just summarize it for you so Peter thinks you like your present.” Patience’s hands stretched for the book.

  “No, it’s mine.” Kitty snapped the book shut and clutched it to her chest. “Find your own beau. I’m sure Mr. Dimwit will have plenty of reading material for you.”

  “Dehaven,” Patience corrected, but Kitty didn’t seem to be listening. Did Arnie have any books? He’d only mentioned ranching, not reading. They were twenty-five miles from the closest town and snowed in half the year, according to Arnie, so it wasn’t likely she would be able to order ones from the general store at will. Even if Arnie did have money for books.

  ~*~

  Arms crossed, Peter leaned back against the rough pine bark.

  “Thank you for the book.” Kitty skipped forward to the tree in the town square that they had selected as a rendezvous. “Patience fairly drooled when I opened it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Kitty acted as if yesterday afternoon had gone according to plan. Heaven help the girl’s poor pa when she found herself a real beau.

  “Sooo dull. I don’t know how Patience endures these things.” Kitty swung her reticule.

  “Reading’s good for the mind.”

  “You really are the perfect husband for Patience.” Kitty patted his hand, in what seemed like a quite patronizing manner.

  Peter grunted.

  “But the book’s given me the most scrumptious ideas. There’s a scene where Rebecca almost jumps off a tower to save her virtue from the villainous knight. Ivanhoe doesn’t save her, but we could add that part in. All we need is a tower. Do you think the church steeple might do, or—”

  “I almost got all three of us killed listening to your fool notions last time. It’s not happening again.” Peter glowered at the ground. Arnie Dehaven probably would have put a bullet in the man the moment he stepped off the wagon, and Patience wouldn’t be limping right now.

  “Is that a gun in your belt?” Kitty clapped her hand over her mouth.

  Peter tugged his shirt down to cover it better. He imagined stout people, like Henry the blacksmith, had an easier time concealing weapons.

  “That’s splendid, just splendid. Patience has a weakness for a man with a gun.” Kitty smiled peacefully as if they hadn’t all three almost been shot yesterday afternoon.

  “Sheriff Westwood says the fellow I brought in is a wanted man. He thinks there’s likely more outlaws about.”

  “How delightful. Maybe you can shoot a few for Patience, mix up the bringing outlaws down with your bare hands.”

  “I’m done. Deceit’s not the way to get a bride.”

  “Balderdash! Every good love story involves a little deceit. Just look at Jacob and Leah.”

  “And that worked out so poorly Jacob married another wife a week later. As I said before, I’m done.” Peter rested his hands on his belt.

  “But everything’s going so well. I swear Patience was jealous of me this afternoon, turned quite green when I told her we were in love.”

  “You told her what?” Peter stared at the seventeen-year-old.

  “Now you listen to me, Peter Foote.” Kitty marched right up into his face and held up her finger like a schoolmarm. “Do you want the love of your life to marry some backwoods wifebeater and die in childbirth at the tender age of twenty-five?”

  “No.” It seemed a fairly straightforward question.

  “Then you must continue on.” When she said it like that, with a flourish of her milky white hand, it sounded true.

  He dug his hands into his pockets. “All right, but no more careening wagons or trumped-up brushes with death.”

  “Then kiss me.” She puckered her lips and gazed up at him.

  “What?”

  “Kiss me.” She shrugged her shoulders up in a flirtatious gesture.

  “I remember you in short skirts. I couldn’t possibly kiss you.”

  “That was years ago. I’m all grown up now. Besides, I’ve kissed a boy before.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. She did that overmuch.

  “I have a good mind to tell Patience on you.” He stared disapprovingly at the child. Patience had been right about one thing; her sister most definitely needed a chaperone.

  “Fine, just a peck on the cheek then. We need to make Patience jealous, and Mrs. Clinton is walking behind us at this precise moment, and you know whatever she sees is all over town by morning.”

  True. And there were only ten days left until Patience boarded the train to her nightmarish groom. Against his better judgment, Peter bent down and touched his lips to Kitty’s cheek. His hand went behind her back to do it, and he dipped her quite respectably before pulling her back up. It felt very wrong

  “Why, that was wonderful. I don’t see why Patience says you kiss like a wet duck.” Little pink spots showed on Kitty’s cheeks as she beamed.

  “I’ve never even kissed Patience.” Oh wait, there had been that incident in the creek during the Fourth of July picnic seven years ago. He’d swear up and down to this day that his foot had slipped on a rock and that’s why it had happened though.

  “It was very romantic how you dipped me down. I’m sure your lips taste good too. Not as good as Bart Hensley’s though.” Kitty folded her hands.

  “Kitty Callahan, you’re seventeen years old. Do I need to tell your pa you need a switching?”

  “Just marry my sister and then you can be the most protective of brother-in-laws and Bart won’t dare steal my virtue.” A very unrepentant Kitty winked at him.

  3

  Sleet fell, obscuring the dark shapes of Gilman shops and houses.

  Peter snapped his black umbrella closed and ushered Kitty into the Wednesday night hymn-sing.

  People milled about in the foyer, piling muffs and capes precariously high on top of clothes trees.

  Throwing back her lacy shawl, Kitty clapped her hands together. “My first time at church-meeting with a beau.” She strung the word out.

  “I’m not actually your beau.” Peter shook the umbrella off and leaned it up against a bench.

&n
bsp; With a little bounce of her shoulders, Kitty rolled her eyes. “Play along, Peter. You’ll never make Patience jealous with that dour face.”

  “She will be here, right?” Peter offered his arm to escort Kitty up the aisle.

  The coat-lined foyer had a broad double door that opened up to the sanctuary beyond.

  “If she isn’t, she’ll have Mrs. Clinton to answer to.”

  They squeezed past knots of women chatting and squalling babies.

  Up front, the organist struck a few chords.

  Holding out his hand, Peter opened the way for Kitty to slide into the wooden church pew.

  Before entering, Kitty took a look over his arm. “Bart Hensley’s powerful jealous. Look at his face.” She giggled and slid into the seat.

  Peter’s gaze followed hers to the man. “He’s twenty-five years old and a reprobate.”

  “You’re twenty-eight and Mrs. Clinton thinks we’re the sweetest sparking couple ever to live.” Kitty played with a strand of her hair. Twisting the lock around her finger, she raised one shoulder flirtatiously.

  “We’re not actually sparking.” Peter frowned and tried to see over his right shoulder while pretending to be checking his tie. Patience said she’d be at church-meeting. She had to be somewhere in these crowded pews.

  “Tell that to Mrs. Clinton.” Kitty sat on the wooden seat.

  “What?” Peter swung around, right into the stout leader of the ladies’ temperance league.

  Mrs. Clinton’s purple silk skirts filled the entire church aisle, but over the woman’s shoulder he caught a glimpse of Patience’s lovely profile. Left aisle, third from center. Her eyes possessed a breathtakingly brown tint. Those deep pools were majestic, just like the solid-rock mountaintops. And when she laughed, her eyes would—

  A hand grabbed his as Kitty made a simpering noise. “So good to see you, Mrs. Clinton.”

  “I, unlike you, am always at church-meeting. What’s this I hear about you being half an hour late last Wednesday and walking by a saloon on your way here?” Mrs. Clinton looked down her blistered nose at Kitty.

  Kitty gulped and looked down at her boots. They were newly polished, unlike Patience’s. Currently, Patience’s right boot had an adorable curlicue scuff mark off-center.