Plum Pudding Bride

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  With a cough, Pa quieted the table. His voice rose and fell in the words of grace. Pa was praying for twelve-year-old Matthew, who almost burned down the barn yesterday morning by stealing a pipe and trying to smoke it. “…and as Thy word teaches, keep us safe from the perilous foolishness bound up in a heart of a child.”

  Poor Matthew, her brother, was already cleaning the horse droppings every week for the entire winter as penance.

  Pa had meant Matthew…right?

  With a hearty “amen,” Mrs. Clinton started in on the virtues of her meatloaf.

  Ignoring the woman, Arnie leaned over to Mr. Clinton. “Where you send all that silver, Mr. Clinton?” An unchewed hunk of roll protruded from Arnie’s mouth as he spoke.

  Mr. Clinton’s pale eyes narrowed. He skewered a floating chunk of potato and lifted it to his thin lips.

  “I mean, it ain’t like the bank in town can hold all that silver.” Arnie dug his knife into the butter lump, slapped a dollop on a roll, and shoved the entire thing in his mouth.

  Blinking his thin eyelids, Mr. Clinton speared another potato chunk.

  “You don’t have to act so mistrusting. It ain’t like I’m gonna steal it. I’m marrying into your town and all.” Arnie flung a thick arm around Patience’s back.

  His fingers mussed her sleeve, but she didn’t suppose it would do to throw off one’s fiancé’s embrace the day before one’s wedding.

  Especially when Pa already looked out of sorts. Was he still riled up over Matthew’s infraction?

  “I have a courier service in place. That’s all I’ll say about it.” This time, Mr. Clinton jabbed two potato chunks with his little fork.

  “And wise you are, husband.” Mrs. Clinton slapped her hand on his back with an approving thwack. “Why, with the cart winding down those mountain roads, it’s the easiest target in sight. We could lose this entire fall’s income to one highway robber. Normally, Sheriff Westwood accompanies the shipments, but doesn’t seem quite right to pull a family man away from his duties on Christmas Eve.”

  “Darling.” Mr. Clinton abandoned his fork to grab his wife’s hand.

  “Oh, yes, right, sorry. Shouldn’t be talking about such things. My husband does have the best head on his shoulders. John, my dear, you would have made a prime candidate for U.S. Marshal if you hadn’t gone into the mining business.” Mrs. Clinton subsided.

  An awkward silence overtook the table. Arnie looked pleased. Peter looked positively ferocious even though his hand rested over Kitty’s on the checkered tablecloth. One would think sitting beside one’s lady love would create a more joyous aura. Susannah was too busy shoveling bites into squabbling babes’ mouths to have an expression.

  Digging into the folds of the fur-lined coat on her chair, Mrs. Clinton produced a tin flask. “Would anyone like a strong drink?”

  “Absolutely. Never a man to say no to some whiskey.” Arnie’s big hand reached for the flask.

  With a screech, Mrs. Clinton jumped up, clasping the steel container to her bosom. The entire table came close to overturning with her motion.

  Kitty had to grab the chowder kettle to keep it from upending on their two littlest brothers.

  “He’s a villain. A villain, I say!” Mrs. Clinton’s screech increased in volume.

  “You carry alcohol, Mrs. Clinton?” Susannah’s eyes widened as she stuffed another piece of meatloaf into her youngest’s mouth.

  “It’s just cherry cordial. Only use it for occasions like these.” Mrs. Clinton somehow managed to scoot her body into the narrow space betwixt table and wall. She struck a defensive pose behind Mr. Clinton’s back.

  “Cherry cordial?” Arnie’s heavy lip curled.

  “Patience.” Mrs. Clinton pointed a wobbling finger. She was so overcome, she’d turned red all the way down to her neckline. “I’m expelling you from the temperance league, effective immediately. How could you so shame our society by marrying a man who imbibes? I shan’t be decorating your wedding either.”

  “It’s just a little alcohol, Mrs. Clinton.” Patience raised a roll to her lips. Not that she’d ever intended to marry a man who drank at all. “It’s not as if he’s a drunk.”

  “It’s the first drink that starts the downward fall. One day he touches whiskey, next day he’ll be dead drunk and beating you black and blue. Don’t come knocking on my door when you’ve got bruises head to foot and a parcel of young’uns in your arms.”

  “Since we’re to live in Montana, arriving at your door would be difficult.” Patience dropped the roll back on her plate and met Mrs. Clinton’s gaze head-on.

  Kitty tittered.

  Peter most assuredly did not. He looked ready to explode.

  “We’re leaving.” Mrs. Clinton grabbed Mr. Clinton’s shoulder and dragged him away, along with his full spoonful of soup. That man knew how to balance a loaded spoon. They left in a flurry of huffy goodbyes.

  Everyone stared at Arnie.

  Moving his big hands up to the wall behind, Arnie rested his head on them. His neck cracked in the process. “Don’t tell me none of y’all never opened a flask.”

  “Well,” Pa said, but he didn’t look pleased.

  “I haven’t.” Susannah shoved a spoon into her little one’s mouth. “I don’t even use cooking wine.”

  The grandfather clock in the other room ticked. Everyone in the room stared at Arnie.

  He stared back.

  Susannah’s husband stood. “Lovely dinner. Thank you, Mrs. Callahan. Patience, Kitty.” His gaze darted around the table. “We should get the boys to bed now.” Grabbing the two little ones by their suspenders, he exited the room.

  “Just keep the pickles,” Susannah said over her shoulder as she followed.

  But even Ma didn’t acknowledge her. Pa and Ma continued to stare all too intently at Mr. Arnie Dehaven.

  “So, Mr. Dehaven—” Pa started with a scowl on his lips.

  “I better git to my boardinghouse.” Grabbing two handfuls of rolls, Arnie jostled the table as he exited. “See you tomorrow, Patty-o.” Raising a fistful of rolls, he made a smooching noise. His broad back disappeared out the door.

  Kitty leaned towards Patience. “You always hated that nickname.”

  “I know.” Patience rested her head on her hands. All at once, she had a massive headache.

  “I’ll be leaving too. Much obliged for the dinner, Mrs. Callahan.” Peter’s low voice hurt her head.

  As she rubbed her temples, she heard the sound of his boots clomping away.

  ~*~

  The snow had stopped falling. Moonlight reflected off the thin sheet of white that covered the ground. Peter’s breath made mist in the cold night.

  Ahead, the dimwit lumbered through the snow as if he’d already downed that flask of whiskey Mrs. Clinton had accused him of. And tomorrow the oaf intended to marry Patience.

  Inside his pockets, Peter’s hands balled into fists. “So, are you actually a drunkard and wife beater, or just a man who likes his whiskey?” he called out through the snow.

  Arnie’s head cranked around over his shoulder. “What’s it to you?”

  “I’m a friend of Patience’s. Have been for seven years.”

  With a crunch, Arnie swung round on his heel. “You stay out of business between me and my woman.”

  A blaze of anger surged through Peter’s chest, so hot the winter night felt downright tropical. “She’s not your woman.”

  “Will be tomorrow.” Arnie’s coat hung open. His big hands rested in his pockets as if he took marrying a wife as lightly as buying another head of cattle.

  “She deserves better than the likes of you.” Peter stepped into the man’s space. His head barely reached Arnie’s shoulder.

  “Someone like who? You? Bet you’ve never even been in a fistfight.” Arnie slammed forward with his hand. His fist struck Peter’s stomach.

  Stumbling back, Peter clutched his abdomen.

  “Come on, sissy boy.” Arnie’s fist sank into Peter’s righ
t shoulder.

  The sound of popping ligaments sounded in his ear.

  Reaching into his coat pocket, Arnie pulled out a metal flask and held it to his cracked lips.

  Clasping his stinging shoulder with one hand, Peter forced his back upright. His feet spread on the frozen ground. “You had better treat her right.”

  “Who’ll make me? You?” Arnie snorted. He dropped the flask and swung forward with his right hand.

  Peter lunged to intercept it and threw a left-handed punch towards Arnie’s chin. His blow landed short, and though Arnie’s fist also missed, his massive arm sent Peter flying back all the same.

  Cold air whipped by Peter’s ears. He landed on his backside on an icy pile of gravel. His shoulder burned, his stomach ached, and his backside didn’t feel so good either.

  Arnie stomped away chortling, his massive boots pounding against the snowy road.

  Peter’s shoulders slumped forward. He was a failure. No wonder Patience didn’t want him. He couldn’t even win a fistfight to defend the honor of the girl he’d loved for seven years.

  7

  “Your beau’s here.” One of Patience’s younger brothers called it out in a singsong voice.

  Abandoning elbow-deep dishwater, Patience ran for the door. Without even rolling down her sleeves, she jerked her coat off its peg and threw a scarf over her head. Cold wind blew through her unbuttoned coat, sending her scarf flying about her ears as she flung the door open. She needed to have a talk with Mr. Arnie Dehaven, and one that didn’t involve Kitty and various other siblings peering over the settee at him.

  The morning sun barely illuminated the foggy day. An uneven dusting of snow covered the ground while the clouds above threatened more.

  Arnie Dehaven sat astride a muscular black stallion.

  How did he manage to bring a horse in a train car from Montana?

  “Come on up.” Spurring the horse forward, Arnie leaned sideways off the saddle. As the horse passed her, he grabbed her around the waist and swung her onto the mount…like a sack of potatoes. His arm held her on the saddle, her hair pressed up against his chest.

  “Put me down. We need to talk.” Leaning forward, she grabbed the hand that pinned her waist to him. The wind caught her uncovered hair and tore tendrils free.

  “Nonsense. Got places to see.” Arnie dug his spurs into the horse. The steed leapt forward, throwing Patience into Arnie’s chest. Her head thudded against his rib cage.

  “Hang on.” Arnie spurred the horse faster.

  Her house faded into red rock and spruce trees as the horse’s feet pounded up the pebbled path.

  She couldn’t marry this man in a matter of hours. She just couldn’t. There was no need for some detailed discussion of future plans and dreams. She’d just tell him no.

  Both hands on the horse’s moist back, she pulled herself as far away from Mr. Dehaven as possible and cleared her throat. “Mr. Dehaven.”

  “Not now.” Arnie stared at the road ahead. Out of earshot of civilization now, ponderosa pines and spruces surrounded the trail. The path forked, one way going north towards less-civilized parts and the other leading west towards the Clintons’ silver mine. Arnie’s horse stumbled over a rut in the road.

  From up the mountain came the faint rumble of cart wheels.

  Jerking the horse’s reins, Arnie pulled the steed to a stop behind a ponderosa just before a curve in the rutted wagon path.

  Finally. “Mr. Dehaven. I insist you turn this horse around and—”

  He clapped a hand over her mouth, and greasy skin covered her lips.

  Her hands leapt up to pry at his fingers, but he slammed her head back against his chest. She tried to bring the heel of her boot back against his shins. With a grunt, he immobilized her against his thighs.

  The rumbling grew louder. Through the pine needles, she made out a fast-moving cart.

  Digging his heels into the horse, Arnie rode out in front of the cart.

  The wagon slowed. It bore the official crest of the Clinton silver mine painted in green and purple just as Mrs. Clinton had designed it.

  Good. She’d be getting off Arnie’s horse immediately and riding home with Mr. Clinton’s silver courier.

  Arnie’s hand came off her mouth.

  Grabbing his coat lapels, she tried to swing off the horse. “Mr. Dehaven, you let me go and you—”

  Swift as a breath, Arnie reached inside his hide jacket and produced a six-shooter. “Hands up.”

  “What are you doing!” Patience tried to twist around, but Arnie’s arm pinned her to himself.

  Leaping to his feet on the buckboard, the silver courier reached for his holster.

  Arnie shot him.

  With a cry, the man stumbled forward, hands pressed to his side. Staggering drunkenly, the man toppled off the cart and fell to the frozen earth below.

  Only inches from Patience’s body, Arnie’s pistol released a light haze of gun smoke.

  Her heart pounded as if it would burst out of her chest. She twisted up to see Arnie’s face. His black eyes held no emotion. Mouth dry, she glanced down to the man now groaning on the ground.

  Arnie’s arm still dug into her waist, making movement impossible.

  “Let me down to help him.” Her voice scraped out of her throat in a whisper. Her hands trembled, and she wasn’t half-convinced her legs would hold her if he did place her on the ground.

  The bushes shook on the opposite side of the road. A man scrambled out of the underbrush. His dirty hair topped a face she’d never forget.

  Her hand came up to her mouth. It was the man that Peter had handed over to Sheriff Westwood that day almost two weeks ago when they had walked this very path.

  “Tie him up and leave him,” Arnie ordered.

  “The man needs medical attention. You wretch!” Indignation lent strength to her arms. Patience twisted and shoved at Arnie’s chest with both hands. She kicked at him too, but to no avail.

  “You’ve got that right, sweetheart.” Grabbing her around the waist again, he tossed her up on the now-empty buckboard. The wood groaned underneath the weight of his boot as he followed after. “Let’s get this haul to some place less con…con…conspicuous.”

  His partner threw a few loops of rope around the courier and jumped into the wagon bed. In the back of the wagon, straw covered burlap sacks of what must be silver.

  Arnie reached forward for the horses’ reins.

  “So writing for a mail-order bride was just a tactic to gain a foothold in Gilman to plan your larceny?” She almost shrieked it. She was inches away from a possible murderer and definite armed robber. “I bet you don’t even have a ranch in Montana.”

  “Not yet I don’t. But with this haul of silver, I have myself a mind to buy one. You’ll make a spit-fired rancher’s wife.”

  “I’ll never marry you.” Edging to the end of the seat, she grabbed the top of the wheel. Throwing one petticoat-encumbered leg over, she made to jump.

  Arnie laughed. Grabbing the back of her dress, he yanked her back beside him. His thick arm snaked around her waist. His hand touched her in places no decent man dared.

  Balling her fists, she struck at him. “You let me go, you—”

  “Hi-ya,” he yelled and drove the horses into a gallop. His laughter rumbled along with the cart wheels as they bounced over the uneven ground.

  ~*~

  In the back room of the general store, Peter leaned forward over a neatly piled row of receipts. Taking up his pen, he crossed out another line of itemized canned goods. Flicking that paper off, he grabbed the dry-goods account.

  Petticoats rustled in the doorway. Kitty was smirking.

  “What are you doing here?” He dipped his pen in ink.

  “I need an excuse to stop by my darling beau’s shop?” Resting one elbow on the account book, she batted her eyelashes.

  “There’s no one here. You don’t need to playact.” He firmly displaced her elbow from his ledger and focused on summing the third
column.

  “This is important.” She slapped both hands on top of his page. The motion disturbed the receipts, blowing them onto the floor. “Tonight”—Kitty paused dramatically—“Patience marries Mr. Dimwit.”

  “I know,” he growled. He didn’t even get up to gather the receipts.

  “So this afternoon’s your chance for a grand gesture.”

  “One needs moonlight for a grand gesture.” He stared gloomily at the overflowing shelves and stacked crates. He’d been more successful in this business venture than he’d ever dreamed possible. And failed utterly at love.

  “You’re not giving up on my sister, are you? Because Mr. Dehaven is immeasurably worse than even I could have imagined.” Kitty stood.

  “I’d planned to propose to her tonight after the Christmas Eve service before she boarded the train for Montana Christmas morning.” Abandoning the ledger and fallen receipts, Peter started pacing. His boots scuffed.

  “Good. Move it up to afternoon, and that will be perfection.” Kitty tugged on her pink mittens, looking quite pleased.

  “If she can see that Montana oaf in person and still think she wants him, she’s more in need of a lunatic asylum than a proposal.”

  “Peter!”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just, I—”

  “I know. He’s horrid. Which is why you must propose.” Kitty placed her hands on his shoulders and tried to shake him. It didn’t work.

  “When? What am I supposed to do, accost her when she’s walking around town with the oaf?” His hand rose in a truly King Lear–like expression of despair. Patience would be pleased.

  “She’s not in town. Mr. Dimwit rode up on a black stallion and took her off to the mountains.”

  “The mountains?” Peter stared at the girl.

  “Yeah. Pa was none too happy when he heard she was off in the wilderness with a stranger. But it happened so fast, no one had time to complain. Besides, Mr. Dimwit seems a good enough backwoodsman in a lummox-ish kind of way. I’m sure he’ll have her back in time for the Christmas Eve service.”

  Peter marched over to his desk.