A light knock sounded on the side door.
The magazine fell from Patience’s hands.
Peter grew so familiar with Kitty that he used the family entrance.
Her feet slapped against the floor on her way to the door. She lifted the latch.
Snow dusted the shoulders of Peter’s wool coat. He stomped his boots on the rock doorstep.
“Merry Christmas Eve.” Peter’s quiet voice sounded melodic in the darkness. He extended a brown paper package. Sleet clung to his jacket and snow covered his leather boots.
Her fingers closed on the brown paper as she made room for him to enter. She should wait until morning. Let Kitty open her present. But she could always rewrap it. And she had faced down death today. “Do you mind if I take a peek?” Her fingers hovered over the brown cord.
“Please.” Peter stepped into the room. He closed the door, shutting out the howling wind.
Her fingers moved over the string. She tugged it free. Sliding her hand between the creases of the paper, she parted the packing tape.
Would it be The Three Musketeers this time? Les Miserables?
A simple crockery pot and the smell of plum pudding wafted up.
“Taste it.” Peter pulled a spoon from the wrapping and dug it into the far right edge.
Hand on the spoon handle, Patience hesitated. “Won’t Kitty be upset?”
“She’ll understand.” He sounded so confident.
The soft glow of lamplight reflected off of Peter’s face.
He had chiseled features. A truly aquiline nose. The spark between him and Kitty would soon fizzle, right? Kitty was more than ten years his junior, with no interest in intellectual subjects.
Patience brought the plum-pudding spoon up.
Peter had obviously been driven loony by her near match with criminal Arnie Dehaven. Now that he knew she was available, he’d scale down the Kitty romance, let her down gently.
Patience’s mouth closed on the tangy perfection of plum pudding.
Peter really could cook. A good quality in a husband.
She bit into something hard. Her gaze fell to the spoon. A diamond ring sat squarely on the spoon. A gasp escaped her lips. She stared at the jewel immersed in purply plum pudding.
“You’re proposing?” A tear rolled down her cheek as she glanced towards Peter.
He nodded. How could he be confident? He’d only been courting Kitty for two weeks. He’d live to regret this hasty decision.
“Are you sure? It’s so soon.” She tipped the spoon, dropping the offensive circle of metal back into the depths of the pudding.
“I don’t count seven years as soon.”
Sure, they had moved to town seven years ago and known the Foote family ever since. But Kitty had only been ten at the time. And they scarcely saw each other apart from a few family picnics. She and Peter, they had been the ones that were bosom friends, not Kitty.
Had Peter been off-put by her swooning over a mail-order robber? How could he have so completely transferred his affections in just a matter of days?
The lamplight flickered. The hearth behind was piled high with brown-wrapped Christmas packages. A row of eight children’s stockings hung on the hearth, stuffed to bursting. Tomorrow morning, Kitty, who couldn’t even find it in her heart to stay awake for her beau’s arrival, would wake up to this delectable plum pudding and find herself engaged to the toast of the town. Bride of the man who had singlehandedly arrested two wanted men and brought them to the sheriff bound and tied.
Would Kitty wait for a summer wedding or load up a sleigh and tie the knot under the mulberry-decorated church eaves? Mrs. Clinton would certainly support such a plan.
“What do you say?” Peter held his hand forward.
Her fingers went limp. The crockery in her hand fell. It cracked against the floorboards, splattering plum pudding across the upholstered settee and obliterating the rag rug Kitty had twisted last fall.
But she hopped over the mess, stocking feet slapping against the pine boards. “I can’t give my blessing to this.” She caught both of Peter’s hands in hers. “I love you, Peter. You have to marry me. We’re a perfect match. Look at how well we work together at your store. And we have the same taste in books. Ivanhoe, Count of Monte Cristo, all the titles you purchased.” Would he listen? Biting her lip, she paused long enough to glance up.
Peter was smiling. Beaming, more like.
“So was that a yes?” His hand reached out to her. She’d never noticed how nicely he clipped his fingernails.
“To what?” She cocked her head.
“To my proposal.”
“You were proposing to me?”
“Of course.” Peter took both her hands.
“But what about Kitty and her plum pudding I just destroyed?” Standing at Peter’s side, she glanced back at the wreckage of crockery and plums.
“Oh.” Peter turned a little red. “That was never anything. We were just plotting together to get rid of your mail-order groom.”
“What?”
“I know it wasn’t exactly aboveboard…” Peter squirmed in his black coat.
“Aboveboard?” Visions of Kitty’s tittering giggle as she fawned over Peter burst into Patience’s mind. And how Kitty had made her act like a fool about Arnie in church meeting by extolling all Peter’s virtues. And those enticing new copies of Count of Monte Cristo and Ivanhoe had been meant for her. Yet Kitty still hadn’t allowed her as much as one peek. “That was the most manipulative, and scheming, and, and…I can’t believe that you would even consider—”
“It did work though.” Peter’s hand wrapped around hers. And he actually had the audacity to smirk at her.
Her eyes narrowed. Her foot tapped the ground as she considered. Peter and Kitty had even convinced Mrs. Clinton to plan their wedding. All to make her leave Arnie Dehaven? He was a criminal, but Kitty hadn’t known that.
“So are you going to marry me?” Even Peter’s eyes smiled.
“I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.” She brought her chin down severely.
“But?” His thumb caressed the palm of her hand.
“Oh, all right. I’m in love with you too. So yes, Peter Foote, general store owner and arrestor of armed robbers, I will marry you.” She stood on the tips of her red-tipped stockings to kiss him.
His lips were wet from winter snow. They brushed against hers. The faintest scent of gingersnaps and cinnamon candies clung to his pressed shirt. His arms met around her back as he returned her kiss.
“I want to get married under the mulberry-decorated eaves with holly wreaths and candlelight,” she murmured into his ear as she rested her cheek against his.
“Wait an entire year to wed?” His hand caressed her cheek, pushing her hair back behind her ear.
“Or we could do it tomorrow.” She ran her finger down his temple. His chin had a decidedly firm angle to it. Truly d’Artagnan worthy.
“Afraid you’ll change your mind about me if you wait more than one sunrise?” He leaned in and his mouth moved over hers.
A laugh escaped her lips. “Only if you stop buying me books. I’d like Les Miserables next, please.”
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Plum Pudding Bride Page 7