A Bargained-For Bride

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  Though Jilly’s mind was still uncertain as to what to do—whether to wade out into the swiftly rushing water in an attempt to help or to stay safely on the banks and pray that Jack or Mr. Ramsey were able to save the boy—it seemed her body had decided to adhere to Mr. Ramsey’s demands. Thus, she watched the little red bucket leaping to and fro in the water as it passed her and headed toward the pond.

  “Georgie!” she heard Jack shout. “Georgie! Grab my hand!”

  “Grab his hand, Georgie,” Jilly breathed as she watched the boy bobbing helplessly in the water as it pushed him toward Jack.

  Jilly gasped as she saw Jack reach out and catch hold of Georgie’s arm. “You’ve got him!” she cried out as tears filled her eyes. “You’ve got him!”

  “Don’t let go, Jack!” Mr. Lillingston hollered as he made his way downstream. “I’m almost there! Don’t let him go!”

  Yet at that very moment—as if the devil himself were trying to ensure Georgie’s demise—a large tree branch that was also being washed downstream by the mountain rains barreled into Jack and Georgie, knocking Jack back into the water and snatching Georgie from his grasp.

  “No!” Jilly screamed. “Oh no!” Looking downstream to where Boone Ramsey was still treading water in the pond, Jilly shouted, “He lost him! They’re both in the water!”

  “Well, you stay out of it!” Mr. Ramsey shouted.

  “Jilly! Jilly!”

  Jilly turned to see Jack climbing out of the creek near where she stood. But in the same instant, Georgie Lillingston was swept past her. His only hope was Boone Ramsey.

  Looking to Jack, she nodded when he gestured she should run alongside the boy downstream. “Go! Go! I’m fine!” Jack panted.

  Lifting her skirts, Jilly began to run once more. She didn’t know what she would do, or how she could possibly help, but she ran toward the pond all the same.

  “Hang on, Georgie!” she cried when she caught a glimpse of the boy’s head as it broke the surface of the water. “Hang on! Mr. Ramsey will catch you!”

  And all of a sudden, Jilly herself knew it was true. Even before Boone Ramsey caught hold of Georgie as the rushing creek water emptied into the pond—even before he began swimming with the little boy, holding his head above the water as they made their way to shore—Jilly knew Boone Ramsey would save Georgie Lillingston. After all, he’d done it before.

  Not that Mr. Ramsey had saved Georgie from drowning before, but it seemed the ever-brooding and grumbling Boone Ramsey was always saving someone from something—always keeping someone from getting trampled by a team of horses or climbing down a cliff to help someone who had fallen and broken a limb—always. Boone Ramsey was Mourning Dove Creek’s assumed hero—though he did not like to be thanked and more often than not growled at anyone who did thank him. Therefore, Jilly had indeed known he would be successful in catching Georgie before he reached the falls and the river below—even before he’d done it.

  “He ain’t breathin’,” Mr. Ramsey panted as Jilly reached the bank of the pond in time to help him pull Georgie out. “Get him on his side,” the bossy farmer ordered.

  Still, Jilly did as Boone Ramsey instructed, turning Georgie on his side and patting his back.

  “Here,” Mr. Ramsey said as he swept back his wet hair with one hand, still careless of the water dripping from it onto his face. “Let me try,” he said.

  It was then that Jilly realized she was breathless as well—nearly as breathless as Georgie—breathless for the sake that she feared the little boy was already dead—breathless for the sake that she was frighteningly intimidated in the presence of Boone Ramsey.

  In truth, Boone Ramsey scared the wadding out of Jilly—whether he were the handsomest man in Mourning Dove Creek or not. Most everyone in town was never sure whether to say good morning to the man when they passed him in the street or run for their lives in fear that he might chomp their heads clean off. And Jilly was no different.

  The sound of Georgie coughing and spitting water from his mouth as he began to breathe again drew Jilly’s attention away from Boone Ramsey and back to the little boy.

  “You okay there, boy?” Mr. Ramsey asked in a kind, concerned voice.

  Georgie nodded as Mr. Ramsey helped him to sit up. “D-did you g-get my bucket, mister?” the child stammered as he began to shiver.

  Raking a hand back through his wet hair and exhaling a heavy sigh, Boone Ramsey answered, “I’m afraid not, boy. Sorry.”

  “That’s all right,” Georgie said. “I suppose I can get me another one someday.”

  “I suppose so,” Mr. Ramsey agreed, an uncharacteristic chuckle rumbling in his throat.

  Jack arrived, dropping to his knees beside Jilly. “You okay, Georgie?” he asked. “Sorry I lost you back there. That big ol’ tree limb about did us in, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Georgie agreed as Jack tousled his hair.

  “Good catch there, Boone,” Jack said to Mr. Ramsey then.

  “Yep,” was all the standoffish man said as he rose to his feet.

  “Georgie! Oh, my baby!” Mrs. Lillingston sobbed, dropping to her knees and gathering Georgie into her arms.

  “Thank you, Boone,” Mr. Lillingston panted, offering a hand to the grumbling hero. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

  “No need,” Boone said, shaking the man’s hand once firmly before rather staggering toward his boots that lay soaking but safe on the grass nearby.

  “And you too, Jack,” Mr. Lillingston said, shaking Jack’s hand. Then Mr. Lillingston looked to Jilly. “I was a might worried that you were contemplatin’ jumpin’ into the creek after Georgie yourself, Jilly,” he said, smiling at her—though he still wore a worried expression.

  “W-well…I was,” Jilly admitted, “until Mr. Ramsey arrived and I thought better of it.”

  “You best get that boy in to see Doc Havasham, Abe,” Boone Ramsey said as he pulled on his boots. “That water in his lungs…could cause some problems if the doc ain’t in on it.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Lillingston agreed. “Of course. And thank you again, Boone. I know that if you hadn’t been here…hadn’t gone in after him…”

  “Doc Havasham will know what to watch for,” Boone Ramsey interrupted, however. Looking to where his horse still stood obediently on the bridge, Mr. Ramsey whistled through his teeth, and the horse immediately began walking to meet him. Once the horse had reached him, Boone Ramsey simply climbed into his saddle, nodded to Georgie and the rest of them, said, “Have a good afternoon, folks,” and rode away.

  *

  “And then he just rode off,” Jilly explained. “He just rode off…as if nothin’ so awful had even happened.”

  Doolin Adams chuckled. “I’m not surprised. Not at all,” he said. “Seems it’s always the way with Boone, ain’t it, Effie?” he asked his wife.

  Effie Adams nodded. “Yep. When it comes to communicatin’…that man seems to hold to the opinion that a body oughta use as few words as possible.”

  “Seems to me he’d rather just shake his head or nod instead of speakin’ at all if he can manage it,” Doolin added.

  “And is Georgie all right then, Jilly?” Effie asked her granddaughter.

  Jilly shrugged. “He seems to be,” she answered, “though Mr. and Mrs. Lillingston were on their way to see Doc Havasham when Jack and I left them. Mr. Ramsey said the water in his lungs might pose a problem.”

  Jilly’s grandpa exhaled a heavy sigh, shaking his head with relief. “They’re lucky they didn’t lose him over the falls,” he said.

  Then, wagging a scolding index finger at Jilly, her grandmother added, “And you’re lucky you didn’t step foot in that creek, Jilly Adams. I woulda tanned your hide if you would’ve drowned tryin’ to help save that boy.”

  Jilly smiled as she glanced to her grandpa and saw him wink at her. She knew her Grandpa Doolin was thinking the same thing she was—that being, if Jilly had drowned, would her Grandma Effie have really felt like tanning
Jilly’s hide?

  “I’m just glad that Boone Ramsey was at hand again,” Effie said, picking up her knitting needles and yarn and starting her rocking chair to a rhythmic rocking as she began to knit once more. “I swear, that boy is always pulling somebody out of somethin’. Seems half the town would be dead or destitute if it weren’t for him.”

  “And how was your walk with Jack, Jilly?” her grandpa asked, abruptly changing the subject. “I mean, other than the near tragedy with the Lillingston boy and all?”

  Jilly smiled. In truth, it always rattled her a little of late—the way her grandpa would suddenly change venue of a conversation subject without an obvious reason. It seemed to Jilly that this behavior was becoming more frequent. But she just tallied it up to the fact that her Grandpa Doolin and Grandma Effie were growing older. They had both slowed down considerably over the past couple of years. After all, they were, in truth, Jilly’s great-grandparents, and far older than any other folks in Mourning Dove Creek. It made a certain amount of sense to Jilly that older folks nearing their eighties might need a little more rest—might have trouble remembering things now and again.

  Therefore, Jilly just smiled at her grandpa and answered, “It was right nice, Grandpa,” she said. Blushing, she added, “Walks with Jack are always nice.”

  “Sparkin’ tends to make that the case,” her grandpa chuckled.

  “Doolin!” Effie scolded. “Don’t you go encouragin’ her now.”

  “What?” Doolin asked, however. “It ain’t like you and I didn’t sneak off for a bit of sparkin’ now and again when we were courtin’, Effie.”

  “That was different,” Effie contended. “You had already asked for my hand in marriage. And anyway, my father would’ve lopped off your head and set you on fire if he’d ever have found out.”

  “Oh, but things are different now days,” Doolin reminded her. “Most folks are plum near to heathens now…especially west of the Mississippi.”

  “Well, that doesn’t make it all right,” Effie argued. She plopped her knitting down in her lap, stopped the rhythmic rocking of her chair, and leaned toward Jilly. “Don’t you go lettin’ that Taylor boy grope you all over or anything the like, Jilly. I can tolerate a minimal amount of sparkin’ here and there…but you be sure that’s all it comes to. Do you understand me?”

  Jilly rolled her eyes. “Of course, Grandma.” Then shrugging her shoulders and frowning a bit, she asked, “And besides…what else is there?”

  The laughter that erupted from her Grandpa Doolin sent his top set of false teeth tumbling out of his mouth and into his lap. Jilly giggled, entirely amused as she watched him fumble with the piece of vulcanized rubber securing porcelain teeth, as he tried to insert them back into his mouth even as he continued to laugh.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Doolin!” Effie scolded. “Get that thing back in your mouth where it belongs! Nothin’ in all the world is that funny!”

  But as her grandpa continued to laugh—mirth causing his faded blue eyes to water—Jilly continued to giggle. Oh, how she adored the loving banter between her grandma and grandpa—the way her Grandma Effie pretended to be so astonished and aghast at her grandpa’s behavior, the way her Grandpa Doolin intentionally provoked his wife into scolding him.

  She watched a moment, not really hearing their words as they playfully bantered back and forth—just watched, studied the merriment in their eyes, the loving winks they exchanged. Jilly watched as her grandma returned to her knitting, gently pushing on the floor with her feet to cause her rocking chair to begin rhythmically rocking again. She watched as her grandpa retrieved his pipe from the small table near his own chair and stuffed it with the sweet-smelling tobacco he kept in a small pouch in his trousers pocket. She saw her grandma scold him as he struck a match on his pant leg and began to puff on his pipe to ensure the tobacco lit.

  For a moment, Jilly closed her eyes and listened—listened to the calming sound of the familiar squeak her grandma’s rocker made when she was sitting in it. She inhaled the sweet, comforting aroma of pipe smoke as her grandpa puffed. It was a warm evening, and the crickets had begun to chirp outside, and Jilly’s stomach was still full and satisfied from a delicious supper of smoked ham and buttered biscuits.

  “What you thinkin’ about, Jilly honey?” her grandma asked.

  Though her tranquil moment of reflection had been interrupted by her grandma’s question, Jilly didn’t mind, for her grandma’s sweet voice was part of her comfort—part of all that made Jilly feel safe and secure, loved and cared for.

  “She’s thinkin’ about all them sweet kisses Jack Taylor give her this afternoon before the Lillingston boy almost drowned. Ain’t you, pumpkin?” her grandpa teased.

  “Oh, she is not,” her grandma argued. Looking to Jilly then, she continued, “I don’t like that Jack Taylor, Jilly. He seems all too flirtatious and such to me. Why don’t you let some nice, reasonable, steady young man court you a bit? You know, someone like that handsome Clarence Farley. He seems to be a very steady, capable young man.”

  “Clarence Farley?” Jilly heard her grandpa exclaim in unison with her.

  “Clarence Farley?” her grandpa nearly hollered. “Why, that boy is as ugly as a mud fence!”

  “Now, Doolin, that is not true,” Effie contended. “Clarence might not be as handsome as Jack Taylor, Boone Ramsey, or even Daniel McDonald…but he has a very sweet countenance, and he’s very polite.”

  “And he sits in Sunday services pickin’ his nose like he expects to find a gold nugget up in there or somethin’,” Doolin mumbled.

  “Oh, he does not,” Effie argued, though only halfheartedly and through her own giggling.

  “He does, Grandma,” Jilly added. Wrinkling her nose, she added, “I could never like a man who picks his nose the way poor Clarence does.”

  “Well, honey, all men pick their noses,” Effie pointed out.

  “Well, that may be,” Jilly admitted. “But I’ve never seen another man do it the way Clarence Farley does. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone over the age of four years pick their nose, at least in public, and—”

  “All right, all right,” Effie sighed. “Poor Clarence Farley is out of the runnin’, I guess.” Speeding up the rhythm of her rocker, she added, “Now I’ll never be able to look at that boy again without hopin’ he doesn’t want to shake my hand.” As her rocker stopped rocking altogether then, Effie plopped her knitting down in her lap as her eyes widened. “Oh mercy! I just remembered…Clarence Farley served me a piece of peach pie at the last town social.” Gasping, she continued, “Do you think he washed his hands before slicin’ it for me?”

  Jilly watched as her grandpa began to choke on his pipe smoke and laughter—as he clamped his hand over his mouth to keep his false teeth from dropping into his lap again.

  She wondered if other families in Mourning Dove Creek were as entertaining to converse with as hers was. She thought not and felt sorry for them. After all, what was life if not for the happy times spent with loved ones—whether friends or family, whether parents or grandparents?

  Jilly sighed, suddenly even more thankful that the little Lillingston boy had been saved. Though she was certain Mr. and Mrs. Lillingston and their other children were still very emotional and entirely rattled at what had happened with Georgie, now she was even more grateful that he had not been lost—that Boone Ramsey had managed to catch hold of him as he emptied into the pond with the rushing creek water.

  She was also thankful that she’d had her Grandpa Doolin and Grandma Effie to go to when her parents had been taken by tragedy—so very, very thankful. After all, what would’ve happened to her if she hadn’t had them? Jilly again thought of Boone Ramsey, for his past held loss and tragedy very much like her own—and she felt sorry for him. For as she sat there in the warm, loving companionship and protection of her grandparents’ company and home, she knew that, after Georgie Lillingston had been saved that day, Boone Ramsey returned home to an empty house
and no one.

  “Lane O’Hara then,” Jilly heard her grandma say.

  “Lane O’Hara?” her grandpa exclaimed with disgust. “Why, he’s as old as Methuselah, Effie!”

  “Now don’t be ridiculous, Doolin,” Effie lovingly quibbled. “No one is as old as Methuselah, and you know it.”

  Jilly giggled as she watched her grandpa return to puffing on his pipe. He winked at her and grinned—letting her know that getting her grandma’s goat was still his favorite pastime in life.

  She studied them for a moment longer—the top of her grandpa’s shiny, bald head and the tufts of white hair lingering above his ears, his faded but still smiling blue eyes and ruggedly bronzed and leathered skin. Her grandma was as beautiful as ever with her white hair piled so perfectly, her green eyes glistening with love and contentment, and her rather gnarled-by-life fingers expertly working her knitting.

  “How about I choose for myself?” Jilly interjected then. “And I choose Jack Taylor.”

  “How about you don’t worry about choosin’ right now, Jilly honey?” Effie said, smiling at her. “Why don’t you worry about knockin’ some sense into your grandpa’s thick head instead?”

  “My head ain’t any thicker than yours, Effie my girl,” Doolin said, smiling at his wife.

  Jilly sighed and sat back in her own chair. She wondered if there were still a biscuit left she could slather with some of her grandma’s strawberry preserves. She figured that if there were, her life would be perfectly flawless in that warm, comforting moment. Yes—perfectly flawless.

  Chapter Three

  Boone Ramsey waited until dark to make his way to Doc Havasham’s place. He’d fretted over the well-being of the Lillingston boy all through the remainder of the day. Yet if there were one thing Boone Ramsey didn’t like, it was attention, and stopping in at Doc Havasham’s to inquire of the boy’s condition during daylight hours certainly would’ve drawn attention. So he’d waited—waited until the sun set and the supper hour had most likely passed at the Havasham home.