Springwater Wedding

by Linda Lael Miller

  “It—it sort of puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?” Kathleen said quietly, almost shyly, “when something like this happens, I mean.”

  Reece nodded. Then, seeing that Kathleen was crying, he drew her out of her chair and onto his lap, pressing her head against his broad shoulder. She wept noisily for a long time and got his shirt all wet, and he just sat there, patting her back.

  “Did you cheat on me, Reece McCaffrey?” she demanded, after a long time.

  He kissed her temple. His breath was warm in her hair. “No,” he said.

  She couldn’t imagine life without him. Didn’t even want to try. “But you’ve been writing to that Abigail woman. She sent you a birthday card. You didn’t even try to hide it, either!”

  He smiled. “That’s because I had nothing to hide.”

  Kathleen folded her arms. “That’s what Helen’s husband said,” she reminded him.

  “I’m not Helen’s husband,” he replied. “Thank God.” He paused, stroked her cheek with one fingertip, setting off all the old, fiery reactions. “Would you like to meet Abigail?” he asked.

  “Why would I want to do that?” Kathleen snapped.

  He shrugged those powerful shoulders. “Just a good deed,” he said. “She’s ninety-four years old and doesn’t get many callers in the nursing home. I stopped in a couple of times when I was in Missoula on business.”

  Kathleen opened her mouth, closed it. “I thought—”

  He grinned that grin, the one she had no real defenses against. “I know what you thought,” he said. He caught her chin between a calloused thumb and forefinger and looked deep into her eyes. “I met Abigail in a travel chat room. She’s a pistol, and if she were oh, say, forty years younger, she might give you a run for your money, Kathleen McCaffrey.”

  She sighed, sniffled. “I suppose I could blame my hormones,” she said. “At least, in part.”

  He chuckled, kissed her lightly. “In part,” he agreed. “Still, we’ve got some real problems, or this kind of misunderstanding couldn’t have happened. It’ll take time and effort to work them through.”

  She nodded, sniffled again. “We’ll get counseling,” she said.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “And maybe a new perspective wouldn’t hurt, either.”

  She narrowed her eyes, stiffened a little. “You’re talking about going traveling in that rolling sin-mobile,” she said.

  He waggled his eyebrows at her. “I am,” he replied.

  The idea of being alone with this man, her husband, in a bedroom on wheels, was not without a certain appeal. “We could come back to Springwater—on a regular basis?”

  He kissed the tip of her nose. “Of course we will, Kathy,” he said. “I love our children and this house as much as you do. We’ll give life on the road a try, and if we find we don’t care to be roving gypsies, we’ll come back here and sell the RV. Fair enough?”

  She considered the matter. “Fair enough,” she said.

  He kissed her again, this time on the mouth, and lingeringly. “Let’s go upstairs and celebrate,” he said.

  A hot shiver of anticipation went through her. It had been a while since she and Reece had made love. “Celebrate?” she asked, thinking of all the tragedy that had struck Springwater, lately and long ago. “What are we celebrating?”

  He smiled, smoothed her hair. “Being alive,” he said. “Being together. Making a new start.”

  She nodded, her eyes filled with tears, and they stood. When the doorbell rang half an hour later, neither one of them heard a thing.

  14

  Daphne’s eyes were swollen from crying, but Maggie could see that her friend was doing her best to be strong. As soon as she stepped over the threshold she put her arms around Daphne and hugged her tightly, and Sadie whimpered in sympathy, sensing that something was wrong, trying to lick Daphne’s hand. Glancing down at the dog, Daphne gave a sniffly laugh.

  “Come in,” she said. “Both of you.”

  Maggie and Sadie followed as Daphne led the way into her kitchen, where Tiffany was seated in her playpen, still in her pajamas, happily engaged with a baby doll. Seeing Sadie, she gave a crow of delight, and Sadie greeted her small friend with a cheerful yip, then stood on her hind legs next to the playpen and whined to be let in.

  “Down,” Maggie commanded distractedly, and Sadie dropped to her belly with a sigh, whined once, and lay watching Tiffany with the beatific gaze of a saint in the throes of martyrdom.

  Daphne went to the sink, washed her hands, dried them hastily, and then poured coffee for herself and Maggie. Maggie took a place at the table. Her bones and muscles still felt as though they’d been liquified by the slow heat of J.T.’s lovemaking, and it shamed her a little, feeling so good when her best friend was obviously suffering.

  “I guess Ben will be here soon,” she said. Under other circumstances, she would have confided in her friend that she’d spent the night with J.T., shared her doubts and misgivings, as well as her tentative hopes, but for now she was concerned only with her friend’s well-being.

  Daphne nodded. “Maybe not before the social worker arrives with Tiffany’s mother, though,” she said. Her voice caught, but she maintained her composure. “This is so hard.”

  Maggie cupped her hands around the mug of coffee Daphne had placed before her, glanced at the beautiful, contented child playing nearby. “Maybe they won’t give Tiffany back to the mother,” she said, sotto voce. “After all, the woman did abandon her at a rest stop.”

  Daphne sat across from Maggie, looking at the little girl intently, as though memorizing her face and form, storing the images away in her heart and mind. “We don’t know the whole story yet,” she said softly. “And the girl is very young—only seventeen. She can be forgiven for a lapse in judgment.” She paused, dabbed at her eye with the back of one hand. “If it’s at all possible, Tiffany needs to be with her mother.”

  Just then they heard an engine in the driveway, followed by the slamming of a door and hasty footsteps mounting the steps of the back porch. Moments later, Ben burst in, looking quietly frantic. He glanced in Tiffany’s direction, nodded a greeting to Maggie.

  Daphne got up and launched herself into his arms, and it seemed to Maggie that his embrace was a little stiff. His eyes, as he looked over his wife’s shoulder at Maggie, held an odd expression, cool and almost detached.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, drawing back to look into Daphne’s face.

  “Tiffany’s mother is back,” Daphne answered.

  Maggie looked away, feeling as though she were intruding, as though she should leave, but she knew Daphne wanted her there, needed her support, so she stayed.

  “Oh, honey,” Ben murmured, his hands cupping Daphne’s face. “I’m sorry.”

  Daphne looked back at Tiffany, still playing, and straightened her spine. Just then, the doorbell rang. For a moment, all of time seemed to freeze; nobody moved, nobody spoke, nobody even breathed, or so it seemed from Maggie’s perspective. Even little Tiffany went still at the sound.

  “I’ll get it,” Ben said.

  “We’ll both go,” Daphne replied.

  Maggie didn’t speak. It was tacitly understood that she and Tiffany and Sadie would remain where they were, in that spacious, familiar kitchen. Always a safe place, it seemed strangely isolated now, an outpost under attack by hostile forces, with walls that might or might not hold.

  There were voices, more footsteps. Presently, the swinging door leading into the dining room opened, and Daphne and Ben came through, followed by a round woman with an old-fashioned pompadour, friendly eyes, and bright pink cheeks. Behind her trailed a slender young woman with a single dark braid trailing down her back, enormous blue eyes agog as she took in her surroundings.

  The instant her gaze fell on Tiffany, the girl’s face was alight with joy and relief. Clad in blue jeans, a worn T-shirt, and sneakers that had seen better days, the teenage mother crossed the room in a few strides. Tiffany, seeing her, clambered t
o her feet and cried, “Mommy!”

  Maggie’s eyes filled as she watched the two clinging to each other, and she couldn’t quite bring herself to look at Daphne and Ben.

  “This is Susan,” the social worker said. “Susan Collins, Tiffany’s mother. My name is Elizabeth Anderson.” She produced a card, but no one took it, so she slipped it back into the pocket of her tidy blazer.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Maggie saw that Daphne was leaning against Ben’s side, her expression a study in mixed emotions— sorrow because she was about to lose the child she had already come to love, and joy because it was so obvious that, in spite of everything, Susan and Tiffany belonged together.

  Holding Tiffany tightly in her arms, Susan turned to look at Daphne and Ben. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for taking such good care of my baby.”

  Daphne’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. Maggie wasn’t paying attention to Ben; if he reacted, she didn’t notice.

  Maggie got to her feet. “Maybe I should—”

  “Stay,” Daphne pleaded. “Please, Maggie.”

  Maggie sat down again. Ms. Anderson assessed the situation and apparently came to a conclusion. “I realize that this is awkward,” she said. She drew back a chair at the table. “May I?”

  “Please,” Daphne said.

  The social worker dropped into the seat as though she’d just climbed the stone steps of some ancient and massive cathedral, set her briefcase on the table with a clunk, and snapped the latches. Slowly, Daphne, Ben, and Susan all came to take places of their own. Sadie lumbered over and laid her chin on Maggie’s knee with a worried little snort.

  “Well,” Ms. Anderson said, taking reading glasses from the briefcase and putting them on with practiced efficiency, “Springwater is certainly making a name for itself these days, and I can’t say it’s a good one.”

  Maggie assumed she was referring to the Clive Jenson murder, and felt a little defensive—it simply wasn’t fair to judge the whole town by that one incident—but she kept her opinion to herself.

  Ben glanced at Daphne. “I guess you haven’t heard,” he said.

  “Heard what?” Daphne asked.

  Maggie stroked Sadie’s soft head, more for her own comfort than the dog’s, and waited.

  Ben looked rueful. “There was another killing last night,” he said, lowering his voice, presumably for Tiffany’s benefit, although she and Susan had eyes and ears only for each other and were oblivious to the rest of them. “Randy Hough was shot to death, along with Travis DuPres. Billy Raynor was critically injured.”

  Maggie felt the color drain from her face, and immediately clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. What must Cindy be going through?

  “Oh, my God,” Daphne breathed. “That’s awful. What happened? Does anyone know why—?”

  Ben shook his head. “That’s all I know about it, honey. What I heard this morning when I stopped by the Stagecoach CafÈ for coffee and a sweet roll.”

  “Time was, this was a peaceful town,” Ms. Anderson observed.

  “It’s still a good place,” Maggie heard herself say.

  “Whatever,” said the other woman in a dismissive tone, clearly ready to get on with it and move on to the next crisis.

  Maggie’s felt her mouth tighten, but she didn’t answer.

  “What—what about Tiffany?” Daphne ventured.

  Ms. Anderson looked at Susan, who sat stiffly in her chair now, clutching her child as though she expected someone to yank her out of her arms. “Perhaps you should explain a few things, my dear.”

  Susan swallowed pitifully. She was a pretty girl, though it was easy to see that life had been a struggle for her, probably from day one. “I love Tiffany,” she said, and suddenly her lovely eyes were glazed with desperate tears, “but I can’t take good care of her. Dylan—that’s my boyfriend—he’s fed up with both of us. Says we’re nothing but trouble. So I figure it will be better if—if Tiffany stays right here—”

  Everyone except Ms. Anderson and, of course, the baby, looked surprised.

  Susan stroked her daughter’s curly hair with one hand. “I’d like to visit sometimes,” she said, addressing herself to Daphne, “if you’d allow that.”

  If Daphne had been the selfish type, she probably would have been pleased by this development, but she was generous to the core. “What about you, Susan?” she asked. “Where will you go?”

  Susan tried to smile, and the sight was heartbreaking under the circumstances. Tiffany settled against her chest, gave a shuddering little sigh, and closed her eyes. “I want to finish high school and join the air force,” she said. “I could travel and even go to college—”

  No one spoke for a while.

  “And Tiffany?” Daphne ventured, finally.

  Ben glanced at his wife, though his face revealed nothing of what he was thinking or feeling.

  Ms. Anderson’s expression was noncommital, perhaps a bit wary.

  “I want to adopt her,” Daphne insisted. If anyone besides Maggie noticed that she’d said “I” instead of “we,” nobody said anything. “Legally.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Susan murmured.

  “Say yes,” Daphne urged.

  “Daphne—” Ben began, but she ignored him. The social worker, on the other hand, was watching him with interest.

  “Maybe you’d like to know a little more about Susan before you extend an offer like that,” the woman said. “Tell them why you left Tiffany at the rest area, Susan.”

  Crimson circles appeared in Susan’s cheeks. “Dylan was real mad. I knew he’d be back, and I was afraid he’d hurt Tiffany. I saw those older people drive up in an RV and get out to stretch their legs—they were laughing and they had these two little dogs they seemed to love a lot and, well, I knew if they found Tiffany wandering around and thought she was alone, they’d see that she was kept safe. So I hid and they took her, just like I thought they would.” A tear trickled down Susan’s face. “I was right about Dylan, too. He came back and I told him what happened to Tiffany, and he said good riddance.”

  Everyone was silent. The child slept blissfully against her mother’s bosom, one plump little hand still clinging to Susan’s braid.

  “We got as far as Missoula,” Susan went on. She sounded shell-shocked, and she stared into space as though watching herself and Dylan in some mental movie. “I couldn’t stand it anymore. Not knowing if Tiffany was really all right, I mean. So I told him we were through, and I hitched back to Maple Creek and asked around until I found out where the welfare office was.”

  “You understand,” Ms. Anderson said to Susan, “that you could be charged with reckless abandonment, among other things?”

  Maggie knew by Susan’s expression that she and Ms. Anderson had already had this conversation.

  “Yes,” the girl said miserably.

  “What about this Dylan person?” Daphne asked. “Is he a danger to you or Tiffany?”

  Susan bit her lower lip, then shook her head. “He’s glad to be shut of us. We won’t see him again.”

  “You don’t have any family to turn to?” Ben put in. His tone was gruff.

  Susan shook her head again. “I grew up in foster homes, and so did Dylan. That’s how we met, as a matter of fact. Tiffany and me, we’re on our own.” Her face contorted with emotion, and she held the baby a little closer. “I love my daughter, you’ve got to understand that. I love her so much, sometimes I think I’ll die of it, and leaving her is going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I can’t take good care of her, and I know it. I don’t want her growing up the way I did, going from one place to another all the time. Never knowing what the next people are going to be like. I want to leave her right here, and I’ll sign papers.”

  Maggie’s heart ached for the child, for her troubled young mother, for Daphne, but half her mind was with Cindy, and poor, sweet Billy, who might be dying, or already dead. Where, she wondered, was J.T.? Did he know what had happene
d? Was he with Cindy, keeping a vigil in some hospital? And what about Quinn? He’d spent the night out at the Kildares’. Would he be coming home to an empty house? She frowned, feeling more anxious with every passing moment.

  “You can visit whenever you want,” Daphne said, addressing Susan. “And Tiffany will have a permanent home, right here in Springwater. If Ms. Anderson and the courts agree, of course.”

  “What about me?” Ben asked reasonably. “Don’t I have to agree?”

  Ms. Anderson focused all her professional attention on Ben and waited, while Daphne looked at her husband as if she’d forgotten he was there.

  “Maybe we should talk about this alone,” she said.

  “Maybe you should,” Ms. Anderson agreed, raising her eyebrows and puckering her mouth.

  Maggie got to her feet, touched Daphne’s shoulder as she passed. “I’ve got to get in touch with J.T.,” she said. “Call if you need me.”

  Daphne patted her friend’s hand. “Thanks, Mags,” she said. “I will.”

  Five minutes later, having spoken to Purvis when she didn’t get an answer at J.T.’s place, Maggie was headed for the hospital in Maple Creek.

  J.T. leaned against the wall outside the intensive care unit at Maple Creek Memorial, read the Kildares’ telephone number off the paper he’d scribbled it on, and punched the digits with the tip of one index finger. Shannon Kildare answered on the second ring, and J.T. briefly explained where he was and why before asking to speak with Quinn.

  “Hello, Dad?”

  J.T. closed his eyes, struck to the heart by the simple joy of hearing his son’s voice. “Hi, bud,” he managed, after a few moments of effort.

  “Is everything O.K.?”

  It amazed him that a little kid could be so perceptive. He smiled grimly. “I’m okay,” he said, putting a slight emphasis on the first word. “Something happened to Billy, though, and Cindy and I are here at the hospital with him.”