Bride Blunder (16 page)

There she stood, looking like she'd stepped from the pages of a
Godey's Lady's Book
his sister used to be so fond of. Daisy Chandler stepped from that glossy black private coach looking fancy enough to call on the queen.

Well, perhaps not, but that green fabric—and it sure looked as though they'd used an awful lot of it to make one dress for such a small woman—had to be expensive. Lace decorated the sleeves and collar, matching ribbons fluttering along the brim of her hat. Except some of those ribbons kept snagging on something that looked like, of all things, a bird's nest perched among them.

Other than that, though, Daisy Chandler looked perfect, from her perfect black ringlets down to the tips of her black boots that kept their shine despite the dust her coach kicked up. Perfect, and perfectly out of place.

Gavin kept his distance as the two cousins embraced, trying to marshal his thoughts. Not so much thoughts but questions in a quantity to clog the gears of his mind.
What brings her here? What
am I supposed to do with two of them? Where is her aunt? Her fiancé? Isn't she supposed to be married this week?

Suspicions rode hard on the heels of those questions.
Did Marge write to her and tell Daisy of the mix-up?
Despite the heat of summer, cold swept down his spine.
Is she here to take her rightful place as my bride-to-be, when I've been courting Marge this whole time?

But no. Even if he didn't remember Marge's sudden pallor when she spotted her cousin, one glance at the confusion and concern on her face now told him she didn't expect Daisy any more than he had. It didn't solve everything, but the realization made it possible to walk over and behave with some semblance of normalcy.

He approached slowly, giving the women a moment to themselves—and himself an extra measure of time to decide how to handle this new development. Gavin knew full well he couldn't go stalking up and demand to know why Daisy had come.

Thankfully Marge asked for him. Oh, she did it as a concerned cousin and in a way that couldn't possibly offer any insult—in short, far better than he would have managed—but she still got the question out at just the same time he joined them.

“I
missed
you, Marge.” A forlorn answer, in keeping with Daisy's downcast gaze, spawned a new set of suspicions.

That can't be all there is to it. Not when she arrives alone scant days before her wedding.
Gavin tugged the brim of his hat both as a gentlemanly acknowledgement of her arrival and to hide the way his eyes narrowed.

He needn't have bothered. Daisy didn't so much as glance at him. She seemed too busy processing the volley of questions Marge lobbed at her. Gavin grinned for the first time since their unexpected visitor showed up. Leave it to his Marge to ask everything on his mind. All at once.

“Mama and Mr. Dillard remain in Baltimore, of course.” She still didn't meet Marge's gaze, instead turning her smile on him. Dazzling and full of charm, Daisy's smile could blind just about any man.

Gavin knew—he'd been one of them.
How did I not notice how empty it is? How practiced?
Because the sad truth staring him in the face was that Daisy's smile was just for show. It didn't reach her eyes or light up her face the way Marge's did.

His lack of response—teamed with Marge's waiting silence—must've made Daisy uncomfortable. All at once, a flood of words poured from her mouth. A garbled explanation of words stumbling over each other, blocking one another, stopping anything from making sense as she kept piling on more explanations.

At some point, Gavin tuned it out in favor of waiting for her to finish. Watching the two women, he couldn't help making comparisons. Not because it was fair to do so, or even right to, but because he couldn't help himself.

There stood Daisy, resplendent and picture perfect, ringlets bouncing, hands waving, eyes widening and mouth going a mile a minute. She looked gorgeous, as always, but her blabbering made her far less attractive than Gavin remembered. He also noticed that in what he could catch from what she said, she didn't ask anything about how Marge fared.

Everything about Marge seemed simple by contrast. From the slim lines of her deep blue skirt and crisp white blouse, the mother-of-pearl buttons its only decoration, to the way she held still, tilting her head to take in her cousin's words, Marge exuded calm and caring. No ringlets bobbed around her face. She secured her chestnut waves in a practical bun at the nape of her neck. Dust speckled the tips of her brown boots, silent evidence of the walk they'd been enjoying before Daisy descended upon them.

Gavin liked that dust. Liked walking with her. Would have liked to finish that conversation. Instead, here he stood, waiting for an unwelcome visitor to finish speaking her piece so he could have Marge translate what it all meant. He waited a long time before Daisy wound down and Marge looked up at him.

“What?” He didn't need to be more specific—Gavin knew Marge would understand exactly what he asked.

“Daisy decided she and Mr. Dillard wouldn't suit and broke off the engagement, and he's made a spectacle of the entire thing to punish her.” She glanced at her cousin, who nodded in a way Gavin would have thought overly eager for such a glum topic, but he didn't pretend to understand women.

“So she decided she needed a change of scenery and came to visit—without Aunt Verlata's agreement or knowledge.” Marge's voice took on the sharp edge of remonstrance—as well it should. “You know she'll be worried silly.”

“I left a letter.” Daisy wrung her hands. “Like I said I did. And at the last opportunity I sent a telegram letting her know nothing befell me. Mama won't worry overmuch.”

“Yes, she will.” Gavin didn't know Verlata Chandler too well, but she doted on her daughter—which might be partly out of necessity as well as devotion.

“Not once she knows I'm safely here with you and Marge.” Nothing there to misunderstand. “Mama knows she can trust Marge, and there's nothing to damage my reputation while I stay with my cousin and her husband.”

Gavin shot Marge a glance she didn't meet. Obviously Daisy didn't have the slightest idea of the true state of things.

Husband?
He let out a grin.
Marge can't wiggle out of this one.
Once Daisy knows the state of things, she'll help me get her cousin to the altar....

“But, Daisy ... I'm not her husband.”

“I'm not her husband.” Gavin's words struck her with the force of a physical blow, but somehow Marge remained standing. His grin as he informed Daisy he was still a bachelor sent secondary ripples of pain skittering across her bruised heart.

He discovers Daisy's available, and his first step is to reassure her that he is, too.
Marge closed her eyes, though no tears threatened. Strange how the ache seemed too deep to provoke tears.
She got here just in time. Even one day later and I would have accepted his proposal....

Now the pain rose to claw at the back of her throat, stinging behind her nose.
Because Gavin meant to ask me today. Just now. And I would have said yes.
Shame over her foolishness burned back some of the sorrow.
I believed we'd reached a point where we'd form a solid marriage. Convinced myself I could make him happy...

But one look at the grin stretching across his face as he told Daisy he hadn't married her put an end to that notion. It couldn't be more obvious what truly made him happy.

“Marge?” Her cousin sounded somewhat shrill, the way she always did when forced to repeat herself. “I asked if this is true. You two haven't married yet?”

“It's true.”
Not yet. Not ever.

Daisy looked from one of them to the other, confusion showing in her pretty pout. “But ... why?”

Because I'm not the woman he wants to marry.
Marge wanted to shout the words. Wanted to burn them and bury the ashes of their truth.
You are.
As things stood, the confession stuck in her throat—a raw lump she couldn't dislodge. She might well have stayed that way, frozen in a morass of self-pity, but for her cousin's reaction.

“You!” Daisy rounded on Gavin, indignation drawing her up to her full—if not imposing—height as she whipped off her gloves and advanced. “What—did—you—do...” A stinging patter of blows rained upon a bemused Gavin as Daisy flailed her gloves at his shoulders and hat, her voice rising to a screech as she continued. “To—my—cousin?”

“Daisy!” Marge ripped the gloves from her hands. “Stop that this instant!”

“Give them back, Marge.” Her brows almost touching in the middle, chin set in an expression of absolute rage, Daisy extended one hand. “I'll take care of this.”

She kept a firm grip on the gloves with one hand and snagged Daisy's elbow with her other to make sure her cousin didn't launch another attack. “Take care of what?”

“She's berating me for not having married you yet.” Gavin, for his part, hadn't lost his grin. Obviously the wretched man found the entire scene hilarious—the woman he'd actually proposed to giving him what for over not marrying someone else.

“If you want him, he'll marry you.” Daisy jerked her elbow from Marge's hand but didn't move otherwise. Her voice went so low Marge almost couldn't hear her. “If he's done anything to change your mind, you don't have to.”

“What?” Gavin asked the question echoing in Marge's mind.

“I said,” Daisy repeated in an exaggerated voice, “if she wants you, you'll marry her. If she doesn't, we'll go home.”

“Daisy, you don't understand.” Marge realized she had to tell her cousin the truth. Immediately.

“Yes, I do.” Her scowl remained. “It's plain to see you're not happy, Marge. We're leaving.”

“No.” Gavin moved to stand directly in front of Daisy when she would have swept past him, a determination such as Marge had never seen hardening the lines of his jaw. “You're not going anywhere.”

“You can come with me or you can stay here, but I've a mind to visit Marge.” Midge recovered her wits the moment the black coach drove out of sight.

It'd stopped at the smithy for just a moment—not even long enough for the dust to settle—and then taken off in the direction of the mill. Since nothing else lay that way, and it branched off the Oregon Trail, nothing could be more obvious but that the driver had asked directions and intended to take his passenger to the mill. To Marge, if Midge didn't miss her guess.

And, of course, she aimed to find out that she hadn't.

“Visit Marge or follow that coach?” Amos knew what she intended and let her know it.

“Both. Will you escort me?” He had her hand nestled in the crook of his arm, where, Midge admitted to herself, it felt quite comfortable. So long as it stayed there though, they remained attached—a problem, since Amos showed no signs of moving in the direction the coach had taken.

“What if I don't want to encourage you to be nosy?”

“I'd be forced to remind you that hypocrisy makes men far less attractive.” She gave him an arch glance. “And considering the way you kept asking questions about me when I showed no interest in answering, you've a good dose of nosy in your own makeup.”

“I don't indulge in nosiness.” His brows rose so high his hat brim went up. “When I have a vested interest in matters, I may, however, investigate.”

“Very well.” Truly the man deserved no end of teasing for his wordplay, but time wasted while they wrangled. “I've a vested interest in Marge's well-being and would like to investigate. Either turn me loose or accompany me, but make your choice, Amos Geer.”

“What makes you think whoever rides in that coach might present a threat to Miss Chandler's well-being?” He began walking. Slowly. Far, far too slowly for Midge's liking.

“An instinct, you could say.”
That, and the fact I know far more about Marge than you do but can't tell you any of it. Because if I don't miss my guess, Marge's relatives have come to visit ... and might ruin everything!

“Not reason enough.” If possible, he slowed his pace.

“I'm privy to more than you are when it comes to my friend,” Midge reminded, plowing forward as though sheer determination would force him to move faster. “And if her visitor is the woman I suspect, things might become very difficult for her and Mr. Miller in short order.”

“That's their business.” He stopped altogether, his hand clamping down upon hers to ensure she stopped alongside him.

Midge glowered and tried to pry herself free. “She might need me. I won't leave her to deal with a shock like this all on her own.”

“She's not alone. If, as you suspect, it's her family in the coach, she has them and Gavin.” Amos showed no signs of budging. “Besides which, it's not your place to pop up every time trouble comes calling. Even your closest friends have to learn to stand on their own feet.”

“People shouldn't have to stand on their own.”

“We never do. The most important support and best friend Miss Chandler can call on is always available.”

She gave a mighty tug but didn't gain so much as an inch. “Not with you keeping me in town!”

“Silly.” His fond smile might have charmed her at any other time. “I meant the Lord. He's with them at the mill, His hand is upon them, and it's not your place to intrude on whatever family matters unfold there this afternoon.”

“You're serious.” Midge held stock still. “That's your answer when a friend faces trouble—prayer?”

“Absolutely. Better yet, I add my prayers to theirs.”

Prayer.
Midge swallowed a sneer. It always came back to prayer with the good folk of Buttonwood—talking with Someone who either couldn't hear you or only listened enough to get the wrong idea when He bothered to help at all. Why hide behind something as insubstantial as prayer when a body could do something in the here and now?

“Be practical, Amos.”

“I am.” Something in her tone must have grabbed his attention, because his smile vanished. “You don't see prayer as being practical in nature, Midglet?”

“Midglet? What is this?” The man chose a strange time to create an endearment.

“Little Midge ... Midglet.”

“It sounds like
piglet.
” She couldn't let him know she liked the name—not that easily. Not when they were about to argue. Not when she probably wouldn't hear him say it again.

“I like baby pigs, and I like you even better. Now answer the question.” The teasing faded away, leaving him serious. “You don't see the use of prayer?”

“No.” And no amount of cute nicknames could change her mind or make her cushion the truth of how she saw things. Even if it did make her wish he'd either started calling her Midglet earlier or never started. For him to show such affection now, when he was about to decide not to spend time with her anymore, seemed an awful sort of joke. “Prayer isn't practical at all.”

“You think God asks us to do something without purpose?” If his brows raised his hat brim before, now it rested so low on his forehead it almost hid the intensity of his gaze.

“I don't pretend to know God's purpose, Amos.”

“What do you know?” No teasing lightened the words, but neither did belligerence underscore them. Amos sounded thoughtful, hesitant, as though treading lightly.

That I don't want to talk about God.
Midge sighed. “I know that I want to go visit Marge, and you're stopping me.”

“You can't keep her here.” If the man didn't move, Daisy would shove him out of her way. She'd made the decision after her last encounter with Trouston that no man would bully her again—and that went double for Marge.

The very thought that he'd lured her cousin here with the promise of marriage only to keep her trapped in the middle of nowhere with no wedding and no hope for escape enraged Daisy beyond all measure. She hadn't intended this visit to Buttonwood be a rescue mission, but obviously that was precisely what was called for.

Pity Gavin Miller has such a strong-looking jaw instead of a weak chin like Trouston. I might be tempted to try that maneuver of Mr. Lindner's....

“He's not holding me in Buttonwood against my will, Daisy.” Marge's dry tone went a long way toward convincing her. “There are stages coming through here regularly—I could have chosen to return at any time.”

“Looks like Mr. Miller disagrees with that assessment.” Daisy shouldn't have had to point out the forbidding expression overtaking the man's face at Marge's mere mention of leaving, but something told her it was important.

“I do.” He crossed his arms. “I brought Marge out here to be my bride. She can't just run off at the first sign things won't be a fairy tale.”

“Surely you aren't referring to me?” Daisy matched him glower for glower. “I didn't run away from my fiancé, Mr. Miller.”

“Sounds like it.”

“Gavin”—Marge moved forward—“we don't know what happened with Daisy and Trouston, but I would think you'd be glad to see her.” A strange look Daisy couldn't quite interpret flashed across Marge's face. “I, for one, never cared for the man. And I told her so.”

“I should have listened.” One of those pesky waves of regret threatened to swamp her. “But I didn't run off, Mr. Miller. Trouston Dillard drove me away. There's a difference.”

“Makes a man wonder if Mr. Dillard sees things in the same light.” Disapproval radiated from Gavin so strongly, Daisy almost wondered whether he suspected the truth of the matter.

She sniffed. “Of course he doesn't, though I wouldn't believe a word he says if you ever have the misfortune of speaking with him.”

“It does seem men are not inclined to admit when they've made a mistake.” That time, the look Marge threw Gavin spoke volumes. Perhaps Marge didn't want to flee, but her fiancé still had a lot to answer for.

And Daisy aimed to make sure he did.

“I've owned up to my mistakes.”

“Privately, perhaps.” Something glinted in Marge's eyes, but Daisy couldn't tell for sure whether it was moisture or determination. “Publicly makes for another matter, doesn't it, Gavin?”

Daisy sucked in a breath.
Some mistakes should never be made public. Not when there's nothing to be done about them...

“Some truths serve better as secrets. It protects people.” His explanation almost echoed Daisy's own thoughts.

“From embarrassment?” Marge gave no quarter. “Things will be worse now for having waited to tell everyone about the mix-up. They'll wonder why we didn't say something from the start. Why—” It seemed as though her cousin caught herself just before she spilled the most interesting bits.

She always does that.

“They won't wonder about a thing. There's no need.”

Marge's head snapped back. “I know they won't wonder why once they see Daisy. It's obvious why a man would want to be her fiancé. They'll wonder about the reasons things didn't work out.”

“Do folks here know about Trouston?” Her heart fell.
So many miles away, and I still can't escape the past? Are gossips truly that effective even out in the wilds where they have no telegraphs, railroads, or newspapers?

“That's not what I meant—”

“I know,” Marge outright interrupted Gavin—his mouth was still open and everything—“but Daisy doesn't know what you're talking about. She thinks we're discussing gossip about her leaving her fiancé in Baltimore—not the situation right here in Buttonwood.”

“What situation?” Daisy got the distinct feeling she'd missed something. Something important.

“Marge,” his voice came, holding a warning Daisy, for one, would have been too cowardly not to heed, “don't.”

Marge always had been the brave one. Pain and pride warred in her cousin's eyes. “The reason Gavin and I aren't wed, Daisy, is that I'm not the Marguerite he wanted.”

“You mean?” She gasped and stared from Gavin to Marge and back again. “The letter...” Daisy wouldn't have believed it to be possible, but suddenly she felt even worse than she had before.

Marge blinked, and Daisy knew with bone-deep certainty the glint had been tears all along. “Gavin doesn't want me.”

“No.” His growl went ignored by Marge, but Daisy heard the vehemence in it.

“Yes. He proposed to
you.
”