Bride Blunder (2 page)

“Marge!” Her cousin's unladylike bellow brought Marge running full tilt down the stairs at speeds the railroad would be hard pressed to match. “Marge, come quick!”

She almost crashed into her aunt, who rushed toward the hallway coming from the study with a panicked look Marge was sure matched her own. Daisy
never
hollered. Something had to be horribly, dreadfully, unprecedentedly wrong.

Aunt Verlata sailed through the door a scant second before Marge—and only because Marge knew she'd never hear the end of it if she infringed on a mother's right.
No matter that Daisy yelled for
me
at the top of her lungs.
She squashed the thought. It didn't matter once she realized her cousin, far from lying broken or bereaved upon the plush throw rug blanketing most of the study's hardwood floors, was bouncing—yes,
bouncing
—toward them. Daisy was the only woman Marge ever witnessed who could actually bounce as a means of transportation.

“Marge!” Daisy didn't adjust her volume as she launched herself into a smothering hug. “I'm so happy for you!”

Why?
Marge winced from the volume, but her hackles raised for an entirely different reason. She'd love to be able to say her Fruit of the Spirit had ripened to such a degree she never begrudged another person any joy. But she and the Holy Spirit knew full well that wasn't the case.

Generally, she'd give just about anything to keep a smile on Daisy's face. But she'd learned the hard way that whenever Daisy felt happy
for
her, trouble loomed. Simply put, the things Daisy felt ought to make Marge happiest bore the uncanny ability to make Marge miserable. Tiers of ruffles and rows of bows on fancy dresses were a minor example.

“Darling, I've never heard you...” Obviously Aunt Verlata groped for a term to describe Daisy's earsplitting screeches. “
Yelp
... in such a manner. You caused no small amount of alarm. Marge and I both thought you were in some pain.”

“Far from it.” Daisy unwound from about Marge, her more sedate tone underscored by an odd crinkling that hadn't been noticeable before. “It's just so exciting!”

“What is?” For the first time, Marge noticed Daisy held a letter—now abused and rumpled—tight to her chest. She instantly surmised this to be the instigator of Daisy's outburst.

“He's on the list!” Her cousin thrust another paper, this one clutched in her hand, toward Marge. “Gavin Miller.”

“Gavin...” Marge's breath caught at the mention of her old friend who'd gone westward. She and Daisy hadn't heard from him since he left—a niggling source of upset she'd refused to acknowledge. After all, she'd pinned no hopes upon the handsome, determined, talented man who'd actually taken the time to speak with her as well as Daisy.

Liar.
Her conscience pinged at her attempt at self-deception as she smoothed what she now recognized as part of Daisy's pages-long list of invited wedding attendees.

“Here!” Her cousin's perfectly coiffed curls blocked her view for a moment before a buffed nail tapped the paper just above Gavin's name. “See? He's on the list, Marge!”

“So he is.”
Of course he is. I put him there, hoping he'd show up.
Marge blushed as the first hint of excitement welled up. Perhaps Daisy knew of her little infatuation for their friend? “Did he respond? Is he coming for the wedding?”

“No–o–o–o.” The drawn-out response doused Marge's newfound anticipation until Daisy thrust the second sheet of paper—the one she'd cradled against her chest—into her hands. “Better! Read this, Marge!”

Marge accepted the note, slipped her spectacles onto her nose from where they hung on a slender silver chain around her neck, and could practically feel the breath of her aunt upon the page as she set to read. On the pretext of wanting more light, she moved toward the window, making certain to turn slightly to provide more privacy.

Smoothing the crinkles, her fingertips brushed over the lines Gavin wrote, the teacher in her noticing the thick strokes of his penmanship, the ink-filled hollows of his vowels, the friendly way his words leaned to the right. She allowed herself a small smile before she scanned the greeting.

Dear Marguerite,

“This isn't for me, Daisy.” She whirled back toward her cousin. “It says ‘Marguerite.' No one calls me that.”

“No one calls
me
that either.” A truculent expression set her features. “And it
can't
be for me. Keep reading.”

She turned back to the window, shoulders rigid, and read once more.

Marge's vision blurred for a moment, her head dizzy with a sudden hope that could never be. She closed her eyes until she felt steady, one palm flat against the warmth of the sunbaked windowpane. The heat calmed her, enabling her to read on.

Marge read it again before resting her forehead against the heat of the window.
It can't be. He must mean Daisy.

“Marge?” The weight of her aunt's hand descended upon her shoulder, concern evident in her voice. “Are you all right, dear?”

“It's for Daisy.” Marge straightened and thrust the letter toward Aunt Verlata. “Not me.” She couldn't even look at her cousin, lest her disappointment spill into bitterness.

“No, it isn't.” Daisy edged toward her with far more hesitation and tapped her list. “Gavin knows I'm affianced, Marge. He received a wedding invitation.”

A pure, sweet note of hope rang in her heart. “Did he respond?”

“Well, no...”

“Bachelors seldom do, unless their mothers do so for them.” Aunt Verlata passed back the letter. “Mr. Miller has no mother to do so. And what is this mention of conversing about westward adventures?”

“That was you, Marge.” Daisy's subdued reminder, so different from her natural exuberance, gave it more credence.

“We spoke of it, but Daisy was there.”

“I nodded, but I was bored. You were the one talking about homesteads and townships and articles you'd read and making history.” Daisy wrinkled her nose. “I like
shops,
Marge. They don't have those in the wilderness. Everyone knows that!”

“That is”—Marge paused—“true.”
And logical. What has happened that Daisy is being the logical one?
Her mouth went dry as a desert. “You remembered the conversations about westward expansion, and
that's
why you looked up the list, isn't it?” Her cousin never looked anything up. But she'd deemed this important.
Because she knew I wouldn't believe Gavin meant me.

“Yes.” Daisy waved the list. “And it's right here!”

“Thank you.” Marge buried her in a hug.
Gavin asked
me
to marry him. He wants
me
, not Daisy.

“So”—Aunt Verlata slid her arms around them both, making it a group hug as she joined in—“you know what this means, don't you?” If the other two women hadn't been holding her, Marge held a strange certainty she'd float.

“Yes,” Marge and Daisy chorused.

I'm getting married!
Marge would have shouted her answer aloud, but Daisy beat her to the punch.

“Now we need to buy
two
trousseaus!”

He spotted her doing it again. Midge Collins headed his way, bonnet forgotten as usual, sun bringing out the red tones in her mahogany hair, only to change course as soon as she caught sight of him. This time, she darted behind the smithy.

Amos didn't plan to let her get away with it. Moving around the far side, behind the attached stables, he could cut off her getaway route. Stepping around the corner, that's exactly what he did. With one shoulder rested against the structure and the bulk of him leaning in her way, he made her pull up short in a hurry. And not just because she was a petite little thing.

He got the impression most folks forgot what an undersized woman she really made, because the rest of her came out so big. Some folks had that way—a smile, a sharp wit, a way of holding themselves that made them ten times their natural sizes. They learned it out of necessity, though—and that was just one more mystery to add to the pile that made up Midge.

“Miss Collins.” He tipped his hat.

“Mr. Geer.” Her nostrils flared at being thwarted, making some of those freckles dance. Cute. “If you'll excuse me, I—”

“Nope.” He crossed one booted foot over the other and got comfortable. Time to enjoy himself.

“What?” Her brows came together in obvious frustration, not going upward in astonishment as she begged his pardon, like most ladies would do. He liked that.

“I said, ‘Nope.' I'm not of a mind to excuse you, Miss Collins.” Amos unleashed his grin. “See, we need to have a discussion on why you've been avoiding me.”

“Who says I've been avoiding you?”

“No one says it. And no one else has noticed. But I have, and I want to know why.”

She looked at him for a long moment, as though measuring him. “You know, if you keep asking questions, you might run across an answer you don't like.”

“Try me.”

“All right, how's this?” She leaned closer, close enough for him to catch some sort of light, flowery scent. “You want to know why I avoid you?”

He took his shoulder off the wall and leaned closer to hear her lowered tones. “Yep.”

“Well, Mr. Geer...” Quick as a deer, she slipped between him and the wall and scampered off, calling out her answer, “You can't always get what you want.”

Amos chuckled as he watched the edge of her skirts swish around the building.
We'll just have to see about that.

“Your pacing won't make the stage get here any sooner.” Grandma Ermintrude's amusement came through loud and clear.

“It'll come this afternoon,” Gavin conceded. “And Daisy will be on it....” He walked faster.

“So you want to wear a hole in the floor to welcome her?”

“You want to change your mind about coming to the café for dinner and waiting on the stage?”

“To sit and twiddle my thumbs until her highness arrives and I can
ooh
and
aah
like a yokel?” No one could snort like Grandma. “If I don't like her, do you plan on sending her packing?”

“Daisy's easy to like.” He pushed aside a pinch of misgiving. Grandma wasn't so easy to get along with, but Daisy charmed everyone. People got along like millstones—too much distance didn't do any good. Too close, and everything jammed. In time, they'd find the right balance.

“Just the same, I'll wait until you bring her here. No sense making the private into a public matter. You two are wise to spend some time before having the ceremony.” She jerked her head toward the mill. “Did you set up your bunk?”

“All set.” Gavin had decided not to whisk Daisy to the altar immediately upon her arrival in Buttonwood, thinking it best for her to get some rest and settle into town life first. With Grandma to make it proper, he'd bed down in the mill for a few nights until Daisy knew for sure she'd be willing to make a life in the Nebraska Territory. “If you're staying, I'm heading on to town.”

Daisy grew up sheltered, surrounded by fine things. Her romantic outlook of the West might not last long enough for her to make a go of it. Lovely and lively though she may be, Gavin didn't intend to chain her to him and a way of living she'd resent. Best to think things through and not collect regrets.

The wagon ride to town did nothing to clear his thoughts or siphon away his energy. Easy enough to figure out why ... if he were man enough to admit it. This restlessness didn't come purely from excitement. No, an underlying nervousness picked at him. Questions about whether Daisy would be happy to see him, if she'd like the town, if the house he'd built near his mill were good enough—they swirled together in his brain to form a mass of unknowns.

Lord, I prayed to You before coming out here, and You gave me peace. I prayed before writing the letter, and You gave me peace. I prayed before sending the letter, and that very morning Ermintrude gave me the kick in the pants to move things along. So, no matter what happens when she steps off that stage, please help give me the peace to know it is Your will.

“Mr. Miller!” The warm greeting of Mrs. Grogan stopped him in front of the mercantile. With a toddler on one hip and another child obviously on the way, Opal Grogan seemed a woman who'd taken well to motherhood. “Good to see you.”

“Miller.” Her husband, Adam, gave a friendly nod. Adam was one of the most prosperous farmers in the area, the Grogans having been in Buttonwood since the town began in one of the rare fertile pockets alongside the Platte.

“Today's the big day.” Another feminine voice had Gavin angling so he didn't block Mrs. Reed, who'd come up behind him. “Stage ought to be in soon.”

“That's right.” Midge Collins joined them, shaking her head. “So let's hope the rest of the town is a tad more subtle about their intent to watch for a glimpse of Mr. Miller's bride-to-be.”

“We like to be welcoming,” someone—Gavin couldn't tell who—protested. “Good to be friendly and introduce ourselves.”

“Well, Grandma Ermintrude wasn't feeling up to making the trip to town, and I'm sure after a long stage ride, my bride-to-be, as you put it, will be worn out.” Gavin silently blessed Grandma for her wisdom in avoiding a spectacle. “So the introductions will have to wait a little while.”

“Sounds like a glimpse is all you'll get.” Miss Collins sounded amused, but Gavin didn't mind. She'd been helpful, pointing out something he was now determined to avoid.

“Everyone knows the wedding isn't today.” Adam Grogan made a show of male support. “And he's right to take her to get to know his grandmother before making the town rounds.”

“Glad you understand.” Gavin decided on the spot to charge Adam only half rate for the next load the farmer brought to his mill. You couldn't put a price on easing a man's way, but you could show gratitude. “When the time is right, you'll all be glad to have her as part of the town.”

“There's bound to be curiosity about her.” Mrs. Reed's pale green eyes danced with it even as she spoke. “But it's not bad. We don't let any of the gossips grumble about her staying with your grandmother until you wed. It's known you've made arrangements to sleep elsewhere.”

“Miss Chandler won't be looked down on,” Mrs. Grogan chimed in, and for the first time, Gavin realized he was catching a peek into the power structure of the women of the town. How things ran. It seemed Opal Grogan, Clara Reed, and even young Midge Collins carried considerable weight.

It made sense, considering their connections. Mrs. Grogan linked two previously feuding farms—Specks and Grogans, the two most powerful properties in town. Mrs. Reed and Miss Collins were related to the town doctor and owner of the only mercantile. Not to mention they were all young and friendly.

Daisy would do well to make friends of them. She'd feel more at home with companions her age, and they'd ease her way.

“Thank you. She has a real heart for others, and it will do her good to know she already has friends in Buttonwood.” That did the trick. The married women beamed at him, and Miss Collins quirked a brow in acknowledgement. Gavin felt his first smile of the day tug on the corners of his mouth.

“If you'd like, we could make up a small dinner party,” Mrs. Reed offered. “Myself, Saul, Midge, Opal and Adam, and, of course, Josiah and Doreen.” She listed everyone present, plus the owner of the mercantile and his wife. “Something private to ease her into things before church on Sunday perhaps?”

“That's a wonderful idea!” Mrs. Grogan chimed in. “Or even afterward, to get to know her better. Whenever she's comfortable.”

“We'd like that.” Gavin barely got the acceptance out before he spotted what looked like a brown cloud on the horizon. The stage was coming—an hour early.

Now, Midge wasn't a great believer in the loving-kindness of the Almighty, but she didn't question His existence. And she'd hatched a few theories of her own over the years.

One of them was that every single person got a gift at birth. Not the myrrh or frankincense or gold mentioned in the Bible for baby Jesus—although gold
would
have been nice, mind—but a different sort of gift. A talent, perhaps. Whatever gifts people received got pointed to the sort of things they'd think were important.

Midge even extended her theory to the realm of matchmaking. People's talents had to match up—not be the same, but they had to mesh right or a couple wouldn't work out. Adam and Opal—both peacemakers, but neither of them weak enough to be walked over. That worked. Clara loved on people once they got close. She matched up with Saul, the healer who provided a different sort of care. Doreen, who could say the right thing, went well with Josiah, who had the uncanny way of knowing what someone needed at what time.

As for her, Midge's flair was for observation. She watched, she listened, she
noticed.
In short, she spotted things people didn't want others to guess at. She read expressions, registered changes in stances or gestures, wondered about things that were none of her business because she learned long ago that a girl never knew when something might
become
her business.

It pays off to pay attention.

And right now, from her vantage point a few paces away—out of sight of Mr. Amos Geer—Midge couldn't help but frown. Mr. Miller seemed like he was holding back his excitement before, but now that the stage arrived—the top loaded down with more luggage than she could've dreamed up even with her considerable imagination—his posture tattled of surprise.

He'd reached up to help down a woman, smiled in a friendly but not loving way at her, and asked something to make her shake her head slightly. Why was he glancing back in the coach? And there ... the stiffening of his shoulders as he signaled for the luggage to be brought down.

Mr. Miller didn't look excited anymore. His smile stretched tight instead of wide, his movements went jerky, like a body's does when doing something under protest.

Midge looked at the new lady, Miss Chandler, who seemed vaguely uncertain and massively overdressed.
No ... something is wrong here.

She watched Mr. Miller take Miss Chandler's elbow—touching her as little as possible as he helped her into his wagon.
Very wrong, indeed.

All too aware of the town's scrutiny as the stage pulled up, Gavin took a deep breath. It didn't matter what anyone else thought—although Daisy's charm and looks would win over the stodgiest grump in no time flat. But it did matter if she felt uncomfortable the moment she stepped foot in town.

The stage stopped a few feet in front of him, making him walk to meet them. He pulled down the folding steps as the dust settled then straightened up to open the curved door. A mass of lavender skirts floofed into view before one dainty hand, clad in soft tan leather, reached toward him.

Daisy.
He enfolded her tiny hand in his, stepping back as one small foot extended toward the steps, offering a glimpse of polished black boots whose endless buttons encased tantalizingly trim ankles. She descended, gaze lowered to watch her step, her hat blocking her face until they moved a short distance from the coach. It was only when she raised her head to smile at him Gavin recognized the woman before him.

“Marge?” He clasped her hand in both of his for a moment. Unexpected it might be, but it was a pleasure to see his old friend. Daisy should have told him she'd brought her cousin for companionship on the journey. “So good to see you!”

“Wonderful to see you as well”—a faint blush colored her cheeks before she added—“Gavin.” Her use of his given name sent an odd, though not unpleasant, clench to his midsection, but he brushed it off. They were soon to be family, after all.

He peered past her. “Where is Daisy?”

“She couldn't accompany me, I'm afraid.” Marge lifted her chin. “With her wedding date so near, she couldn't leave, and Aunt Verlata and I determined it wouldn't be overly improper for an affianced woman to travel alone.” A teasing smile tilted her lips. “Daisy told me to be sure and mention how put out she is that you didn't RSVP to her invitation.”

“The invitation...” The echo came out choked as the stagecoach driver began tossing down Marge's luggage.
Daisy is to be married ... but why is Marge here? Marge ...
All at once, the missing memory slammed into place with the finality of a nail in a coffin. Marge ... named for her grandmother, just like Daisy.

I got the wrong Marguerite!