Bride Blunder (7 page)

Were it not for the sound of birds chirping a merry song, Gavin would have had no way of marking the arrival of morning. The bottom floor of the mill, built into the side of a man-made hill alongside the millpond, was designed to hold the gear housings and insulate against moisture.

He'd chosen to set up his temporary residence down here for practical purposes, not comfort. Customers saw the main floor and the storage area above it, where they placed the grain they brought for him to grind into flour. Gavin couldn't have a pallet and sundry items laying about the business. Tucked into the corner farthest from the gears down here, no one saw. The lack of light helped with that, of course.

Down here, no windows invited cheery rays of sunshine to brighten the darkness. Morning arrived unheralded by anything but the call of birds as they swooped around the millpond, scouting for insects and even fish. Normally Gavin loved that. Liked to think of it as just another way the gristmill served as a hub for the community and helped provide a steady food source.

This morning, the bird cries sounded shrill to his ears, as though determined to prey upon the unsuspecting. With the way the past two days had gone, he found himself missing the house more than ever. Waking up to a windowless, dank room seemed worth it when a man knew he'd have a bed—and a wife to share it with—in a matter of days.

Now that he could rest assured of neither wife nor bed in any foreseeable future, Gavin didn't have to guess why his outlook took a turn for the worse. A long stretch led to a series of not-unwelcome pops along his spine, loosening up his muscles for the day ahead.

Aside from a full day's work, he had that dinner party at the Reed place to look forward to this evening. Rolling over and punching his pillow did little to unleash the surge of outrage the thought provoked. Just before Marge stepped off the stage, he'd agreed to the meal as a sort of informal introduction to Buttonwood society—such as it was.

He'd thought it a chance to show Daisy a good time and show off his lovely bride-to-be in what would hopefully be the first of a string of social engagements befitting their status. Now, instead of bringing his prize, he brought an unending stream of questions. Even worse, a lot of those questions numbered as ones he couldn't answer.

Yet.

Gavin sprang out of bed. He didn't have much time. Questions demanded answers, and Marge needed to give him a few before the day began in earnest. More importantly, he needed to hear those answers before their plans that evening. He dressed hurriedly, sneaking into the house to wash up. No matter how skilled the man, anyone needed good light to shave.

By the time he got to the breakfast table, he saw Marge and Grandma Ermintrude putting platters of bacon and biscuits down. His stomach let loose a growl he could only hope neither of them heard. A rough night's sleep left him with a hearty appetite—and Gavin planned to eat enough to give him plenty of strength for what lay ahead.

Taking his place at the head of the table, he folded his hands and waited for the women to follow suit before asking a blessing over the meal. The warm, doughy scent of the biscuits rose beneath the heavier smell of fresh bacon and pungent coffee. Gavin waited for his stomach to still so as not to have his attention divided.

“Dear Lord, we come before You this morning and thank You for the food on our table and the company at it.” He ignored Grandma Ermintrude's amused snort and kept on, “We ask Your guidance as we move forward, putting the past behind us and fixing our eyes upon the future You've placed before us. Amen.”

“Amen.” Marge didn't meet his gaze as she passed the biscuits—perhaps a sign that she was considering putting past mistakes behind them?

Gavin grabbed three and handed the basket over to Grandma, helping himself to a hearty rasher of bacon. His fork split the first biscuit without any difficulty, letting him spread a large gob of butter across the surface with ease.
I wonder whether Grandma made these or if Marge did?
He couldn't recall whether or not his bride-to-be knew how to cook.

That's the sort of thing a man should know about the woman he intends to make his wife.
A big, buttery bite went a long way toward soothing his discomfort.
Although, I can be forgiven for not knowing whether or not Marge can cook. Originally it was Daisy I proposed to.

He pushed away the sudden realization that he had no idea whether or not Daisy could cook. All women should be able to—and Daisy, always the epitome of everything feminine, surely wouldn't disappoint. Marge, however, with her more practical, bookish nature might have overlooked the domestic skill.

“Mmm.” He decided a compliment might be the fastest—and most diplomatic—way to discover the truth. He polished off the first biscuit and began slathering another as he spoke. “This is delicious.”

“I'm glad you like it.” Grandma Ermintrude's amusement didn't help him one bit. “Been awhile since you've been so enthusiastic about breakfast. I wonder why that is?”

“Flattery?” When her eyes widened, he could see more of the green flecks livening the amber. Marge's lips twitched slightly—only once, as though holding back a smile. “Are you assuming I baked the biscuits, Gavin?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.” Well and truly caught, he had no choice but to brave it out. His hopes for a response came to nothing as both women looked at him in amused silence. “Am I wrong?”

“Often.” Marge's pert reply let loose the smile she'd been holding back. “Though I doubt that's the answer you seek.”

A chuckle escaped him. “Hardly.”

“Does he know whether or not you can cook? Or is he fishing to find what skills his surprise bride brings to the table—or doesn't, if it turns out that I made the biscuits?”

“I don't believe your grandson and I ever discussed my culinary skills, Mrs. Miller.”

“Ermintrude.” Grandma's bark took Gavin aback—the old woman rarely gave anyone permission to use her Christian name. “If all goes well, you'll be the next Mrs. Miller.”

“That remains to be seen.” The smile fled Marge's face at the first outright mention of the marriage question that morning. “Although I did bake the biscuits.”

Is the thought of wedding me so awful?
His food lost its flavor at the strength of her reaction.
I'm the same man she came all the way out here for. What am I supposed to change to make her want to be my wife again?

“How are things going?” Midge darted around the corner of the house and whisked Marge aside before she so much as reached the door. “Tell me everything!”

“Not much to tell.” Her shrug should, she felt, say it all.

“Pishposh. You can tell me what he said when you came home from the meeting yesterday and told him you'd be teaching, for starters.” Her friend's eyes glowed with expectation.

The memory of their little game in the mill brought warmth to Marge's cheeks. She'd been playful with him—at a time when she should have been telling Gavin that she'd successfully received the teaching post and he wouldn't be stuck with her.

“You're blushing.”

“Nonsense.” Marge scowled. “Actually, Gavin and I didn't discuss it. He seemed to take it for granted that I'd be given the position and didn't so much as ask me how it had gone.” A spurt of indignation overtook her. “He could have at least pretended some interest!”

“No, it seems that's not his way. Mr. Miller is pretending the teaching position is a whim—a sidelight, something that won't truly get in the way of what he wants.” The younger girl rocked back on her heels. “Good. That means he does want you. Otherwise, he'd be anxious to hear all about the arrangements you made, when they'd take effect, and so on.”

“Considering the schoolhouse isn't yet up, his asking about those sorts of things would seem overeager.” The good mood that had buoyed her spirits on the walk to town abandoned her now. “Gavin's always been polite.”

“Don't you think it would have been polite to escort you to the meeting and show his support of your ability?” Midge gave voice to one of the doubts that pestered Marge. “Or at least show some interest in how it went once you returned? No ... if he's ignoring the whole thing, that's as good as trying to wish it away. He doesn't like the idea that you have options other than marrying him.”

“Some men like to exert control. Gavin always seemed the type to have a good grasp on what went on around him.” Marge shifted her sewing kit from one hand to the other. “Which must make this entire situation even more distasteful to him.”
Makes
me
even more distasteful to him. A man used to making his own decisions and ordering his life just so—and he gets me instead of the woman he's handpicked as his perfect bride.
She indulged in a small sigh.

“Don't tell me you're going to be melodramatic or make a bid for martyrdom.” Her friend's eyes narrowed. “You didn't strike me as the ‘oh, woe is me' type. I've never liked that type, to tell you the truth.”

Nettled, Marge lifted her chin. “Neither have I, though I've inclined slightly toward the mopes since I found out my groom isn't really mine at all. Difficulty deserves recognition just as do the kinder things in life. I won't pretend I'm pleased with the way things turned out.”

“Mmm-hmm. Thought so.” Midge made a show of walking behind Marge. “Yes, there it is. A bona fide spine. I'm glad to see you're making use of it again.”

A short burst of laughter escaped her. “You'll make a far better teacher than you give yourself credit for, Midge Collins. Some people are born with a knack for passing out lessons.”

“Not all of us have the patience to plan them.”

“You strike me as the type to always have a plan or two. Speaking of which,” Marge continued, lowering her voice, “was it your idea to invite me for a sewing circle this afternoon before the dinner party ... or do I have someone else to thank for that?”

“Not my idea. That would be Clara—and she plans to sniff out why the miller's bride petitioned to become the schoolmarm. A few hours of cozy time with nothing but women, tea, and sewing would be enough to make anyone crack.”

“It stands to reason they have questions.”
No way to avoid that.

“Questions abound.” Midge gave the deep, satisfying sigh Marge held back. “But it's the answers that always cause trouble.”

Trouble walked through the door just after Mr. Miller and just before dinner. Midge stopped a very pleasant round of self-congratulation—a brief, private celebration that she and Marge managed to get through the sewing circle that afternoon without giving away too many personal details about her sticky situation—to gape.

Her mouth, like the door, hung open for a moment in what promised to be a highly unattractive manner. She snapped it shut as Amos Geer strode into the parlor, looking for all the world as though he'd been invited to join everyone for dinner. As Clara took his coat, the suspicion sneaked over Midge that that's precisely what had happened.

When did Amos Geer wrangle an invitation into her home? And when had she become so lax in her watching that she'd not noticed until it was far, far too late to stop or even minimize the damage? Such thoughts screeched to a halt as she painted a pleasant smile onto her face. After all, he was doing the very thing that made her want to avoid him at all costs....

Amos Geer was watching Midge. Again. With an intensity she could scarcely believe went unnoticed by her family. Although, if she thought about the matter, she most emphatically did not want them noticing his interest. So that was for the best. For a brief moment, she considered how nice it would be if she didn't notice him either.

Him watching me.
She shook her head once to clear it.
If I didn't notice the way his eyes follow me around, I wouldn't have to deal with him at all.
Flawed logic, but it did seem that the more she attempted to avoid him, the more determined the man became to catch her off guard. Midge rather hoped after the interrogation he sprang on her the day before he'd become bored. Now that he knew she remembered him—she quelled a spurt of satisfaction at how well he remembered her—he could stop wondering and move along.

Except he was moving along into the parlor. Straight toward her. Midge fancied he could hear her molars grinding, and that brought the ridiculously warm smile to his face.
Contrary man. Well, if cornering me makes the game fun for him, I'll take away the thrill.

“Why, Mr. Geer!” She came forward to meet him, her smile growing as his faltered. “I didn't know you were joining us this evening.” A swift, accusatory glance at Clara got her nowhere. Her adopted “mother” busied herself trying to coax information from Mr. Miller—who Midge believed would be no more forthcoming than herself or Marge.

“Miss Collins.” He gave a shallow, almost imperceptible bow. “Mrs. Reed invited me. When I heard of the plans for a small, intimate dinner among friends, I couldn't resist getting to know some of the most fascinating people of Buttonwood a bit better.”

“A wise choice.” She kept her smile in place and didn't kick him, although she noticed the faint emphasis he'd placed on the word
intimate.
“I do wonder what other ... surprises ... Clara has in store for us this evening.” She made a show of looking at the door as though hoping for additional guests.

Amos surveyed the rest of the party, seeming to take some sort of head count. “Traditionally, the hostess makes sure numbers are rounded out.” A wolfish gleam lit his gaze. “I do believe I'm intended to be your dinner companion.”

The nervous burble of laughter died as Midge looked around. Aunt Doreen and Uncle Josiah. Saul and Clara. Adam and Opal. Mr. Miller and Marge.
He's right.
She stifled a groan.
Clara did invite him to even out the numbers—the perfect reason for him to stick to me like a barnacle for the entire evening!

“Excuse me; I need to check on the food.” More accurately, she needed to check on the stove, but she certainly didn't plan on explaining that to Amos. As things stood, she beat a hasty retreat and headed for the kitchen without waiting for his response. He'd have to find some way to amuse himself other than pestering her with his laughing gaze and knowing grin.

Midge couldn't help but notice the differing reactions on the faces of her loved ones as she made her way through—an approving nod from Saul, the welling of compassion in Opal's gaze ... though she wouldn't admit to it, a shrug of acceptance lifting Aunt Doreen's shoulders, and the exasperated shake of Clara's blond curls. This last caused a twinge in her breastbone—Midge knew full well Clara thought her preoccupation with the kitchen wasn't healthy.

But of all the people in the house, Clara should be the one who most understood. To be really fair about things, Clara ought to be the one most concerned about another fire. She'd been the one to live through the first one, after all. She should be at least as vigilant as Midge about making sure it never happened again.

Instead, Clara chalked it up to God's will—that classic Christian catchall that seemed to Midge a sort of spiritual “oh, well.” Seemed to her that God got a pretty nice deal—praise for anything good and respect for anything unpleasant. She paused in the kitchen doorway, scanning for signs of any sparks or small, telltale curls of smoke anywhere they didn't belong. First glance showed nothing out of the ordinary.

An enormous pot of stew simmered on the stove—any larger and Midge would call it a vat. Whorls of fragrant steam rose from within, but no smoke. She ventured over and opened the oven, which kept an already-cooked beef roast tantalizingly warm. The baking compartment groaned with its load of corn bread—three pans stacked atop each other to retain their heat until serving. Seemed as though all was as it should be.

Just the same, Midge took a towel and ran it around the farthest edges of the stove to clear away any bits of food that might spark later. Then she noticed someone had left the broom leaning on the wall a bit too close. She returned it to the corner, where it belonged. Finally satisfied no sudden blaze would consume the house and everyone inside it on her watch, Midge turned around ... to find Amos Geer loitering in the doorway.

“How long have you been there?” She sounded snappish, but then, she felt snappish.

“Pretty much since you checked the stew.” He braced one broad shoulder against the doorframe in what Midge was swiftly coming to recognize as a favorite posture of his. “Long enough to know you didn't hear me say I'd like to see the kitchen.”

“You followed me.”
Again.

“Yes. I planned to see more of the house—I've an appreciation for architecture.” That made sense, considering he'd helped build the gristmill and now worked on the schoolhouse. That might have put Midge at ease, if he weren't looking her up and down and still talking. “Turns out, I got to see far more than I planned on.”

Amos watched her fight the flush rising on the crests of her cheeks. The rosy glow somehow made her freckles brighter. He liked that. He also liked the way he managed to discomfit her—the girl was obviously far too used to being the one with the upper hand. It'd do her good to have that turned around.

“You saw me straightening things up and checking on supper.” Her nonchalant tone warred with the flush she finally wrestled under control. “Nothing interesting about that.”

“I beg to differ.” Not that he planned to mention just how interesting he'd found the view when she leaned down to peer inside the oven.

Her spurt of laughter caught him off guard. “Odd. You don't strike me as the sort of man to beg for much.” With that, her mask fell back into place. Gone was the flush, the flash of hesitance in her gaze that let him know he got under her skin. Before him stood the composed, confident woman with a mischievous streak that promised to liven up the dullest days.

But he already knew that Midge. Everyone knew that Midge. Amos wanted to see more of the woman she kept hidden so well—plumb the depths of the tiny cracks in her fearless facade. For now, it didn't matter why he wanted to. He just did. “You're right—I don't beg. But I do differ.”

“Differ as much as you please. I still say there's nothing of interest in spying on me doing my chores.”

“Spying?” He noted the way her eyes narrowed infinitesimally for a scant moment, an accidental acknowledgement that she'd revealed more than she intended.
She feels exposed ... as though I've intruded on something. And she knows she just gave it away.

“Spying, lurking—whatever term you prefer.” An airy gesture to brush away her discomfort. “Truly, Mr. Geer, you should find a new hobby.”

“And if I like lurking?” He allowed his amusement to show.

“It still doesn't get you very far.”

“I'm not planning on going anywhere, so that's not a problem.”

“You should plan on rejoining the others.”

“We will.” He didn't budge an inch. “As soon as you tell me what made you so afraid of fires.”

Her mouth opened and closed twice before she managed a single word. “What?”

“At first, I assumed you wanted a reason to avoid my company.” Amos ignored the slight inclination of her head at that statement. “Because your aunt Doreen had just come from this direction a few moments before you took off. Now I know better.”

“I'm glad to hear you acknowledge that I didn't lie. Now that we have that settled, we can get back to the party.” She took a step forward—the first time she'd ever voluntarily moved toward him. Obviously she wanted this conversation to end.

Which made him want to pursue it all the more. “Either you're excessively neat and overly conscientious—which strikes me as out of character—or you're afraid of a fire.”

“I hope I'm not excessively anything.”

“Oh, you are.”
Suspicious, for one thing. Secretive. Clever. Appealing ...
“But that's a topic for another time. Right now, I want to know why everyone seemed to expect you to go to the kitchen almost as soon as your aunt left. Why you stopped in the doorway and looked over the room as though searching for something. Why you checked every nook and cranny of that stove and oven then cleaned it and inched back a broom that was several feet away to begin with.”

A succession of emotions flickered across her gaze. Anger, fear, and longing dazzled him with their swift intensity before she schooled her features to reveal nothing. She didn't say a word—didn't acknowledge his observations.

“I'm right.” He left the doorway to stand before her as something else fell into place. “You're afraid of fire. You're the reason the council decided to make the schoolhouse out of brick, aren't you?”

“It's a wise decision.” The protective glint stayed long enough for him to truly appreciate it this time. “One I support wholeheartedly.”

“You more than supported it.” Another step closer. “You insisted. Admit it.”

“There's nothing in the world I could insist on that would make a difference if the men in town leaned another direction.” Evasive and overly modest, the answer struck a false chord. “Insisting doesn't make much of a difference in anything.” That statement rang true.

“Fair enough. You're too clever to outright insist on something, but you suggested and persuaded until you got your way.”
No wonder, with those big eyes ... A man would have to be made of stone to hear her pleading about her worries over a schoolhouse fire and not do what he could to alleviate them.

“I like to think logic holds sway when presented properly.”

“Indeed? Then surely you know I will persist in my questions until you explain the reasoning behind your impressive vigilance against any wayward sparks in the kitchen.” Ah, but he enjoyed matching wits with her. Not only did he relish the thrill of the challenge—and such challenges came by only too rarely—he reaped the additional reward of seeing her discomfiture as he undermined all her arguments.

“Persist as you please. It will do no good.”

A pretty face and a sharp mind made for an intriguing combination. Add in some mystery, and Amos saw opportunity for entertainment long into the future.

“Oh, I don't know about that, Miss Collins.” He let her step around him toward the door. “You're right—lurking becomes tedious. I should thank you.”

She stopped and looked over her shoulder. “For what?”

“Don't you know?” A grin spread across his face. “For providing me with a new hobby. This one should be far more interesting....”