Bride Blunder (9 page)

“Seems a fine-looking woman,” a voice Gavin couldn't quite place emerged from the smithy. All the Burn men sounded alike, and with three of them, all talented smiths, it made for some confusion unless a body stood right in front of whoever was speaking. “Can't have too many of those around.”

A few appreciative guffaws competed with the heat of the forge to fill the air while Gavin stepped inside. The father, Kevin, and his younger son stood by the water barrel. “Afternoon.” He spoke loud enough to let them know he was there.

“Your ears must be burning.” Kevin sauntered over. “I just told Brett there that I looked forward to catching sight of your bride at church tomorrow.” The grizzled blacksmith gave a broad wink. “Don't blame you for keeping her under wraps this week.”

“I told Pa she's a fine-looking woman.” Brett—Gavin would be sure to remember the name, since this was the unmarried brother—headed back toward his anvil. “Never enough of those to go around out here.”

“So long as you remember Marge is spoken for.” No sense taking any chances. “Just giving her time to settle in to Buttonwood before making her my wife.”

“What brings you here today?” The older Burn wisely changed the topic. “Can't imagine anything we made for that mill of yours would be giving you problems already.” A displeased frown at the idea of anything he or his sons worked on being below standard birthed a deep furrow between his brows.

“Not at all.” Gavin disabused him of the notion immediately. “Though the mill's easily gone through half again as much work as it typically would. Lots of grain stored up in these parts, lots of need, lots of work, so there's a good bit more wear than I'd usually see.”

“Stands to reason.” Relief relaxed the other man's features. The Burns, like everyone Gavin dealt with in Buttonwood, took pride in their work. “What do you need?”

“Mill pick. The one I ordered from a catalog isn't balanced right, and my old one is too worn down to sharpen and keep using.” He produced the old one, its wooden handle worn smooth from years of use. “I doubt you can affix a new metal chisel piece to this one—wood's already been soaked to swell around this one—else I would have brought it to you before.”

Wordlessly, the master blacksmith extended a massive paw, palm up, to receive the implement. When Gavin handed it over, Kevin Burn didn't grasp it. Instead, he kept his palm flat, fingers open, and tested the heft of the tool. Then, with his right forefinger, he nudged the wooden handle so the pick pivoted on the worn metal head. He ran his fingers over the chisel piece then shifted and got a grip on the handle, his large hand dwarfing the piece.

Finally, he nodded. “You're right—trying to affix another head piece would weaken it or ruin the feel.” He raised it to eye level. “For the new version, I assume you'd like the same style handle? I've not seen this type before, with the slight bend, but it makes for a more secure grip. I can see why you got so much use out of it.”

“Yes, make it as similar as possible.” That the blacksmith inspected it so thoroughly and noted its distinctive traits made Gavin rest easy. “It's obvious you appreciate quality.”

“Of course we do.” A mischievous smile lit Kevin's face as he tucked the pick into his work belt. “In tools and women. So why don't you tell me about this fiancée of yours?”

“Now I know why he's been so closed mouthed.” The younger smith edged closer. “He didn't want any of the other men gearing up to swipe his bride-to-be before he got her down the aisle. I caught a glimpse when she stepped off the stage, and it's easy to see he has good reason to be worried.”

Gavin's eyes narrowed at the threat. It might be spoken in jest, but it hit too close to home for his liking. “You don't know Marge. She's not the sort to flit from one man to another.”

Daisy is.
The sudden thought took him off guard, but he couldn't deny the truth of it. That's part of why he'd been so surprised and relieved when he thought she'd accepted his proposal—he'd gauged the chances of her having found another beau to be most likely.
And I was right.
His frown deepened.
No chance I'll let Marge slip through my fingers, too.

“A steadfast woman's worth her weight in gold. If she wears a pretty face, so much the better.”

“She wears a pretty face, and she was wearin' pretty clothes to make a pretty li'l picture when I spotted her, Pa.”

Little?
Gavin paused to consider.
Daisy's the tiny one.
“Marge isn't overly petite, and you're in no position to judge how pretty she is.”
Sure Marge is pretty. In a quiet sort of way someone has to get close to her before being able to appreciate it.
“You shouldn't be gawking at a woman from across the street and deciding she's to your liking.”
You shouldn't be looking at all.

“I don't see the appeal of doll-like females. There should be enough to a woman for a man to appreciate.” Brett let loose a wolfish grin. “Everyone will get a close enough gander after church tomorrow to see that I'm right about her looks.”

“Remember yourself, Burn.” Gavin took a step forward. “More than one look and we might tangle.”

“I'll remember.” The burly young blacksmith crossed his arms and waggled his brows. “But you remember something, too, Miller. Spoken for ain't the same as taken.”

Midge woke up early—even for herself—that Sunday.

Usually, the darkness around the edges of her window curled back beneath the insistence of morning light before she arose. Even then, by the time she washed and dressed and pulled back the window sash, the town buildings just began to glow with the rosy oranges of sunrise.

Today, she scarcely knew she'd opened her eyes. To be sure, she shut them, noted that, yes, everything did get darker, and opened them again. This time she could make out the hazy, indistinct borders of her window, where the very first blush of light barely began to appear. She lay there, watching it take on more space, more dimension.

Most folks she knew said darkness grew deeper and light grew lighter. Midge held the opinion that light had every bit the depth of dark—more, as a matter of fact, as it possessed the power to plumb every crevice and make anything visible. To her way of thinking, the world needed more light.

But they weren't going to find it in church.

She groaned and let her head fall back on the pillow.
Today's Sunday.
Which meant hours stuck indoors, sitting on hard pews, listening to that Parson Carter drone on and on about the light no one could see.
So how does it do anyone any good?

Unable to remain still for another second, she rolled out of bed and tromped over to her water basin. Mind churning over other things and eyes having to navigate more shadows than usual, she knocked her shin on the small wooden trunk beside her washstand. Hard.

Amazed the resounding
thud
hadn't woken anyone else, Midge perched atop that selfsame trunk, hiked her nightgown around her knees, and poked at her bruised shin to determine how badly she'd gotten it. Starting where she figured it'd be a good distance from the main bruise, she still sucked in a breath. Yep—it'd be a good one. Probing closer to the bone, her fingers hit a warm wetness—blood.

She curled the stained fingers upward, swung that hand over, and gave it a good dunking in the washbasin. Then, making sure she held her nightclothes away from the injury, she lit an oil lamp on her dresser and peered down to get a better look. Crimson welled from a gash about four inches above her ankle, right where she'd made contact with the metal trunk latch.

Little red streams raced down her leg toward the bare wooden planks beyond the edge of the rug. Midge caught them with one swipe of a clean washrag, dabbing the cut and squinting to try and determine whether or not she'd have to tell Saul about the mishap. Having a doctor adopt you came in handy, but he also tended to overreact about minor scrapes, pulling out witch hazel and whatnot at the slightest provocation.

Hmm ... deep enough to consider bothering him but minor enough to manage on my own.
She pressed the rag down hard, drawing in a hissing breath at the stinging sensation, but she kept pressing until she counted to one hundred. Cautiously, she lifted the rag. Sure enough, the bleeding slowed to almost nothing at all. She'd had worse.

A surge of memories made her drop the rag. The crushing pressure of having her hand caught in one of the mill machines when she was seven—she lost three fingernails and her thumb snapped before the foreman had it shut down. That's when Nancy stopped letting her work. Her hand healed, the throbbing ache replaced by hunger's gnawing insistence as she hid in her sister's room. Until the foreman found her and kicked them out.

Midge drew her knees to her chest.
My fault.
She'd accidentally caught her almost-healed hand in the drop-front desk and let out a small cry. Not much. Just enough for them to find her and fire Nancy. That's when they moved in with Rodney—Nancy's beau. Midge began to rock back and forth.

The sharp pain of every breath after Rodney knocked me across the room for talking back to him that first week ...
what she now knew to be the symptom of a broken rib. The constant bruises she and her sister wore as they struggled to eke out a living, until Rodney put her sister on the streets as a common prostitute. Until the night he chose to end the life of the child Nancy had conceived and took both of theirs in the doing.

Her eyes fixed on the deep black-red of her own blood on the rag, remembering her sister's blood-soaked pallet. Remembering Nancy's waxen face as Saul Reed checked for signs of life and found none, telling Midge God had taken the last good thing from her life.

Her beautiful sister, so good and kind that she prayed even for the men who used her body and belittled her for the privilege, ripped from this world. Nancy could have none of the things Midge got to enjoy now—a fine bed, plenty of food, lovely clothes, friends who'd never know the things she'd done in the past. Everything Midge had, Nancy deserved—but Nancy was gone forever.

My fault.
She stopped rocking and rested her forehead against her knees.
I'm as old as Nancy was when she died for what I did.
Midge stuffed half her fist in her mouth to muffle the broken sobs.
And nobody knows it but me.

The scrape of the straight razor may irritate some men, but Gavin found it calming. He peered in the mirror, lifted his chin a fraction of an inch, precisely positioned the blade, and used deft strokes to finish the job. When he concluded, he rinsed his instruments, put them away, patted his face dry, and gave himself one last look-over in the mirror.

Let that hulk of a blacksmith try to outdo me this morning.
Gavin straightened his collar, knowing his Sunday best to be better made than most garments in town. Whistling, he headed down the stairs, only to pull up short at the vision awaiting him in the parlor.

Ermintrude had donned her most gaudy ensemble for the occasion—a burnt orange monstrosity he'd attempted to “lose” during the move out West, but somehow it always reappeared. Awful as that sight may be, it wasn't what made him stop. No, he reserved that honor for his fiancée.

Marge must have plotted with the older woman, for she looked some sort of fashion-plate apprentice in a peach-hued dress and fur-trimmed frock. If the color weren't objectionable enough, Gavin grappled with the fact she looked good in it. Downright delectable, if someone put him under oath.

He didn't like it one bit.

Somehow, the peachy tint brought out a becoming color in her cheeks he hadn't noticed before. The rosy pinks she'd worn alongside Daisy made her seem good and sallow. Back then, Marge had weighed down her outfits with layers of ruffles and poufy sleeves until a man could see her coming from a mile off. He'd sort of noticed since she came to Buttonwood that all the bows and flounces seemed to have vanished, but this morning he missed them.
She shouldn't look so slim and elegant.

“He looks like he swallowed a porcupine.” Grandma Ermintrude's gleeful observation told him he needed to better keep his thoughts from his countenance. “Told you he hated orange. I can't tell you how many times he tried to get rid of my favorite dress. Or how many times I thwarted him.” She ran a loving hand along the line of her skirts.

“Surely you didn't try to throw away your grandmother's favorite dress?” Disbelief didn't quite conceal Marge's amusement. “Such a thing would be wasteful—and rude.”

“I've offered to replace it thrice over.”

“Style may change, and I wouldn't mind updating it, but I doubt I'd find the color twice.”

Exactly.
“Surely something would please you.”

“We both know better.” His grandmother's comment was thrown down like a gauntlet, but Gavin knew better than to remark upon it. When he simply walked over and offered an arm to each of them, she gave a resigned sigh. “Didn't rise to the bait.”

“Nope.”

“Wise move.” Marge's laugh sounded suspiciously like a giggle, but Gavin had never heard her giggle before. “For what it's worth, I told her she should've taken you up on the offer. Three dresses in a variety of colors makes for a better deal.”

“I thought so.” He almost suggested she select a softer shade—like the one Marge showcased—but didn't want his fiancée to know he liked it.
The less she wears this one, the better. At least
—he allowed himself an appreciative glance—
until we're safely married.

“Three times the opportunity to wear one-of-a-kind creations you'll disapprove of!” When she bit her lip, a dimple peeked from her left cheek. “So Ermintrude just might change her mind, after all, and your grandmother and I will shop.”

“I am ever in your debt.” Gavin replied as expected—with wry humor—but inwardly chuckled. Marge's smiles were worth the joke at his expense. Besides, no matter her threats, nothing they came up with could be as bilious as that vile burnt orange. Particularly considering Marge's newfound sophistication in her own dressing habits...

Which he had cause to deplore as they came within sight of the church. Or, more accurately, within sight of all the townsmen waiting to catch a glimpse of his intended bride.

The intended bride who he hadn't really intended to marry but now did—as soon as he convinced her to agree. The intended bride he couldn't truly lay claim to despite everyone's understanding of the situation. The intended bride who looked far too becoming in her simple peach dress this morning.

Gavin didn't miss the way Brett Burn's eyes widened when he got a good, long look at Marge. Nor did he miss the way folks whispered and elbows burrowed into ribs. Looked like his fake fiancée was the roaring success he'd predicted Daisy would be ... and she hadn't even uttered a word yet.

His spine stiffened as the Burn men broke away from the crowd and headed over, masculine appreciation written plain across their features.

Gavin glanced at Marge, who blushed becomingly at the certain knowledge she held everyone's attention.

He started plotting ways to get her back into fussy pink dresses—immediately.

She'd never been so thankful to slide onto an uncomfortable pew in all her born days. Marge stifled a sigh of relief at having made it through a throng of gawkers and well-wishers to take her seat in church. For the next few hours, at least, the attention would be where it belonged. On God.

After the service, she'd be in the midst of things once more, but she'd use the time to collect herself. Marge well knew she'd be nothing more than a nine days' wonder in Buttonwood. Once everyone discovered she didn't hide any deep, dark secrets or reveal any exciting talents, they'd lose interest. Waiting for the newness to rub off would take only a little bit of time. So lost was she in the comforts of these thoughts, she missed the hymn the parson named for the start of service.

Yet as the familiar words rose around her, Marge swiftly recognized it. Not a hymn of lilting praise nor a slow acknowledgement of the suffering the Lord underwent on their behalf, this less-oft heard song struck a chord Marge would rather have left alone this morning.

Nevertheless, she joined in the singing of it, knowing the words to be true. Knowing that the very way her heart ached at speaking them meant she needed their message more than ever.

As the hymn continued and Marge sang along, she added a private prayer to the worship.

Lord, lately it seems as though You've tantalized me with certain promises, only to pull them away. It's not my place to question Your will, but I can't deny how my heart aches to know Gavin wanted Daisy. How Ermintrude's caution about settling rings in my ears every time he smiles at me. I care for him and always have—enough so that a part of me wants to marry him and take what happiness I can. Help me be strong and follow Your will, Lord, even if it denies me marriage and I am to teach for the rest of my days.

She blinked back tears as the hymn and her prayer came to an end, waiting to feel as calm and thankful as the song promised. But she didn't. Marge shifted on the wooden bench as Parson Carter prayed then began the introduction to his sermon for the morning.

“Today I'm delving into the book of the prophet Jeremiah, who I think really gets into the heart of the way we follow God.” Parson Carter, a tall, spare man with spectacles and tufts of white hair over either ear, looked every inch the mild scholar. Even his skin had the look of aged parchment—at once tough but vulnerable to the wear of years of demands made upon it. “chapter seventeen discusses more than the more common issue of what we do to follow Him. Verses seven and eight, particularly, deal more with the
why
and
how.
”

Marge made an effort not to shift restlessly. Honestly, she was as bad as some of her former pupils! But the reason believers followed Christ was simply because He was God, and she expected more from a sermon than a restating of this. She needed a deeper understanding, something to take away from church that she didn't already know, or at the very least, a reminder of something she hadn't considered in a long time.

The parson's voice recaptured her attention as he began reading directly from the Word. “‘Blessed is the man that trusteth in the Lord, and whose hope the Lord is.'”

Oh.
Shame washed over her at her arrogance.
I shouldn't have assumed I knew what the message would be. He's speaking of following the Lord in trust, not following facts.
She closed her eyes at her mistake.
Although ... we do put trust in facts. We do trust Him because He
is
. So, in a way, I was right. But trust goes so much deeper—the heart can know what the head cannot.

Her gaze slid to the man beside her, who listened intently as the parson kept reading, describing the man who trusted in God as a tree planted by a river, nourished and fruitful even in times of drought.

My heart tells me that Gavin is such a man. My head tells me I was a fool to ever imagine he wanted me.

She listened to the parson speak of the link between trust in God and putting one's hope in Him.

Did I put my hope in God when I came to be Gavin's bride? Was I hoping that He'd answered my prayers for a husband and trusting this was His path—or was I putting my hope in Gavin?

Marge didn't like the questions that were starting to spring up. Not the ones about what brought her to Buttonwood and not the more urgent ones she couldn't seem to stomp down as the parson talked about anticipation for the future. With supreme effort, she tore her gaze away from Gavin.

What is it you're hoping for now, Marge? God's will—or your own?