Plum Pudding Bride (2 page)

“Of course. He's a stranger with oversized biceps who can't spell. He might be a wifebeater, for all we know.” Kitty tossed a lock of hair back over her ear.

“Exactly what I was thinking.” Peter half stood. “Now if you could just help me tell Patience this—”

“No.” Kitty brought her creamy white fist down on the wood chest with a resounding bang. “There will be
no
cajoling,
no
begging, and absolutely
no
mentioning your superior steadiness. Patience does what she wants. What you have to do is make her
want
you.”

“But isn't steadiness in a man a good thing? I mean, especially for a woman. A woman's vulnerable with being the weaker vessel, and childbearing, and mothering. Surely a woman needs a steady man, who will—”

“You know this. I know this. Patience, unfortunately, does not.” Kitty cut him off again. She
was
starting to remind him of her older sister.

A sigh escaped Peter's lips. Trust Patience to discover the virtue of steadiness when she was freezing in a soddy, expecting her third child while her husband drank at the saloon.

“So, first things first. We need to arrange a desperate situation where you can rescue her. That's what happens in all her novels. I think I'll hire a drunk from the saloon to drive my pa's wagon careening down the east road while we're walking, and then you can jump in front of the wagon and drag Patience to safety. She'll find it very romantic.” Kitty smiled, a much more cheerful smile than the brush with death she described should inspire.

“What if I'm not quick enough?” A speeding wagon could kill Patience.

“Don't be such a wet blanket. No wonder Patience finds you dull. Oh, and do you know how to flirt?” Kitty poised one hand on her left hip and jutted her shoulder a little out, showcasing what bosom the seventeen-year-old had.

“Sure.” He'd flirted before. Four years ago, he'd once told a girl—well, Patience—that her eyes were the color of plum pudding. Considering it was her favorite dessert, he'd expected her to be more pleased by that compliment.

“Good, because I'll flirt outrageously with you on our outing. Jealousy's always a good stimulant.”

Seated on the wooden chest, he scratched the back of his neck and eyed the animated girl. He wasn't half sure this was a good idea. But what else was he to do—sit back and let the Montana lummox steal his girl?

“Oh, and can you get up a minute? You're sitting on her hope chest and I promised I'd tat some lace for the wedding unmentionables she just finished.”

He jumped up as fast as if the chest lid had turned to red-hot iron. This plan had better work.

2

Arm in arm with Kitty, Peter strolled down the abandoned bit of road outside town that she'd selected. The December day had an unseasonable warmth.

A few paces behind, Patience followed along, head bent over her latest literary acquisition.

He craned his neck wistfully.

With a whack, Kitty brought her fan down on his arm. “Confidence, remember?” She twisted around herself. “Gotten any letters from Arnie Dimwit recently, sister?”

At that, Patience did look up. “It's Dehaven, Kitty.
De
haven.”

“Oh, my mistake.” Kitty fluttered her eyelashes prettily, like a young woman does when she wants attention.

Peter wished Patience would want his attention. Would she flutter her eyelashes like that at Arnie? Not if he could help it.
Confidence. Confidence.
Peter crossed his arms. Clearing his throat, he sped up the pace a little. “So, Kitty, tell me how your studies are progressing.” That sounded confident, right?

She clasped his arm, bringing her pretty blonde head right up to his shoulder and sort of smushing her cheek on the cloth of his jacket arm. “I finished school two years ago, Mr. Foote. All grown up now. Ready to marry.” She drew out a meaningful sigh, tipping her chin up to him as she stared dizzily into his eyes.

Peter fought the urge to disentangle his arm and run. This was a disaster. They wouldn't fool the town drunk with their fake courting, let alone the keenest mind in Gilman, Patience Callahan.

The pounding of hooves came from behind. A horse and wagon rounded the bend at an alarming rate.

With a little hop on tiptoes, Kitty pressed her mouth to his ear. “It's time.”

A few feet behind, Patience ambled along, nose still stuck in the yellowed pages of her novel.

The wagon was coming fast, too fast. If he got them all run over by a runaway wagon by agreeing to a little girl's plan, Patience would have been better off with Arnie.

“Get off the road, Kitty, quick.” Bounding backwards, Peter grabbed Patience's arm.

~*~

At Peter's touch, Patience blinked and looked up from the pages of
The Three Musketeers
.

Outnumbered ten to one, d'Artagnan had just raised his sword. What did Peter want now? She had a vague recollection of him walking arm-in-arm with Kitty while making insipid conversation. She hoped Kitty did fall for him. He'd make the flighty girl a steady, doting husband, if not a particularly exciting one.

“Get off the road.” Peter's arm went around her waist as he dragged her to the dead weeds by the side of the road.

He was stronger than she'd expected. His arm felt solid against her waist and the smell of wood shavings, likely from the packing material for canned goods, clung to him. But Arnie was twice as big, a real mountain of a man at six-foot three, with a brave personality to match. She was almost sure of that.

A careening wagon sped towards them, skidding over deep ruts in the uneven dirt.

Standing on the bouncing buckboard, a highly non-recommended pose at that rate of speed, the man driving the wagon pulled back on the reins. Mud splattered up as he came to a skidding halt in front of them. The man jumped to the ground and pulled out a gun. Staggering, as if one leg was injured, he pointed the gun at them.

Peter directed an accusing glance at Kitty.

Her sister couldn't have possibly known they'd encounter a thief when they took this lonely road.

Patience's fingers clutched her reticule. As much as she was loathe to part with the twenty cents it contained at the moment, being held up by a desperate highway robber was a rather romantic adventure. She'd tell this story to her babies as they clustered peacefully around her feet in Arnie's rustic home.

“Hands in the air,” the unshaven man said. His voice was gruff and the smell of liquor clung to his tattered clothes.

“How about I just toss you my reticule?” Patience reached down to unclip the quilted thing.

The man swung forward and shoved her in the chest.

The blow sent her reeling back, boots slipping out from under her. She landed, backside in the mud, only to look up into a pistol muzzle. She gulped.

“I don't take kindly to orders being disobeyed.” Leveling the gun at her, the man cocked the trigger.

Her life, all twenty-five years of it, flashed before her eyes. She should have cooked the grits more often in the morning and not made Kitty do it. She should have spent more time in her Bible rather than reading
Les Miserables
for the seventh time. She should have been kinder to Peter. He meant well, after all. She brought her arm up in a vain attempt to shield her head from the coming bullet.

From somewhere to the left, she heard Peter's voice, the last voice she'd hear before the angels singing and glory.

“Was this really necessary, Kitty?” Then Peter ran towards the man.

The robber swung his gun over to Peter.

Ducking, Peter charged forward, head down, and grabbed the man around the waist. He twisted the man's wrist with his other hand.

The man swung forward with a fist. The blow landed on Peter's jaw and he grunted something that sounded like “Kitty.”

If he was thinking about her when he was this near death, maybe he did have feelings for the girl.

Using both hands, Peter threw the man backwards.

The man stumbled into the mud but recovered his gun arm.

Peter stood there fearlessly, as if the man couldn't end his life with just the click of a trigger. “Hand over the weapon.” Peter's voice was as matter-of-fact as if he was sorting preserves.

She'd never taken him as the type to be calm in the midst of danger.

“Never.” Raising himself on one arm, the man aimed the gun.

Peter kicked the man's hand and the gun went flying back onto the road. The impact made it discharge, sending a bullet up into the trees.

Peter stared at the quivering leaves where the bullet had passed, and then he leapt for the gun. Grabbing up the weapon, he pulled back the hammer and aimed it at the ground. He squeezed the trigger. Dirt spat up from a bullet, but his wrist held the gun steady despite the recoil.

Patience's eyes opened a little wider. She'd never seen him discharge a gun before. The gun smoke puffed up to his chest and powder residue covered his hands. She'd never noticed how strong his hands were.

Jerking to his feet, injured leg notwithstanding, the criminal ran forward.

Raising the gun, Peter brought the pistol butt down hard over the man's head. The robber fell unconscious.

“Kitty.” Peter's voice was tight. “This gun is loaded.”

His first thought was for her sister, not her? Patience got up, brushing the mud from her destroyed skirt. Peter
always
thought of her first. Even that time at the barn raising when she was competing in the cornhusking bee and he'd slipped her five of his ears so she could win the heifer she wanted, he'd thought of her first.

“That's not the man I hired.” Kitty's face was pale as death.

Hired?

“Oh.” Peter took a deep breath and swallowed so hard Patience could hear it. “Well.” Peter paused.

He glanced over to the wagon the man had been driving. One of the horses had spooked in the gunfire, but the other stood steady, dragging the wagon around in a circle. There was a length of rope in the back. “I guess we'll get this man to Sheriff Westwood.”

Peter bound the man and, with a few heaves, managed to roll him up into the wagon.

A noise came from behind.

Patience turned towards it.

Far back on the road, another wagon careened down the road, raising dust.

A scowl crossed Peter's face. “We're going home.” Grabbing the arms of both young women, he handed them up to the buckboard.

~*~

Patience winced as she put weight on her left foot. It had bruised in her tumble on the road. But it wasn't bad. There was just enough pain to be a thrilling reminder of the excitement of that hour. She placed the raspberry jam behind the boysenberry.

Peter was sweeping the store with vigorous brushstrokes. The dust sailed knee-high as straw broom bristles thwacked against the wood. He almost made the activity look heroic. And the way he braved gunfire today…it had been spectacular. A manly black-and purple bruise stretched from the right side of his jaw to his ear.

Standing the last peppermint stick in its place, Patience sidled closer. She smiled at Peter. “You saved my life today.”

“It was unintentional.” His teeth gritted shut. Setting down the broom, he pulled out his ring of keys and marched to the back of the store.

For the first time in a long time, she followed him. She really must express the depth of her gratitude.

In the back, he shoved aside several bolts of calico and dug his key into a heavy lock. The cabinet swung open with a puff of dust.

“I wanted to say—”

He pulled a pistol out of the cabinet and stuck it inside his pants.

“I didn't know you carried a gun.” She stared at him.

“I didn't.” His jaw was set and he didn't look at her as he shoved his shirt back in, covering the gun handle.

This wasn't the Peter she knew. “Thank you again for saving my life.”

“I let you come within seconds of death. I should have shot the man the minute he stepped off that wagon. Next time, I will.” Peter stooped to pick up a box of canned goods and swung it up to his shoulders.

“Oh.” Her lips parted as her jaw sagged a bit.

“I have a present for you.” He set the box on top of another.

“For me?” She tried to drag her gaze off the bulge of the pistol on his hip. She'd never noticed how easily he swung up those crates of merchandise.

“For you to give to Kitty. I thought she'd like it.” Peter was still speaking uncharacteristically gruffly as he grabbed another box.

“So you had a good time with Kitty?” It was what she wanted. Her sister and Peter. But how quickly he'd switched affections. Peter had loved her since forever, so shouldn't he take at least six months to mourn her marrying another man?

“Superb.” Leaning over another crate, he pulled out a parcel tied in brown paper. He stuck the book-shaped package in her hands and turned back to the next crate.

Teasing the brown paper open behind his turned back, she sneaked a peek inside.
Ivanhoe
emblazoned the book's front cover in shiny new letters. A sigh of desire escaped her lips.

“Give Kitty my best.” Peter turned back with another large crate in his arms.

She hastily creased the paper back into place. “All right.” She tried to catch his gaze. But he moved back to his shipping boxes without glancing at her as he usually did. And the worst of it was, Kitty wouldn't even appreciate Sir Walter Scott's masterpiece.

~*~

Kitty was in the kitchen, humming happily as she stirred a kettle of soup with more than necessary exuberance.

“Here's a present for you.” Patience held it out doubtfully. Peter seemed to be moving dreadfully fast. Kitty was only seventeen, after all.

“A present for me!” Abandoning the soup spoon, Kitty tore open the brown paper with a complete disregard for preserving it for future uses.