Plum Pudding Bride (3 page)

Patience let out a sigh. The copy wasn't old and yellowed like the only books she'd been able to get her hands on. It was so new the paper wouldn't lie flat when Kitty opened it. And the cover was exquisite, a colored-ink drawing of a man holding a saber while a beautiful maiden looked down from the tower she was imprisoned in.

“
Ivanhoe
.” Kitty squealed in delight.

“You don't like the classics.”

“It's exactly what I asked Mr. Foote for just yesterday.” Kitty did another enthusiastic little hop.

“You've been going on outings without me as chaperone?”

“Yes, I mean, it was just here at the house and Mother was in the kitchen, but you can't expect two people in love to wait on your schedule.” Kitty giggled.

Outings every day, presents, mentioning love, it was all much too fast. Suppressing the sick feeling in her stomach, Patience contemplated the cover. It beckoned, calling out like mythical sirens.

With a flick of her wrist, Kitty flipped pages to somewhere in the middle.

“I know you don't like to read. I could take this off your hands and just summarize it for you so Peter thinks you like your present.” Patience's hands stretched for the book.

“No, it's mine.” Kitty snapped the book shut and clutched it to her chest. “Find your own beau. I'm sure Mr. Dimwit will have plenty of reading material for you.”

“Dehaven,” Patience corrected, but Kitty didn't seem to be listening. Did Arnie have any books? He'd only mentioned ranching, not reading. They were twenty-five miles from the closest town and snowed in half the year, according to Arnie, so it wasn't likely she would be able to order ones from the general store at will. Even if Arnie did have money for books.

~*~

Arms crossed, Peter leaned back against the rough pine bark.

“Thank you for the book.” Kitty skipped forward to the tree in the town square that they had selected as a rendezvous. “Patience fairly drooled when I opened it.”

“Uh-huh.”

Kitty acted as if yesterday afternoon had gone according to plan. Heaven help the girl's poor pa when she found herself a real beau.

“Sooo dull. I don't know how Patience endures these things.” Kitty swung her reticule.

“Reading's good for the mind.”

“You really are the perfect husband for Patience.” Kitty patted his hand, in what seemed like a quite patronizing manner.

Peter grunted.

“But the book's given me the most scrumptious ideas. There's a scene where Rebecca almost jumps off a tower to save her virtue from the villainous knight. Ivanhoe doesn't save her, but we could add that part in. All we need is a tower. Do you think the church steeple might do, or—”

“I almost got all three of us killed listening to your fool notions last time. It's not happening again.” Peter glowered at the ground. Arnie Dehaven probably would have put a bullet in the man the moment he stepped off the wagon, and Patience wouldn't be limping right now.

“Is that a gun in your belt?” Kitty clapped her hand over her mouth.

Peter tugged his shirt down to cover it better. He imagined stout people, like Henry the blacksmith, had an easier time concealing weapons.

“That's splendid, just splendid. Patience has a weakness for a man with a gun.” Kitty smiled peacefully as if they hadn't all three almost been shot yesterday afternoon.

“Sheriff Westwood says the fellow I brought in is a wanted man. He thinks there's likely more outlaws about.”

“How delightful. Maybe you can shoot a few for Patience, mix up the bringing outlaws down with your bare hands.”

“I'm done. Deceit's not the way to get a bride.”

“Balderdash! Every good love story involves a little deceit. Just look at Jacob and Leah.”

“And that worked out so poorly Jacob married another wife a week later. As I said before, I'm done.” Peter rested his hands on his belt.

“But everything's going so well. I swear Patience was jealous of me this afternoon, turned quite green when I told her we were in love.”

“You told her what?” Peter stared at the seventeen-year-old.

“Now you listen to me, Peter Foote.” Kitty marched right up into his face and held up her finger like a schoolmarm. “Do you want the love of your life to marry some backwoods wifebeater and die in childbirth at the tender age of twenty-five?”

“No.” It seemed a fairly straightforward question.

“Then you must continue on.” When she said it like that, with a flourish of her milky white hand, it sounded true.

He dug his hands into his pockets. “All right, but no more careening wagons or trumped-up brushes with death.”

“Then kiss me.” She puckered her lips and gazed up at him.

“What?”

“Kiss me.” She shrugged her shoulders up in a flirtatious gesture.

“I remember you in short skirts. I couldn't possibly kiss you.”

“That was years ago. I'm all grown up now. Besides, I've kissed a boy before.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. She did that overmuch.

“I have a good mind to tell Patience on you.” He stared disapprovingly at the child. Patience had been right about one thing; her sister most definitely needed a chaperone.

“Fine, just a peck on the cheek then. We need to make Patience jealous, and Mrs. Clinton is walking behind us at this precise moment, and you know whatever she sees is all over town by morning.”

True. And there were only ten days left until Patience boarded the train to her nightmarish groom. Against his better judgment, Peter bent down and touched his lips to Kitty's cheek. His hand went behind her back to do it, and he dipped her quite respectably before pulling her back up. It felt very wrong

“Why, that was wonderful. I don't see why Patience says you kiss like a wet duck.” Little pink spots showed on Kitty's cheeks as she beamed.

“I've never even kissed Patience.” Oh wait, there had been that incident in the creek during the Fourth of July picnic seven years ago. He'd swear up and down to this day that his foot had slipped on a rock and that's why it had happened though.

“It was very romantic how you dipped me down. I'm sure your lips taste good too. Not as good as Bart Hensley's though.” Kitty folded her hands.

“Kitty Callahan, you're seventeen years old. Do I need to tell your pa you need a switching?”

“Just marry my sister and then you can be the most protective of brother-in-laws and Bart won't dare steal my virtue.” A very unrepentant Kitty winked at him.

3

Sleet fell, obscuring the dark shapes of Gilman shops and houses.

Peter snapped his black umbrella closed and ushered Kitty into the Wednesday night hymn-sing.

People milled about in the foyer, piling muffs and capes precariously high on top of clothes trees.

Throwing back her lacy shawl, Kitty clapped her hands together. “My first time at church-meeting with a
beau
.” She strung the word out.

“I'm not actually your beau.” Peter shook the umbrella off and leaned it up against a bench.

With a little bounce of her shoulders, Kitty rolled her eyes. “Play along, Peter. You'll never make Patience jealous with that dour face.”

“She will be here, right?” Peter offered his arm to escort Kitty up the aisle.

The coat-lined foyer had a broad double door that opened up to the sanctuary beyond.

“If she isn't, she'll have Mrs. Clinton to answer to.”

They squeezed past knots of women chatting and squalling babies.

Up front, the organist struck a few chords.

Holding out his hand, Peter opened the way for Kitty to slide into the wooden church pew.

Before entering, Kitty took a look over his arm. “Bart Hensley's powerful jealous. Look at his face.” She giggled and slid into the seat.

Peter's gaze followed hers to the man. “He's twenty-five years old and a reprobate.”

“You're twenty-eight and Mrs. Clinton thinks we're the sweetest sparking couple ever to live.” Kitty played with a strand of her hair. Twisting the lock around her finger, she raised one shoulder flirtatiously.

“We're not actually sparking.” Peter frowned and tried to see over his right shoulder while pretending to be checking his tie. Patience said she'd be at church-meeting. She had to be somewhere in these crowded pews.

“Tell that to Mrs. Clinton.” Kitty sat on the wooden seat.

“What?” Peter swung around, right into the stout leader of the ladies' temperance league.

Mrs. Clinton's purple silk skirts filled the entire church aisle, but over the woman's shoulder he caught a glimpse of Patience's lovely profile. Left aisle, third from center. Her eyes possessed a breathtakingly brown tint. Those deep pools were majestic, just like the solid-rock mountaintops. And when she laughed, her eyes would—

A hand grabbed his as Kitty made a simpering noise. “So good to see you, Mrs. Clinton.”

“I, unlike you, am always at church-meeting. What's this I hear about you being half an hour late last Wednesday and walking by a
saloon
on your way here?” Mrs. Clinton looked down her blistered nose at Kitty.

Kitty gulped and looked down at her boots. They were newly polished, unlike Patience's. Currently, Patience's right boot had an adorable curlicue scuff mark off-center.

“But I'm glad to hear that you're being courted by such a pillar of our community. He'll keep you out of trouble.” Mrs. Clinton's wide cheeks rose and she plopped one hand on his shoulder. “You really are a fine specimen of a man, Mr. Foote.”

“Thank you?” Peter glanced back at Patience. She had moved up a row now, well within voice range, at least if it was Mrs. Clinton's voice. Inwardly, Peter cringed.

“A storeowner, a member of the sheriff's posse on occasion, and so handsome.” Mrs. Clinton patted her skirts. Heavy rings encircled all of her fingers. “Can we expect a spring wedding?”

Wobbliness started in Peter's ankles and worked its way up his leg bones. “Um.”

Kitty clasped his hand with both of hers. She laid her cheek on his shoulder. “Perhaps. I certainly could see myself wearing white in springtime.”

Mrs. Clinton smiled approvingly and crashed herself down on the armrest of the bench. The town carpenter would be thanking her for the extra income if she did that too often. “There's a most exquisite new dress pattern, just out, that all the Eastern ladies are wearing. I'm sure Peter could order it for you from his store. I think it would make up delightfully in an organza. I have some pearl buttons I could give you for the back.”

Now Mrs. Clinton was huffing. Other petticoats gathered around her, but her garish purple drowned out the rest.

Peter glimpsed Patience again.

From an aisle back, she watched intently.

A cold gust blew in through the double doors as last-minute stragglers rushed into the church, crowding the too-small building to overflowing.

Sashaying closer, Kitty pressed her hands together and fixed an enraptured gaze on Mrs. Clinton. “I would
so
love that. And I was thinking that your peonies would be in bloom this June, if you would help me decorate the church with them.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Clinton slammed a bulky hand down on Kitty's shoulders. “Anything for such a delightful couple. You really have caught yourself quite the man. And you so young too. I don't approve of all the suffragettes these days delaying marriage. They'll become old maids and no mistake.” She glanced back pointedly at Patience.

A woman sitting in the pew in front twisted around to smile at Kitty. “I didn't know congratulations were in order. You've found yourself a good man.”

“A shopkeeper's wife. All the latest fashions, and you'll never want for groceries. Now that's my idea of marrying well.” A tired-looking woman with four dirty-faced children clutching her skirt spoke to her neighbor a pew back.

“I'm getting married.” Patience moved across the aisle to announce it. “She's not.” Patience pointed to her sister.

She was so close now. Peter could have touched her elbow if he'd reached out. The scent of peppermint clung to her wavy locks. What he'd give to see them down, cascading over her pretty shoulders.

“Not technically. Nothing's official.” Kitty looked up dreamily into Peter's eyes. “But we're
so
in love that I'm sure things will move swiftly.”

Why did Kitty keep doing that? If only there were a trapdoor in the church floor, he'd be using it right about now.

“He's only been coming to call for four days.” Patience's eyelids stretched and her voice rose loud enough to carry over the heads of the clustered women to where the reverend stood at the pulpit in front.

“Five actually, sister.” Kitty's shoulder popped out of her wide-necked pink dress as she shrugged prettily.

He'd never understand why women chose so poorly attached clothing.

Patience dressed much more sensibly. Her brown velvet dress curved around her beautiful figure and kept out the cold by buttoning up to her neck and wrists. Her red wool coat was warm too, unlike Kitty's frilly crocheted shawl.

If he let Kitty freeze on the walk home from meeting, Pa Callahan would have his head.

“I've been saying since spring this would be the year Peter Foote found himself a wife.” A wrinkled older lady immersed in a plaid cloak patted Kitty's hand. “You're a blessed girl.”

“Oh, I know.” A dimple popped out on Kitty's cheek.

Patience's lips pressed together.

“You must give me a discount at the shop when you're Mrs. Foote. You've been my dearest friend for forever.” A girl still in pigtails wrapped her arms around Kitty's waist from behind.

“Of course.” Kitty clasped the girl in an embrace.

“I'm marrying a Montana rancher.” Patience hopped up on the pew behind, giving even her petite frame a few inches' height above the crowd.