Plum Pudding Bride (6 page)

“Only if she makes a
half-wit
decision.” Peter's mouth pressed together in a line.

His jaw looked quite square by the light of oil lamp and hearth fire. And he smelled of cedar packing shavings. But he was so mild-mannered. He'd never last a day in the rough-and-tumble of Ivanhoe's tournaments or d'Artagnan's duels. Though he had wrestled that highway robber's gun out of his hand…

Peter's green eyes focused on her. His gaze touched her cheeks, her hair, her brow, before fixing on her eyes.

Heat rose to her cheeks. She fought the urge to bring her hands up to cover them as the blush deepened. Why was she blushing over her sister's beau?

“Kitty seems pleased that I brought her to your attention.” Why had she given that nonsensical matchmaking advice to Peter anyway? He deserved to pick his own bride. Obviously, Kitty was making much more of Peter's brief wooing than was accurate. She wagered the entire thing would be over by New Year's.

Eyes emotionless, Peter brought his chin down in a sharp nod. His black hair was cropped close, outlining the hard lines of his forehead.

“And you? My little sister scared you off yet?” Surely she had. Peter didn't want a flighty beauty like Kitty. She was simply too…young.

“Not by a long shot.” Peter's voice was gruff, his arms still crossed.

“But she's talking of babies and happily ever after. Surely you don't see her that way.”

His shoulders rose in the brusquest of shrugs.

“But you've only started courting her twelve days ago.”

“You're getting married a day after meeting a man. Twelve days must seem an eternity to you.” His firm cheekbones lent a determined look to his face.

She'd never noticed how well-proportioned his visage was. “That's different.” She shifted from her left boot to her right. The flat heel slapped the floor. She'd never gotten accustomed to the high-heeled styles Kitty wore.

“How?”

“Hey, Patty-o. You coming?” Arnie's loud voice yodeled out from the room beyond.

“Yes.” Lifting up the wet hem of her long skirts, Patience turned towards the dining room.

Lamplight illuminated a heavy-laden dining table. The chairs were squeezed together like sardines. The sheer number of bodies pressed into this small space heated the room to a comfortable temperature despite the howling wind outside.

Ma and Pa sat nearest the kitchen with the littlest Callahans packed on benches by their side. Mrs. Clinton's ample form squeezed between the outside wall and table, with some of her flopping over on the tabletop. Seated next to her, Arnie fit no better. His massive shoulders pressed back against the wallpaper, his knees scraping against the bottom of the table. He kicked out the chair next to him.

After scrambling over a few young'uns and an end table, Patience slid into the seat. She kept her gaze on her lap as she spread out a cloth napkin. But she could still feel everyone's gaze on her.

“I brought my special pickle relish recipe.” Susannah Johnson reached over two noisy tots to set a canned jar on the tablecloth.

“Potato chowder?” Kitty squeezed around chairs with an oversized kettle and ladle, scooping smoking liquid into bowls.

“Here's the rolls. I hope you had a good afternoon, Patience?” Ma's voice was quiet as she passed an overflowing basket of bread.

“Of course, delightful.” The toasty smell of fresh-baked bread rose to Patience's nostrils. But she wasn't hungry. Her elbow knocked Arnie's as she passed the basket on.

At the end of the table, Peter sank onto a bench seat by Kitty. Her sister's eyes sparkled as she scooped soup into his pewter bowl. Their hands met over the spoon for the pickle relish. She laughed.

With a cough, Pa quieted the table. His voice rose and fell in the words of grace. Pa was praying for twelve-year-old Matthew, who almost burned down the barn yesterday morning by stealing a pipe and trying to smoke it. “…and as Thy word teaches, keep us safe from the perilous foolishness bound up in a heart of a child.”

Poor Matthew, her brother, was already cleaning the horse droppings every week for the entire winter as penance.

Pa had meant Matthew…right?

With a hearty “amen,” Mrs. Clinton started in on the virtues of her meatloaf.

Ignoring the woman, Arnie leaned over to Mr. Clinton. “Where you send all that silver, Mr. Clinton?” An unchewed hunk of roll protruded from Arnie's mouth as he spoke.

Mr. Clinton's pale eyes narrowed. He skewered a floating chunk of potato and lifted it to his thin lips.

“I mean, it ain't like the bank in town can hold all that silver.” Arnie dug his knife into the butter lump, slapped a dollop on a roll, and shoved the entire thing in his mouth.

Blinking his thin eyelids, Mr. Clinton speared another potato chunk.

“You don't have to act so mistrusting. It ain't like I'm gonna steal it. I'm marrying into your town and all.” Arnie flung a thick arm around Patience's back.

His fingers mussed her sleeve, but she didn't suppose it would do to throw off one's fiancé's embrace the day before one's wedding.

Especially when Pa already looked out of sorts. Was he still riled up over Matthew's infraction?

“I have a courier service in place. That's all I'll say about it.” This time, Mr. Clinton jabbed two potato chunks with his little fork.

“And wise you are, husband.” Mrs. Clinton slapped her hand on his back with an approving
thwack
. “Why, with the cart winding down those mountain roads, it's the easiest target in sight. We could lose this entire fall's income to one highway robber. Normally, Sheriff Westwood accompanies the shipments, but doesn't seem quite right to pull a family man away from his duties on Christmas Eve.”

“Darling.” Mr. Clinton abandoned his fork to grab his wife's hand.

“Oh, yes, right, sorry. Shouldn't be talking about such things. My husband does have the best head on his shoulders. John, my dear, you would have made a prime candidate for U.S. Marshal if you hadn't gone into the mining business.” Mrs. Clinton subsided.

An awkward silence overtook the table. Arnie looked pleased. Peter looked positively ferocious even though his hand rested over Kitty's on the checkered tablecloth. One would think sitting beside one's lady love would create a more joyous aura. Susannah was too busy shoveling bites into squabbling babes' mouths to have an expression.

Digging into the folds of the fur-lined coat on her chair, Mrs. Clinton produced a tin flask. “Would anyone like a strong drink?”

“Absolutely. Never a man to say no to some whiskey.” Arnie's big hand reached for the flask.

With a screech, Mrs. Clinton jumped up, clasping the steel container to her bosom. The entire table came close to overturning with her motion.

Kitty had to grab the chowder kettle to keep it from upending on their two littlest brothers.

“He's a villain. A villain, I say!” Mrs. Clinton's screech increased in volume.

“You carry alcohol, Mrs. Clinton?” Susannah's eyes widened as she stuffed another piece of meatloaf into her youngest's mouth.

“It's just cherry cordial. Only use it for occasions like these.” Mrs. Clinton somehow managed to scoot her body into the narrow space betwixt table and wall. She struck a defensive pose behind Mr. Clinton's back.

“Cherry cordial?” Arnie's heavy lip curled.

“Patience.” Mrs. Clinton pointed a wobbling finger. She was so overcome, she'd turned red all the way down to her neckline. “I'm expelling you from the temperance league, effective immediately. How could you so shame our society by marrying a man who imbibes? I shan't be decorating your wedding either.”

“It's just a little alcohol, Mrs. Clinton.” Patience raised a roll to her lips. Not that she'd ever intended to marry a man who drank at all. “It's not as if he's a drunk.”

“It's the first drink that starts the downward fall. One day he touches whiskey, next day he'll be dead drunk and beating you black and blue. Don't come knocking on my door when you've got bruises head to foot and a parcel of young'uns in your arms.”

“Since we're to live in Montana, arriving at your door would be difficult.” Patience dropped the roll back on her plate and met Mrs. Clinton's gaze head-on.

Kitty tittered.

Peter most assuredly did not. He looked ready to explode.

“We're leaving.” Mrs. Clinton grabbed Mr. Clinton's shoulder and dragged him away, along with his full spoonful of soup. That man knew how to balance a loaded spoon. They left in a flurry of huffy goodbyes.

Everyone stared at Arnie.

Moving his big hands up to the wall behind, Arnie rested his head on them. His neck cracked in the process. “Don't tell me none of y'all never
opened a flask.”

“Well,” Pa said, but he didn't look pleased.

“I haven't.” Susannah shoved a spoon into her little one's mouth. “I don't even use cooking wine.”

The grandfather clock in the other room ticked. Everyone in the room stared at Arnie.

He stared back.

Susannah's husband stood. “Lovely dinner. Thank you, Mrs. Callahan. Patience, Kitty.” His gaze darted around the table. “We should get the boys to bed now.” Grabbing the two little ones by their suspenders, he exited the room.

“Just keep the pickles,” Susannah said over her shoulder as she followed.

But even Ma didn't acknowledge her. Pa and Ma continued to stare all too intently at Mr. Arnie Dehaven.

“So, Mr. Dehaven—” Pa started with a scowl on his lips.

“I better git to my boardinghouse.” Grabbing two handfuls of rolls, Arnie jostled the table as he exited. “See you tomorrow, Patty-o.” Raising a fistful of rolls, he made a smooching noise. His broad back disappeared out the door.

Kitty leaned towards Patience. “You always hated that nickname.”

“I know.” Patience rested her head on her hands. All at once, she had a massive headache.

“I'll be leaving too. Much obliged for the dinner, Mrs. Callahan.” Peter's low voice hurt her head.

As she rubbed her temples, she heard the sound of his boots clomping away.

~*~

The snow had stopped falling. Moonlight reflected off the thin sheet of white that covered the ground. Peter's breath made mist in the cold night.

Ahead, the dimwit lumbered through the snow as if he'd already downed that flask of whiskey Mrs. Clinton had accused him of. And tomorrow the oaf intended to marry Patience.

Inside his pockets, Peter's hands balled into fists. “So, are you actually a drunkard and wife beater, or just a man who likes his whiskey?” he called out through the snow.

Arnie's head cranked around over his shoulder. “What's it to you?”

“I'm a friend of Patience's. Have been for seven years.”

With a crunch, Arnie swung round on his heel. “You stay out of business between me and my woman.”

A blaze of anger surged through Peter's chest, so hot the winter night felt downright tropical. “She's not your
woman.”

“Will be tomorrow.” Arnie's coat hung open. His big hands rested in his pockets as if he took marrying a wife as lightly as buying another head of cattle.

“She deserves better than the likes of you.” Peter stepped into the man's space. His head barely reached Arnie's shoulder.

“Someone like who? You? Bet you've never even been in a fistfight.” Arnie slammed forward with his hand. His fist struck Peter's stomach.

Stumbling back, Peter clutched his abdomen.

“Come on, sissy boy.” Arnie's fist sank into Peter's right shoulder.

The sound of popping ligaments sounded in his ear.

Reaching into his coat pocket, Arnie pulled out a metal flask and held it to his cracked lips.

Clasping his stinging shoulder with one hand, Peter forced his back upright. His feet spread on the frozen ground. “You had better treat her right.”

“Who'll make me? You?” Arnie snorted. He dropped the flask and swung forward with his right hand.

Peter lunged to intercept it and threw a left-handed punch towards Arnie's chin. His blow landed short, and though Arnie's fist also missed, his massive arm sent Peter flying back all the same.

Cold air whipped by Peter's ears. He landed on his backside on an icy pile of gravel. His shoulder burned, his stomach ached, and his backside didn't feel so good either.

Arnie stomped away chortling, his massive boots pounding against the snowy road.

Peter's shoulders slumped forward. He was a failure. No wonder Patience didn't want him. He couldn't even win a fistfight to defend the honor of the girl he'd loved for seven years.

7

“Your beau's here.” One of Patience's younger brothers called it out in a singsong voice.

Abandoning elbow-deep dishwater, Patience ran for the door. Without even rolling down her sleeves, she jerked her coat off its peg and threw a scarf over her head. Cold wind blew through her unbuttoned coat, sending her scarf flying about her ears as she flung the door open. She needed to have a talk with Mr. Arnie Dehaven, and one that didn't involve Kitty and various other siblings peering over the settee at him.

The morning sun barely illuminated the foggy day. An uneven dusting of snow covered the ground while the clouds above threatened more.

Arnie Dehaven sat astride a muscular black stallion.

How did he manage to bring a horse in a train car from Montana?

“Come on up.” Spurring the horse forward, Arnie leaned sideways off the saddle. As the horse passed her, he grabbed her around the waist and swung her onto the mount…like a sack of potatoes. His arm held her on the saddle, her hair pressed up against his chest.

“Put me down. We need to talk.” Leaning forward, she grabbed the hand that pinned her waist to him. The wind caught her uncovered hair and tore tendrils free.