Chapter Thirty-eight

Phoebe sat huddled in one corner of the porch swing, her skirt smoothed over her drawn-up knees. “What was I thinking?” she asked Remington. “Was I thinking? You were there. Did it seem as if I was conscious?”

“You were conscious.”

“Maybe I was concussed.”

“You were not concussed.”

Phoebe snorted.

“Doubts?” he asked. A smile played around his mouth but he was careful to restrain it.

“Of course. Don’t you have any?”

“No.”

She blinked. “Truly?”

He shook his head and toed the floor to put the swing in motion. “None.”

“Not about the marriage,” she said. “The wedding.”

“Ah, the madness.” He pretended to think about it. “It will be fine. You’ll see.”

“Of course I’ll see. I have to be there. But whether it will be fine is something else entirely. Did you know Thaddeus was going to invite everyone? Everyone? He advertised in the Frost Falls Register, the Liberty Junction Gazette, and the Collier Sentinel. People from all over the county will arrive.”

“Not an advertisement. More like an announcement. I’m his only son—we think—and you’re his only daughter, I’d guess you’d say, so it’s natural that he’d want—” He stopped because the pointed toe of her kid boot found its target in his thigh. “Ow. What was that for?”

“You know. You said it on purpose to get a rise out of me, and you did, so I will not apologize for it, and you should stop grinning. It is not amusing. I am most definitely not your father’s daughter.”

He removed her foot from where it was pressing against his leg and pushed it back toward her. “All right. We are not brother and sister in any fashion and I pity the person who wonders about it aloud.”

Phoebe rested her face in her hands a moment. “Oh, Lord. I shall have to shoot someone.”

“Yes, well, we have that to look forward to. With any luck it will be a no-chin Putty.”

That made her giggle a little wildly from behind her hands.

Remington patted her knee. “It’s going to be all right, Phoebe. I swear it is. Fiona says you have bridal nerves. I didn’t know what she meant, but I think I’m seeing them now.”

Phoebe lowered her hands. “When did you start paying attention to anything Fiona said?”

He shrugged. “Since I realized she is going to be my mother-in-law. I am trying to make peace or at least keep it. She apologized to me, you know.”

“No. I didn’t.”

“I don’t suppose she could tell you because that would mean admitting to what she did in the first place. It was hard enough for her to speak to me about what happened. She rambled a bit, circled the thing for a while, but then she got it out. All of it. It was uncomfortable for both of us, and I am confident we will never speak of it again.”

“Did she say why she tried to seduce you?”

He shivered a little, remembering. “No, and I didn’t ask. I’m leaning toward her wanting to make my father jealous, but I don’t need to know her reasons. And please don’t say ‘seduce’ again. I’m done with it.”

Phoebe laid a hand over the one he had on her knee. “I’m glad.” She smiled a tad unevenly as her thoughts moved to what lay ahead. “How many people do you imagine will show up?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I don’t, do I?” She sighed. “My dress arrived. Ben was dispatched to town to pick it up. Your father again. It’s incredible to me that he could choose something that I would have chosen for myself.”

“He might have had some help.”

“Fiona? I don’t think so. She and I have very different tastes.”

“Not Fiona.”

Phoebe stared at him. “You? You helped him?”

“Maybe.”

“You are certainly full of surprises.” She laughed when he affected a modest shrug. “I don’t know how the two of you did it, or when you did it, and I suppose your motives had something to do with me not changing my mind, but I don’t even care about that. Mrs. Fish is coming here tomorrow morning to manage the alterations. That was Fiona’s idea. She needed to fuss and would not accept that I could make the nips and tucks myself.” She pointed a finger at Remington. “And you will be discharged to some far corner of Twin Star so there is no possibility of you seeing me in the dress until Saturday. Thaddeus, too. Fiona does not trust him not to peek and tell you how enchanting I look in it.”

“It’s disappointing, but not unexpected, and just so you know, enchanting is exactly what we had in mind.”

She regarded him dubiously. “If you say so.” They fell into an easy conversation, then, reviewing the plans for the reception. There were the details that needed to be discussed for any after-wedding repast, but there were additional things to consider in regard to the roundup. Fiona, who felt more strongly about observing certain refinements about the wedding than Phoebe did, insisted that Thaddeus hire a photographer to make a record of the event. Thus, there would be a wedding album and photographic evidence of the guests, particularly the no-chin Puttys. Remington and Jackson Brewer judged it was too dangerous for John Manypenny to appear at the wedding, even if he agreed to make the journey from his sister’s, but having him look over photographs seemed like something they could insist that he do.

Nothing was sure. No one could know for certain that the men they were seeking would be among the guests, or if they were, whether or not they might allow themselves to be photographed. There was no proof that the no-chins were part of the Putty clan. It seemed unlikely that the men who had worn the blue bandannas would appear at a reception with those same kerchiefs dangling from their back pockets.

And yet, they were hopeful. If Les Brownlee had accurately described the antics of the Puttys, there was a good chance they’d be drawn to an event that promised an opportunity to get liquored up and carry on. There would be dancing, carousing, plenty of food, a fair number of single women, and what might prove to be the irresistible urge to rub elbows with Phoebe Apple and the law. There would be a certain kind of satisfaction in getting close to her, perhaps even asking her to dance, confident in their anonymity. They’d see Jackson Brewer among the guests, maybe have a laugh behind his back, viewing him as the hapless sheriff who couldn’t track them down. It was easy to imagine them exchanging elbow jabs when they saw Remington Frost and recalled that he had been so helpless to stop them on the train that they had not cared whether they stepped on or over him.

Those were the behaviors Remington and Phoebe hoped to see, the reactions that could place them apart from others and make them worth watching as the evening wore on. No one was particularly worried that they would be an excess of trouble. Few guests would arrive wearing or carrying guns, and those that did would have them taken and put up to prevent mishaps. Breaking with what Phoebe had called a Frost tradition, this was not a shotgun wedding.

• • •

“He ain’t to be found,” Doyle said. He knuckled the flat bridge of his nose. “You know what I’m thinking, Willet. I’m thinking we was lied to.”

“Uh-huh,” Willet said mildly. “Seems so.” The newspaper rattled in his hands as he shook out the creases to give it a new fold. He largely ignored his brother, which was easier to do when Natty wasn’t around.

Doyle gave Willet a sour look before he heaved a sigh and leaned back on the wooden bench they occupied. The Harmony train station was hardly bigger than an outhouse. When he stretched his legs, the toes of his dusty boots touched the base of stationmaster’s counter. The stationmaster was no longer at his post but had stepped outside to smoke. Doyle could see flakes of tobacco and ashes dusting the floor so it was clear the old man didn’t always smoke out on the platform, but it suited Doyle just fine that the stationmaster didn’t seem to care for present company. Doyle didn’t much care for anyone at the moment either, including his brother, who had about as much to offer to their present dilemma as a side of beef. “Can’t believe the whore lied,” he said, mostly to himself. There was a large slate hanging on the wall behind the counter with the train schedule neatly printed in chalk. For lack of anything better to look at, Doyle stared at it. “Cashdollar. What the hell kind of name is Cashdollar? Fabricated. That’s what it is. A fabrication. You know what a fabrication is, Willet?”

Willet did not look up from behind his paper. “A goddamn lie?”

“That’s right. It’s a goddamn lie. She made it up, right there on the spot. There was money on her bureau. Bills. Cash. Dollar. See? Cashdollar. It probably inspired her. She died with a lie on her lips. She’ll have to answer for that when judgment’s passed. I reckon a lot of other things, too, her bein’ a whore and all.”

“There’s that.”

Doyle set his folded arms across his chest. “You figure she lied to them? The deputy? Frost? The Apple girl?”

“Maybe.”

“Then they don’t know any more than we do.”

“And maybe not,” said Willet.

Doyle’s hands curled into fists. “Damnit, Willet, I’ve got a good mind to put my fist through that paper, and if it connects with your face, then . . .” He shrugged. “You see where I’m goin’ here?”

Willet lowered the paper, gave it another shake, and folded it neatly into eighths. He held it out for Doyle to take, the item of interest centered on top. When Doyle showed no interest, Willet waved it in front of his face.

Doyle snarled, snatched the broadsheet as if it offended him, and held it almost at arm’s length to see. He still had to squint. He read it through quickly the first time and was nearly at the end when he understood the import of what he was reading. Once he did, he began again, more slowly. His lips moved as he read. When he was done, his lips moved around words that were not on the page.

“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” he whispered. “They’re gettin’ hitched.”

“Yep.”

“Am I readin’ this right? Open invitation? Friends, family, town folk, friends and relatives of town folk, friends and relatives of folks associated with Twin Star. That’d be merchants and breeders and stockmen. Lord, from what I’m seein’, it could be the whole damn county.”

“Yep.”

“Les is there.”

“Uh-huh.” Willet held out his hand for the paper.

Doyle slapped it into his palm. “Seems like we could go regardless, but havin’ Les there makes it better, I think. More . . .” He paused, searching for the right word. “Genuine. Like we have more reason to be there than other folks.”

“Don’t know about that.” Willet flicked the article with a fingertip. “It says right here that everyone’s welcome to come celebrate the nuptials. Real friendly.”

“Real quick, too. Saturday. Kinda makes you wonder why. Could be there’s some urgency. Maybe there’s really a baby on the way this time.” He shook his head. “She pulled the wool over our eyes on the train, and damn, but I hate to be taken for a fool. I wanted to drive my fist into her belly when I heard the truth.”

“Hope that’s behind you, Doyle. That’s not the sort of thing you’ll be able to do in front of witnesses, and I figure there will be a couple hundred of them there.”

Doyle shrugged. “Maybe not, but it warms me some to think about it. You reckon she’ll be there?”

“She’s the bride. Of course she’ll be there.”

“No, I mean Ellie Madison. Aren’t you curious how she’ll be if we show ourselves?”

“Not exactly curious,” said Willet. “But I figure this wedding is a fine opportunity to remind her how things stand. That’s a woman you don’t want gettin’ ideas in her head and speakin’ out of turn. She’s a loose end.”

“So that’s your game.”

Willet nodded. “You have somethin’ else in mind?”

“Maybe.” Doyle pointed to the newspaper in Willet’s hand. “You gotta figure that if they paid for the gal when she was just Miss Phoebe Apple, they’d pay that and more once she’s Mrs. Remington Frost.”

• • •

Phoebe brushed bits of hay off the bodice and skirt of her calico day dress and knocked Remington’s hand out of the way when he tried to pluck more bits out of her hair. “Attend to yourself,” she said, giving him a withering glance.

More amused than chastised, Remington finger-combed his hair and brushed stray pieces of hay off his shoulders, some of which drifted onto her dress.

Phoebe pointed to a spot three feet distant. “Move over there. You’re making it worse.” When Remington merely grinned, she scooted sideways. “I don’t know how I let myself get talked into coming up here with you.”

“Sweet talk. I sweet-talked you into it.”

“Yes,” she said dryly. “That must be it.” The smile he turned on her was a shade wicked, and Phoebe was reminded that talking, sweet or otherwise, had nothing at all to do with why she was in the barn loft. “You know, you’re getting to be as good as Johnny Sutton at shirking work.”

“I know. The boy is an inspiration.”

Phoebe tossed a handful of hay at him. “Work on that.”

Remington’s attempt was haphazard at best before he gave up. Leaning back, he stretched out comfortably and supported himself on his elbows while he watched her. “Ben mentioned in passing that his mother is coming to the wedding.”

“I know. Fiona told me. He must have said something to Thaddeus.”

“Actually, I did, but that’s neither here nor there. Thaddeus had hoped Ellie would find a reason not to come, but he’s not going to insist she stay away. Ben still doesn’t know why his mother left—not the truth—and my father wants to keep it that way as long as Ellie does.”

“I’m glad she’ll be here, and only a little bit of that is because of Ben. I like Ellie, and I’m sorry it all ended so badly for her. I imagine that if I had a rival for your affections, I’d offer her money to leave, too.”

“A lot of money?”

“Enough to purchase the pine box I’d put her in.”

He laughed then sobered abruptly. “Wait. You’re serious.”

Phoebe merely raised an eyebrow.

“Well, that’s something to think about.” He batted away the next handful of hay that she tossed at him. “What did Fiona have to say about Ellie coming?”

“Interestingly, she wasn’t bothered at all.”

“So there won’t be a cat fight.”

“You probably should not sound disappointed when you say that.”

“Noted.” Watching her, he cocked his head to one side. Her meticulous grooming fascinated him. He could imagine her sitting at a vanity, her gaze looking past her reflection to where he sat on the bed. Maybe she was preparing to join him, or perhaps she was repairing the plait of hair he had unwound when she was lying beside him. It struck him anew how truly lovely she was, how indifferent she was to it, how unaffected. He couldn’t say when she had ceased to make unfavorable comparisons to Fiona, only that it had happened. She believed him when he told her she was beautiful, but she liked it better when he said she was clever.

He was tempted to test those waters as she plucked a long hay stem out of her hair, but he said nothing about the fact that she beguiled him. She was certainly astute enough to divine he wanted a chance at a second tumble. He picked up the piece of hay she dropped aside and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger.

“You know,” he said casually, “if you’d married me in Liberty Junction, you wouldn’t have to say your vows in front of a packed house on Saturday.”

“I’m aware. I’ve played for an audience before, so I know I’ll be fine, but I’m thinking you might have stage fright.”

“Maybe, but to be clear, we are not playing at anything. This is real.”

Unconcerned that she was burrowing into the hay again, Phoebe threw herself at him with enough force to drop him off his elbows. She cupped his face and kept it still while hovering above him. “I know this is real. Never doubt it. Perhaps I should not have offered our wedding reception as a means to capture Blue’s murderers, but it’s done and I’m unlikely to have regrets if we’re successful. As for the wedding itself, I have no regrets. None. Ever.”

She kissed him on the mouth. It surprised neither of them that this kiss lingered. And lingered.

Without quite knowing how it happened or what he had done to provoke it, Remington got his chance at a second tumble. He took it.