Chapter Forty

“Damn if I didn’t dance with her.” Doyle practically cackled with glee. He poked his brother in the ribs with his elbow. “Did you see? Didn’t think I did too badly. At least I wasn’t stepping all over her toes. Caught her gown once, but she just swept it aside and kept on goin’. You gotta like a gal who can do that.”

Willet dug Doyle’s elbow out of his side and pushed his brother away. “That hurts. You gotta stop jabbing at me. I get what you’re sayin’ without the physicality.”

“Physicality. Huh. I like that. You read that somewhere, Willet?”

“Shut up,” he said tiredly. “How much have you had to drink? I saw you posing for a photograph with some young gal on your arm. You think that’s wise?”

“Don’t you worry about me.” Doyle lifted his hat, raked his hair, and set the hat back. “You see her?”

Willet didn’t ask who “her” was. He knew. “Sure did. More important, I saw who’s with her.”

“Huh? Doyle looked around before he recalled Ellie Madison’s diminutive stature. The press of people around the tables, the roasting spit, and the liquor bar was too thick for him to find her without standing on tiptoes or stepping up to the porch. He gave up, trusted that Willet would tell him. “So? You gonna keep me on pins and needles?”

“Natty’s here.”

“What?” In contrast to Willet’s quiet answer, Doyle’s response was loud enough to turn heads.

“Would you mind yourself?” Willet hissed. “You damn well heard me so there’s no point in asking ‘what’ like you don’t know what I said. And I don’t care if it surprised you, keep it to yourself.”

“What’s he doin’ here?” asked Doyle. “He see you? You talk to him?”

“I don’t know if he’s seen me. I’ve been doin’ my best to stay clear, so you better believe I haven’t talked to him.”

“Damn.”

“I really wish you hadn’t danced with the bride, Doyle. Kinda hard to believe he didn’t see that.”

Doyle shrugged. It was done and there was nothing he could do about it. “Where is he now? I don’t see him.”

“He’s got a beard. Looks a mite different than you’re used to.”

“A beard, eh? Don’t reckon I’ve ever known him to have one.” Doyle didn’t think the beard was particularly important in locating their former partner. In contrast to Ellie Madison’s petite stature, Natty Rahway was almost six feet and should have been easy to spot. “Damn, where’d he get to?”

“I don’t know. I lost him. Ellie, too. They could have gone inside the house. Maybe the barn. I noticed Ellie hasn’t been much for helping, so I asked about it. Casual-like, you know. Seems she left Twin Star. Not long ago, but she’s here as a guest. She took a job at the Butterworth Hotel.”

“The Butterworth. Huh. Ain’t that somethin’?” He thought about it a little longer. “Why d’you suppose she did that?”

“Couldn’t say. But I have a mind to ask when we cross paths. And we will. I’ll make damn sure of it.”

• • •

Phoebe sank into the chair that Handy pushed against the backs of her knees. “Thank you. Oh, sweet Lord, thank you.”

Handy stepped around the chair so she could see him and gave her a wide toothy grin. “You want I should get you something to eat? To drink?”

“No.” The thought of eating or drinking anything at this point in the day made her slightly queasy. She had had her fill three times over, and in spite of the chemisette she was wearing under her corset, the stays were gouging her.

The sun had dipped behind the mountains and dusk was settling. There was a group of guests who left in the late afternoon, most of them with children in tow, but there were still dozens and dozens of people congregating in small groups of three and four, grazing at the long tables, dancing around the bonfire that Scooter and Ralph built where the spits had been. Les Brownlee and his fellow fiddlers were indefatigable with a seemingly endless repertoire of melodies at their fingertips. No one had been able to call out a song they couldn’t play, or at least one they couldn’t make up.

“Have you seen my husband?” Phoebe asked Handy. She liked saying “my husband” and used it whenever she could instead of his given name.

“I saw him go into the bunkhouse a while ago. Some fellows hustled him in there. Wedding shenanigans, Mrs. Tyler said, but I think there might be a card game. Leastways I heard Mr. Tyler say so, and he’s gotta nose for sniffin’ out a card game.”

Phoebe looked around and saw that Ben, Scooter, Ralph, Arnie, and Johnny all seemed to have disappeared. Most likely it was shenanigans, but she said, “Cards? At my wedding reception?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Phoebe could not muster the energy to affect even mild annoyance. She patted the bench beside her chair. “Sit here, Handy. Is Mr. Tyler in there with my husband?”

“No. His missus got a firm grip on his arm and steered him away.”

She sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to learn how to do that.”

“Oh, I think it’ll come to you natural, and ma’am?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think Mr. Frost is going to give you much trouble.”

Phoebe couldn’t help laughing. Handy entertained her for quite a while, mostly with stories about his experiences at the Boxwood, and many of those were about Mrs. Jacob C. Tyler, who had returned to Saint Louis three days before the wedding announcement appeared in the paper. Except for those times when guests came by to introduce themselves and extend more good wishes, Handy happily chattered on.

Thaddeus strolled over. He pulled out a handkerchief as he sat beside Handy and wiped his brow. “I swear to you, dancing has me more tuckered than a week of roping and wrestling calves.” He pointed to Fiona, who was high stepping with a new partner. “She has not lacked for attention since the music began. I know it’s your wedding, Phoebe, but this is your mother’s coming-out party. I should have had some kind of shindig when I brought her out here.” He tucked his handkerchief away and looked around. “Speaking of inattentive and cloddish husbands, where is yours?”

“In the bunkhouse, according to Handy. I think your men are plying him with drink and feeding him the kind of wedding night stories that are not fit for female ears. It’s all right, though. He’ll tell me later.”

Thaddeus laughed. “Handy, if you would be so kind, I sure could use a beer.” Handy launched himself off the bench before Thaddeus could tell the boy he wasn’t to sample any of the drink.

Phoebe watched Fiona twirl like a dervish with her partner’s expert guidance. She lifted her chin in that direction. “Who is he?”

“Couldn’t tell you. Too many people here I don’t know, have never seen before, and am likely to never see again.”

“He looks familiar,” she said, studying the man as he matched Fiona’s steps. He was tall, slim-hipped, and broad-shouldered. Unlike many of the men present—Remington and Thaddeus also being notable exceptions—he wore a high-buttoned, single-breasted box-cut suit, black peg-top trousers, and a black vest. Under the vest was a crisp white shirt, and above it was a high, stiff collar. In spite of his exertions, he looked at his ease and, most miraculously, managed to keep his felt derby secured on his head. His dark hair and mustache were neatly trimmed, his beard only a little less so. He could have been a professional gambler or an undertaker, Phoebe thought, but what he wasn’t was a no-chin relative of Les Brownlee’s. That eased her mind.

“I should cut him out,” said Thaddeus. He didn’t move, though. Instead, he sighed. “She looks very well on his arm, doesn’t she? And he’s of an age with her.”

“What does that have to do with anything? Besides, I just realized why he caught my eye earlier. He was on Ellie’s arm. I think he’s her escort. Get back in there, Thaddeus, before there’s scratching and clawing and someone’s dress is left in tatters.”

“But . . . my beer.”

Phoebe placed her hand on his back and gave him a less than gentle shove. “Never fear. Handy will find you.” She stood and continued to nudge him toward the dancing. “Likewise, I’m off to find my husband. If you have any kindness in your heart, you will not organize a search party for us.”