Chapter Thirty-nine

People began arriving shortly after the noon hour. They came, not bearing gifts for the couple, but cold side dishes and desserts. Scooter Banks and Ralph Neighbors were in charge of the spits where the sides of beef had been turning since early that morning. The aroma of roasting meat wafted in the air and guests caught the scent of it before they sighted the ranch house.

Johnny Sutton, much to his dismay, had labored alone for days constructing enough sawhorses to support a dozen long tables. Fiona insisted on covering the rough wooden planks with blue-and-white-checked cloths. She filled jars and pitchers and little tin pails with wildflowers she’d collected and arranged them carefully on the table tops, each equidistant from the next. Phoebe doubted the waitstaff at Delmonico’s took such pains to be precise, but watching Fiona being mindful of every detail had the power to blur her vision. She ducked behind the curtains in the front room before anyone saw her peeking out.

There was a general cacophony coming from the kitchen. In addition to the very recent hire of a housekeeper, the widowed mother of Jackson Brewer’s wife, Fiona was also paying for the services of three young women from town to assist with the reception. Mrs. Packer, a straight-backed, no-nonsense sort of woman who would have been comfortable wearing epaulets on her shoulders and brass buttons on her cuirass bodice, kept the girls busy and attentive to their tasks when she was in the room. When she stepped away, they tended to snarl and hiss at one another like cats trapped in a bag. Mrs. Packer was away from them now. Pots banged. Dishes clattered. Someone squealed. Phoebe avoided the kitchen.

The parlor was deserted. She stepped inside, closed the pocket doors behind her, and leaned back against them. She closed her eyes. Outside there was a swell of sound as more guests arrived. The back door opened and closed and opened and closed. Women came and went with their baskets. She could hear Mrs. Packer trying to organize the chaos, directing which platters needed to be taken out and which required to be placed on ice. Phoebe recognized Arnie Wilver’s strident voice inquiring of someone if it was time to tap a keg. A chorus of women, Fiona among them, informed him the answer was no.

Phoebe looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. She and Remington were supposed to exchange vows at one thirty. She had forty-five minutes to dress. Fiona had arranged her hair earlier, swept it up in a full pompadour so that it framed her face and sat high over her forehead. Where it was upswept around the sides and back, Fiona had dotted it with seed pearls that she’d picked out of an old necklace and painstakingly glued in her hair. It was a stunning look, Phoebe agreed, but she couldn’t help wondering if hay stems wouldn’t be easier to remove and better suited to a wedding where the men were wearing boots, the woman were wearing banded straw hats, and cows were roasting on spits. She kept this thought to herself. Fiona would have argued that, as the bride, she was expected to occupy center stage. Phoebe was sure that was about to happen.

She was wearing all the appropriate undergarments beneath her robe. Her white silk stockings were held up by ice blue garters, the exact shade of her tightly laced corset. She wore a sheer chemisette under the corset and a frothy, silk taffeta petticoat that rustled with her every step. The rustling sound was oddly seductive and it gave her a little thrill to know that at some point this evening that sound would be for Remington’s ears alone.

The knock behind her made the doors rattle. Phoebe jumped away then turned quickly to hold them closed. “Who’s there?” She was tempted to peek but didn’t dare.

“It’s me.”

“You can’t be here, Remington.”

“Why not? I can’t even see you.” He played with the doors, but it was more in the way of teasing her than out of any real attempt to part them. “Are you dressed?”

“Of course I’m dressed.”

“Mrs. Packer says the last time she saw you, you were still in your robe.”

“Which means I’m dressed.” She could hear him bang his forehead against the doors. She glanced back at the clock. “I have time. Besides, the last I looked, people were still arriving.”

“Sure, and they’ll keep on arriving all afternoon. You have to understand that the early folks are mostly good friends who want to observe the marriage rites; the stragglers will be here for the revelry.”

“I heard Arnie ask if he could tap a keg.”

“Then you probably heard the response. No serious drinking until anyone carrying has his gun put up and we’ve said ‘I do.’ They’re passing flasks, but they’re also getting anxious.”

Phoebe spoke directly into the narrow crack between the doors. “So am I, Remington. I’m wondering if we shouldn’t get married in here.”

“I’m sending in Fiona,” he said in a voice that brooked no argument. “Unless you want someone else. Ellie’s here. She brought someone with her, which was good of her when you think about it. They look handsome together. Would it be better to send her?”

Phoebe shook her head before she realized he couldn’t see her. “No. Not Ellie. I want my mother.”

• • •

Remington held his breath as the front door opened. He was aware of silence rolling through the gathering as one by one people stopped talking and turned their attention to the porch. Standing at his side, Thaddeus whispered a caution. “You’re about to take the ride of your life.”

Remington was sure that was true.

She was something more than enchanting. When Phoebe stepped off the shaded porch and into the sunshine, she was very nearly ethereal. Light wreathed her hair; the seed pearls turned opalescent. A becoming blush colored her cheeks pink. Her lips were a darker shade of rose. Remington suspected she had been worrying them up until the moment she opened the door, and that she had found the courage to come out anyway, made him smile.

Her white silk dress fairly gleamed as she approached. In spite of everyone’s efforts, the carpet of grass the ranch hands had laid down had been trampled to virtually nothing, and the hem and train of the gown stirred puffs of dust where they dragged the ground. The cone-shaped skirt, supported by a rustling taffeta petticoat, flared wide and swung softly from side to side with each step.

The bodice fit her as closely as a kid glove, emphasizing the waist he could almost circle with his hands. From elbow to wrist, the sleeves were tight, but from shoulder to elbow they ballooned in the leg-o’-mutton style that was both fashionable and elegant.

There was an appliqué of beadwork in the bodice that extended into the skirt, a long curlicue that twisted and swirled until it disappeared into the folds of the gown. It teased the eye, winking and sparkling. It glittered, but no more than the flecks of gold in Phoebe’s green eyes. That’s where Remington’s real attention was drawn. The first chance he had, he promised he would lose himself in those eyes.

The opportunity presented itself sooner than he expected. She stepped into his circle, closer than arm’s length, and tilted her head upward. Her smile was shy, but her eyes were confident. He was prepared to drown in those unfathomable depths, but she took his hand and saved him from himself.

The ceremony was a civil one, performed by the Honorable Judge Richard Miner, the same judge who liked to play cards at the Boxwood, the one Phoebe failed to meet when he came to their table. He presided with a solemn, dignified air that he was rarely inclined to use from the bench, but then he was rarely as sober as a judge on those occasions.

He did right by them, articulating each word so they could repeat their vows clearly and with conviction. Some guests thought he sounded as if he were handing down a sentence, and some among them who were married, perhaps not as happily as others, thought a sentence described marriage exactly as it was.

Neither Phoebe nor Remington shared that view, at least not its undesirable connotations, and when it was time to give her the ring, Thaddeus had it at the ready. Remington took it from the heart of his father’s open palm at the same time he raised Phoebe’s hand. She held her gaze steady, her eyes awash with sudden tears. His own vision was a little misty. “My mother’s,” he whispered, slipping the gold band on her finger.

There were more words, then. Traditional words. Phoebe’s hand was warm in his, and only he knew there was a delicate tremble in her fingers. Only she knew how hard he had to swallow before he spoke.

Buggies and wagons were still arriving as Judge Miner called for the kiss in the manner of a man lowering his gavel. To the delight of everyone, Remington swung his bride back over one arm and made the moment a memory that would last. She gasped. He chuckled. The kiss began with a matched pair of smiles, a bit secretive, more than a bit wicked. There was whooping and hollering. Young girls blushed. Young boys stared open-mouthed and envious. Thaddeus caught Fiona by the waist and pulled her close, and when the kiss did not end in a timely manner, Johnny Sutton began a round of foot stomping and clapping that others quickly picked up.

It was like thunder in Phoebe’s ears, but Remington barely heard it above the pounding of his heart.

They were both laughing a little breathlessly when Remington ended the kiss and they were finally standing side by side. Judge Miner introduced the couple to another round of applause and, having completed his duties, called out for someone to tap a keg and be quick about it.

There was no formal receiving line, but it seemed to Phoebe that everyone, or nearly everyone, sought them out to wish them well. She glimpsed Ellie Madison several times, usually in a clutch of people that included Ben and at least one of the other hands. She understood why Ellie did not approach. With Fiona and Thaddeus standing close by, Ellie’s presence would have been, at the very least, awkward, and perhaps unwanted, and while all parties would have been on their best behavior, there was no good reason to tempt a drama.

Phoebe promised herself she would seek Ellie out later and make sure she was properly welcomed. Even Fiona had expressed feeling charitable toward Ellie of late; it was Thaddeus who, by his stony silence, communicated disapproval.

Remington inclined his head a few degrees toward Phoebe and whispered out of the side of his mouth. “If one more person congratulates me with a hearty clap on the back, I’m going to slug him.” The words were hardly out of his mouth when Jackson Brewer sidled up and did just that. Remington smiled through gritted teeth. “I am sorely tempted,” he said.

Only Phoebe understood what he meant and she ignored him in favor of greeting Addie Brewer, who she recalled was Remington’s first love when he was a student in her classroom. Those school days became fodder for some good-natured ribbing at Remington’s expense until Jackson swept his wife away.

Phoebe slipped her arm through her husband’s. “You bore that very well. And no one was slugged. I credit your deep well of patience.”

“Uh-huh.” He underscored his dry response with an even drier look.

Thaddeus closed in just then. “The dancing’s about to begin as long as you begin it. Les has his fiddle out. Hank Greely brought his and Bob Washburn has his banjo. I told them to set up on the porch.”

People parted around them as soon as Les Brownlee scratched out the first few notes tuning his instrument. When the playing began in earnest, Remington and Phoebe were ready.

It occurred to Phoebe that they had never danced together, but that did not seem to matter. Without knowing the steps or the tune or even if she would ever catch her breath again, she held him, held on, and followed his lead through a series of spins and dips and sashays that were unlike anything she had known. It was not long before Fiona and Thaddeus joined them, and then the sheriff and his wife, and soon the center of the front yard was filled with a kaleidoscope of color as men twirled their ladies and the ladies twirled their skirts. There was enough stomping to shake the ground and enough raucous laughter to wake the dead.

Phoebe changed partners frequently, beginning when Thaddeus caught her in his arms. At first she looked wildly around to make sure Fiona was not abandoned, but then she saw Remington stepping in with no hesitation and Fiona accepting in the same manner.

Thaddeus saw the direction of her glance. “They’ll be fine. Have you noticed? It is better every day.”

Phoebe nodded because speaking would have meant losing her rhythm. She was not as confident of Thaddeus’s lead as she had been of Remington’s.

“I am to be congratulated, of course,” he said. “Fiona called me a shadkhn. Am I saying that right?”

Phoebe nodded again.

“I thought she was cursing me at first, and perhaps she was. She didn’t think Remington was right for you, or you for him, but I knew. I knew from the first. And that was when I met you in New York, not when I saw the two of you together. Not bad, I think, for an old man.”

Before Phoebe could think of a response, let alone manage one, she found herself in the sheriff’s arms. And so it went from partner to partner until Remington caught her again and twirled her out of the center of the circle to the edge of it. Someone—she did not know who—put a glass of beer in her hand and she drank it with the gusto of a cowboy bellying up to the bar after months on the range.

Remington lifted the glass from her hand and finished it. He passed off the empty glass to someone walking by. “You’re flushed,” he said, looking her over. “And quite beautiful with it. Come on, we can sneak away for a few minutes while you catch your breath.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, turned her, and gave her a nudge toward the side of the house. Once she was moving in that direction, he took a beer from Arnie, who was holding one in each hand.

“Hey!” Arnie called after Remington, watching his beer being carried away.

Remington looked back over his shoulder and grinned. “Thanks.” He rounded the corner of the house, the relatively quiet corner, and found Phoebe leaning against the roughly timbered wall. “Here,” he said, giving her the beer. “Go easy. It’s early yet, the sun’s out, there will be more dancing, and you don’t want to stagger at your own wedding. That’s for other people to do.”

She thanked him and raised the glass. This time she was not greedy with the drink. She let him wipe a foam mustache from her upper lip. “I’ve seen more than a few no-chins. You?”

“Yes.”

“I danced with some. One of them had a poorly set nose. I could barely stop staring.”

“I know. I saw. And I didn’t like it.”

“Jealous? Or concerned for my toes?”

“Jealous,” he said. “And concerned for your safety.”

“Remington. What did you think could happen?”

“Remember the catastrophes you imagined when you were alone in Old Man McCauley’s cabin? It was like that.” When she laughed instead of offering sympathy, he confiscated the beer and enjoyed two large swallows before he passed it back. “Did any of them introduce themselves?”

“Tim Brownlee. He’s Les’s youngest brother. Another was a cousin. Ned Washington. Oh, and the flat bridge was a Putty, or a Petty. I can’t be sure. He did not mention any connection to Les. He mumbled, and he was nearly as breathless as I was. Hoyle. Doyle. Royal. He did enjoy the dancing, though. You know, I had the oddest sense that I’d seen him before. It can’t have been on the train, so I don’t know where it could have been. I wasn’t prepared for that. I’ll have to think about it.”

“I don’t believe for a moment that his last name is Petty, and neither do you. I’m going to keep an eye on him.” He set his hands on either side of her shoulders and bent his head to steal a kiss.

Phoebe touched her mouth with her fingertips. “More beer foam?”

“Nope. I was just hankerin’ for a taste of your fine lips.”

She laughed. “Fool.”

He shrugged, helped himself to a second tasting, and then stepped back. “Did you see Ellie?”

“I did, but not who she brought. I want to be certain to speak to her and thank her for coming. I won’t let on that I know the reason she’s not working here any longer.”

“She probably thinks we both know.”

“I don’t care. I’m not going to confirm it and embarrass her.” She took another sip of beer and then placed the glass against her forehead. The beer was warm but glass felt cool against her skin. “Did you ever ask Thaddeus about Ellie being bought out by her husband’s partners?”

“Odd you’d ask me now. I just mentioned it to him the other day when we were banished because Mrs. Fish was here for your fitting. He said it was too long ago for him to remember the details, but that it sounded right.”

Phoebe frowned. “Thaddeus said he didn’t remember the details?”

“I know. That sounded wrong to me, too.”

“Hmm.”

“I let it go. It didn’t seem as if anything good would come of challenging him.” He saw Phoebe was about to respond, but before she could, Mrs. Packer rounded the corner and their marginal sense of privacy was gone. The housekeeper set her hands on wide hips and took a militant stance. It was very different than what Ellie would have done, but it was equally effective. “We’re coming, Mrs. Packer.”

“See that you do. Your guests are milling about the tables looking to help themselves. The children can barely contain themselves, and I don’t like shooin’ them away. Poor dears. It isn’t right. Come and get yourselves a plate so folks can have a bite before their bellies are full of liquor.” She started to turn, stopped, “Oh, and there’s a young fella looking for you. He was talking up Thaddeus and Fiona the last I saw him, and I think he’s already been into the blueberry pie.”

Remington and Phoebe exchanged surprised, then knowing, glances before they returned their attention to Mrs. Packer. They said his name at the same time. “Handy McKenzie.”