Bride Blunder (10 page)

Midge sat on an unlined pew, her back not touching the wood rest behind her, posture rigid as a poker stick as she listened to Parson Carter speak about trust and hope.

She chewed the inside of her lip until it made her wince, realized that would give her away, and forced herself to stop. Still the man kept yammering on and on, misleading the entire town as everyone around her sat there, lapping up the lies as though they were soul-saving truths. Midge switched to a new little game to keep herself from bursting out with her opinion and disgracing the family who'd done so much for her.

Not for all the satisfaction in the world would she embarrass—or worse, hurt—Saul, Clara, Doreen, and Josiah Reed. So instead, she listened to Parson Carter like she never had before. Tuning out everything else, she raised her boot heel and tapped the fresh cut on her leg every time he said “hope.” It kept her grounded, gave her something to focus on. It wasn't until she felt a wet warmth around her toes she realized she'd opened it again ... and that, perhaps, it was deeper than she'd originally thought.

No matter. Small wounds stung, bled, scabbed, and healed. It was the deeper ones a body had to watch out for. The ones that made people with sense want to cover their ears and race away when folks proclaimed how good and great God was. Only Midge knew He had her trapped now. So she went ahead and considered the problem that had plagued her since Dr. Saul Reed swept into her life.

Which one's worse—me or God? God, for knowing everything but not paying enough attention to listen to Nancy's prayers but granting mine when I begged for a different life? Or me, for forgetting to ask that Nancy could come with me?

The searing, dry, scratchy feeling clawed its way up the back of her throat to her eyelids until the heat of tears stung the dryness away. Midge willed the tears away, digging her fingernails into her palms in rhythmic squeezes until it seemed the series of red half-moons would never fade. They would. They always did.

But for now, the important thing was that they got rid of the tears so no one would know how much she hated sitting here. How much she hated pretending to belong next to the Reeds, how much she wanted to scream at them all to wake up—that they deserved better than a God who wouldn't come through for them when they most needed Him. Midge knew it—she'd lived it. Her sister lived it ... then died from it. And all the pretty praise songs in the world wouldn't change it.

So she went back to the circle of questions she'd chased since she first realized they were chasing her back.
I'm worse—Nancy was my sister, and it was my fault we got kicked out of the textile mill and she fell in with Rodney. It fell to me to protect her, and when I couldn't do it in life, I absolutely could have in my prayers. I deserved to be punished for being so selfish.

Only, there was a problem with this answer. The same problem she'd come up against for the past four years. Did Midge deserve to be punished? Without a doubt.

But Nancy didn't. Nancy deserved all the wonderful things in the world, and instead God gave her sorrow and pain and death. So either He wasn't paying close enough attention, because He got the wrong sister, or He knew hurting Nancy would hurt me most.
She sucked in a sharp breath.

Because the cycle didn't end there. Four years ago, when she first came to Buttonwood, Midge had been convinced prayer didn't work. God either didn't hear them or didn't care. The reason why prayer proved ineffective didn't matter so much as the fact it was. Back then, Midge was still stuck on the fact she'd asked for a better life, and she hadn't realized she only assumed God would know that included Nancy.

At one point, Clara almost had her convinced she'd gotten it turned wrong way around and she needed to add more praise to her prayers and less requests. So after thinking on it, Midge decided to give it one last try—and thanked God for the one solid thing she couldn't help but be thankful for. She praised him for the fine house that kept her and the new people she cared about safe and happy.

The next day, it burned down—almost killing Clara and Opal in the process. As she looked at the ashes, Midge knew that something had gone wrong. Either she'd messed up her prayers somehow, or God had botched up again. Whichever way, it was a pattern she didn't plan on repeating.

But even as she sat on that stiff pew in the middle of church, vowing once again not to get caught up in that same problem, Midge couldn't help but make one small comment—and if God heard her, so be it.

All right, maybe we both messed up. But only one of us is supposed to be perfect....

Amos sat beside his mother and the oldest of his younger brothers in church, enjoying what he found to be a first-rate sermon. Church was the one time Midge didn't command his attention—even though she always fidgeted the whole way through. But by the end of today's teaching, he'd cast more than a few concerned glances her way.

Her face—more tan than just about any other woman's he'd ever known, since she hardly ever wore her bonnet—went oddly white. It made her freckles stand out more, but for once Amos didn't find it entrancing. Something was wrong—and he wanted to know what it was.

No,
he admitted to himself,
I want to take care of whatever the problem is and bring back her smile.
Not that he had any right. Or even that he should want to take such a role in her life.
But I do. Midge Collins caught my attention four years ago, and when I saw her again in Buttonwood, it seemed she'd never let go.

So Amos had done a fair bit of praying, talked it over with Ma, and made his decision. His fascination with this woman hadn't ebbed—so it stood to reason God was pointing him in her direction.
She's running away from me just as fast, but it's been a steady pull, and the Lord will have His way with us both.

At the conclusion of the service, while everyone clustered around the miller and Miss Chandler, Amos hunted down a few folks who wouldn't need today's introduction. It took a little doing, but with the right maneuvering, he managed to get Dr. Saul Reed, the doctor's father, Josiah, and both their wives on the far side of the church. Away from everyone else.

Not a one of them said a word—he wouldn't have if he were in their boots. All four looked at him expectantly—unblinking. If he didn't find it so amusing, it would be downright eerie. As it stood, he got the impression they already knew the general reason he'd snuck them over for a private conversation.

“Afternoon, Reeds.” He gave a respectful nod—directed mostly toward the men. “I appreciate you coming over to talk with me on such short notice.”

“So talk.” From anyone else, the words might have sounded short, but Josiah Reed had a smile on his lips and a knowing look in his eye that told of a good nature.

“Don't rush the man, Josiah.” His wife, an even better-natured woman by the name of Doreen, if Amos recalled rightly, shot her husband a warning glance before fixing her gaze on him once again. And again, forgetting how to blink.

“No rush at all. I want you to know I've taken my time about this, brought it before the Lord before bringing the matter to you.” Approving nods—and restless fidgeting from Dr. Reed's wife—met this pronouncement. “Normally, I'd just speak with Dr. Reed about this matter, but your family is as close as mine, and that's something I respect. So I stand before all of you this afternoon, seeking your permission to court Miss Collins.”

“I knew it!” Clara Reed burst out. “Knew it at the dinner party. You have my approval, Mr. Geer.”

“Same here.” Josiah added his two cents. “Now that you spit it out.” A wink softened his gripe.

“Well, aren't you two quick to agree?” Dr. Reed raised his brows at his wife and father. “Traditionally, the man explains what he has to offer the girl and why he's interested.”

“That's when he's asking permission to propose,” his wife reminded. “Mr. Geer only asked about courting.”

“I knew right off Clara was the match for you,” Josiah reminded his son of a fact Amos hadn't even known. “Maybe someday you'll learn to trust my instincts.”

“Midge trusts her own instincts.” The elder Mrs. Reed's quiet voice cut through the chatter. “And she avoids Mr. Geer.” Her brows drew together. “I'm not entirely certain that's a bad sign, but it's by no means something I assume to be good. So I'll leave it at this: You've my approval to spend as much time with Midge as she'll allow. If you're the right man, you'll convince her to see things your way.”

“She avoids you?” The good doctor seemed to be tabulating something in his head.

“Yes.” Bad as it sounded, Amos wouldn't lie. “I disconcert her. She seems rather used to getting her way and winning most battles of wit or will.”

“You've answered my next question—whether you know her well enough to be sure you want to court her.”

“Well enough to want to know more—though I've a question I'd like answered, if you wouldn't mind.” Amos jumped on Dr. Reed's statement. “Something I surmised, but Midge won't admit or explain. I'd appreciate it if you'd shed some light on the topic.”

Uneasy glances and surreptitious head shakes had him wondering what the Reeds feared he'd ask. “We'll try,” seemed the best he could hope for.

“The night of the dinner party, I noticed Midge seemed unusually preoccupied with keeping order in the kitchen. I think she hides a fear of fire.”

“No wonder she avoids you—you pay such close attention.” Most people would have missed Doreen's comment beneath a flurry of explanations, but Amos heard it loud and clear.

That means Midge hides more than one secret. I wonder what they are?
He tucked the intriguing question away to play with later.

For now, he listened as Clara Reed's voice won out and she started over again with an answer to his question. “Four years ago, we had a house fire. Opal Speck—Grogan, now—and I were inside, and we almost didn't make it out. Saul and Adam pulled us to safety. Ever since then, Midge has become very vigilant about keeping watch over the stove ... even though it was a fireplace that caused the problem.”

“I see. It makes sense now.”

“She's very protective of those she loves.” A smile spread across Dr. Reed's face. “Midge needs a strong man, and so far none in Buttonwood have been able to match her.” He stuck out his hand for a firm shake. “It's settled. You have our blessing.”

“Thank you.” Amos moved along to shake Josiah's hand. “You won't regret it, I assure you.”

“Of course not, Mr. Geer.” The older man shook his head. “We just can't promise you the same thing.”

“Daisy, darling, I'm ever so sorry for you.” Cornelia Walthingham poked her snub nose in the air and looked down it. “You must be perfectly devastated that he's dropped you.”

“She cried off, you silly goose.” Alice Porth, a girl Daisy privately used to consider too plainspoken for her own good, came to her defense. “He didn't drop her. No man would!”

“I'd never say such a thing.” Daisy managed a small, secretive smile, which dissolved the instant her teacup reached her lips.
Not out of modesty, but because it's not true. Cornelia has it right—Trouston dropped me. And I was wrong about Alice.
She set down her cup with an uncharacteristic
clink. She's perfectly lovely.

“Terribly conniving of you to suggest otherwise, Cornelia. It smacks of jealousy.” Daphne Kessel joined the ranks of friends supporting Daisy in her time of need. “Particularly considering the way Trouston carries on about the whole thing.”

Dread clutched her stomach, making Daisy reach for yet another pastry as she tried to seem carefree. “Whatever do you mean? I've not seen him, of course.”

“Don't you know? He's crushed by your defection. Claims he'll never love another.” Alice swiped the last cake from the tray, so Daisy rang for more. “He's gone so far as to don a black armband to signify that he's mourning your loss.”

“Ridiculous.” Suddenly she lost her appetite. The very idea Trouston made such sport over the way he'd used her and ended their relationship, making a show of himself to draw attention and pity, it created a swell of such rage, even shopping couldn't possibly cure it. “Pure theatrics. It's one of the reasons I came to see we wouldn't suit.”

“He swears you'll come back to him.” A jealous gleam lit Cornelia's gaze. “That no other woman can capture his attention and he won't leave off until you're his once more.”

“Trouston will persist for precisely so long as it takes him to realize black armbands, when worn consistently, stain certain fabrics.” Daisy knew she made her ex-fiancé sound petty, and perhaps sounded rather low herself, but she didn't care. “He's exceedingly conscientious about his appearance.”

“Not so conscientious he wouldn't fight for you.” Daphne gave a little sigh. “It's positively romantic the way he's threatened any man who so much as looks at you to a duel.”

“What?” Daisy's posture, already held straight by her tightly laced corset, became even more rigid.

“Mr. Dillard says he simply can't abide the thought of you with another man, and thus he won't allow one anywhere near you.” Alice leaned forward. “Haven't you wondered why none of your old beaus have come to renew their suits?”

“I presumed they were exercising judicious manners and allowing a respectful period of time to pass so as not to offend me or Mr. Dillard.” Daisy delivered the line just as she'd rehearsed, for of course she'd wondered.
Though I assumed that somehow men possessed an
uncanny ability to know when a woman had been despoiled and would no longer be of interest to them.
“It never occurred to me that Trouston was making threats to hold them at bay. Of all the nerve!”

“Every woman appreciates a man who knows what he wants. When will you put him out of this miserable waiting period and take him back?”

“Yes, when?”

“Can you arrange for us to watch the reunion?” A flurry of exclamations greeted Mama's question.

“Mama, I already made it clear. I won't take Trouston back.”
He doesn't want me to. It would ruin his scheme to play merry bachelor for the rest of his born days, leaving a string of heartbroken women in his wake.
The thought lent a very convincing sniff to her own performance.

“But you must! You simply must.” The torrent of feminine cries blended into one shrill babble, making Daisy wince.

“It's so dashing, the way he's working to win you back.” Alice, in particular, refused to drop the matter. “You'll seem a horrid, hard-hearted tease if you refuse him.”

“‘Playtime is over, Daisy.'”
Trouston stopping her when she tried to ease some distance between them ...
“‘You belong to me, and no man likes a tease....'”
Another piece of her murky memories from that night rose to the surface, making her gasp.

“I'm not a tease.” Tears sprang to her eyes.
If I were, this wouldn't be happening. I'd still be engaged, not knowing what an awful man I chose, instead of sitting here in polite company, pretending to be one of them. Pretending I'm not base and ruined and not worth their time or friendship.
“Excuse me, but I'm afraid I've come down with a megrim.”

“You do look frightfully pale.” Mama frowned. “Go rest for a while. I'll check on you in a bit.”

Placing one hand to her temple, Daisy skirted around her friends and various pieces of furniture until she reached the hall. The moment she slipped from sight, she sagged against the wall, drawing in a ragged breath.
It's only a matter of time until they see what I've come to. Lord, I can't go back and fix it. I can't remake myself into what I was before I erred so badly ... and all the wishes in the world can't make it better.
She swallowed a sob.

“She did not look well.” The words were proper, but Cornelia's tone carried no concern. Instead, a malicious hint of satisfaction underscored her observation.

“Daisy simply hasn't been the same since she threw over Mr. Dillard.” Daphne drummed her fingernails on the rim of her saucer as she always did when unsettled. “I worry for her.”

“As we all do.”

“If she doesn't recover her composure soon, it may be too late for her to find someone else.” The satisfaction sounded even more pronounced now, and Daisy determined to have nothing more to do with Cornelia. “If she's truly foolish enough to let a prize like Mr. Dillard slip away.”

A prize he's not.
She didn't want to hear any more. Placing one hand on the banister, Daisy headed up the stairs on silent slippers until she reached her room.
But slipping away ... if only I could manage to. Everything would be better.

Eschewing the bed, she reclined on the divan near her dressing room and thought of how much she wished her cousin were there.
Marge wouldn't have left me alone with Trouston. And Marge would know what to do, now, after ...
The tears she'd held at bay rolled down the bridge of her nose.
I wish Marge were here, instead of out west. Or that we could change places and I could be far, far away from Trouston and all the mealy-mouthed misses still besotted with him.

She sat bolt upright.
What am I thinking? I
can
be far away—it's
the perfect solution.
Her first real smile in days tugged at the corners of her lips, and she gave in to an unladylike grin.
I'll surprise Marge with a visit!

The way Gavin saw things, ladies liked surprises. So long as they weren't creepy, crawly, slimy, dirty, or involving hard work, women couldn't get enough of the unexpected.

All right, if I'm going to be out here almost before the sun decides to rise, I may as well be blunt about the matter. Ladies don't like surprises—they like gifts.

Well, who didn't? Gifts showed a woman she was being thought of. Cared for. Appreciated. No souls on earth could deny wanting those things—not without lying through their teeth, at least. Presents made for tangible expressions of the things people had a hard time talking about.

In other words, a present made the perfect way to further his case with Marge and speed up this courting process. She wanted him to prove his desire to marry her—and asking didn't suffice. Showing her off to the whole town and laying claim seemed to backfire. Brett Burn hadn't been the only one whose eyes lingered too long. Nor had Gavin missed the way they all seemed to find reason to chat with her whenever he escorted her into town these days.

Gavin pulled his hat brim lower and squinted, trying to make out the different low-lying plants hidden by prairie grasses. He didn't make a habit out of hunting plants, but exceptions existed for every rule. It didn't matter if he had to tromp around for miles before he'd found and gathered enough of what he'd come looking for. Gavin didn't intend to show up at breakfast empty-handed this morning.

Prove it.
Her challenge rang in his ears as he spied the first of his unofficial harvest and fell to with a vengeance. If words didn't prove it and standing beside her didn't prove it and respecting her wish to help set up the school didn't prove it, Gavin had one more weapon in his arsenal to show a woman that he valued her. He'd prove it with a strategy so well laid even Marge Chandler couldn't deny it.

And she'd like it.

With a resolute nod, Gavin stepped over the area he'd stripped bare and moved on.
More.
A handful wouldn't be enough, and a man only got one chance to pull off a grand gesture. Repeating a failed attempt just looked foolish—and he wasn't a man to play the fool. Nor was he typically a man to play the romantic, but Gavin had already lost one bride. If a little show of finer feeling netted him another, at least he'd keep his pride.

Show me a man who won't tromp over ten miles of prairie gathering wildflowers to salvage his pride and earn a bride, and I'll show you a liar or a lout.
Though not every man could put a personal twist on the exercise—a sweet sentiment designed to win a woman's heart.

Not only would he earn favor by presenting Marge with flowers, he upped the ante in several ways. First, by gathering them himself, which meant he put out effort, as opposed to the way things were done back in Baltimore where a man purchased such things. Then, he'd remembered her favorite color—purple—and only chosen flowers of that shade.
Good thing the strange breed blooms around here....
As the crowning touch, he brought Marge a bouquet of no flower but wild daisies ... same as her name.

This was the type of thing women went wild for. Romance, thoughtfulness, individuality, a creative flair—all told, he should have her consent to wed him before the week ended. They'd stand before Parson Carter, with the entire town looking on and wishing them well, next Sunday.

Three days is short notice. Best make it some day next week. I'll let Marge decide, to keep her happy. Good to make the little woman feel as though she's involved.

By the time he'd gathered a huge bouquet and made his way back to the house, Gavin felt better than he had in over a week.

Time to win a wife!