Bride Blunder (13 page)

The day proved particularly difficult. But then, the two days since he'd tried to give Marge those daisies seemed filled with small difficulties. He needed that mill pick—the grind of the flour became progressively rougher, and he had to rerun entire batches. Not only did the process waste time, it took intense concentration to adjust the distance between the stones and judge the length of time needed.

Waiting became tedious as he hovered in the mill, keeping a vigilant ear for any problems once he had each round going smoothly. By the fourth time he emptied the hopper, Gavin's restlessness proved his undoing.

Reading my Bible isn't an option. Even if it were something I'd try to undertake with only half my attention, it would draw me in until I might miss a signal something's gone wrong.
Pacing wasn't enough. He'd already smoothed, oiled, straightened, swept, and done every bit of maintenance possible.
I'll try my hand at whittling again.

It's what his father used to do on days like this, but Gavin usually didn't bother with a pastime he didn't excel in. Anything he attempted to carve wound up slightly awkward or downright unrecognizable—somewhat like his attempts at courting Marge.

Maybe I should carve something for her.
He grinned as he walked toward the house for his whittling knife—far more lightweight and easy to wield than the blade he always carried.
Then she'd appreciate the flowers more.
The grin faded.

Things had grown ... stilted ... since that morning. The easy conversation between Grandma and Marge dried up when he came to the table. More than once he'd caught her eyes on him, asking something of him, but he didn't know what. Jokes fell flat. She'd started retreating to her room in the evenings rather than reading alongside him in the parlor.

Strange that he hadn't noticed how much he enjoyed her quiet company until she took it away. If he could unearth a way to ask her back without sounding either demanding, or worse, foolish, Gavin would see her in the matching armchair across from him that very evening.

He liked how comfortable she always looked. It made him feel like he put her at ease, and that, in turn, made the place seem more ... well, homey. There was something homey in the way she curled her feet up beneath her skirts and nestled in to enjoy something edifying or entertaining.

But the very best part, the part he missed the most, was something Marge probably wouldn't believe. She only wore her spectacles while reading. The first time she'd tugged them from a case in her pocket, looping a fine chain about her neck and slipping the delicate golden frames atop her nose, Gavin sat transfixed. Only one night since had he missed that moment—when Grandma asked him to fetch some water. Otherwise, he cast furtive glances over the top of his own book until the time she transformed.

Because that's what happened. Marge unearthed her spectacles, and somehow, they unearthed something hidden about her. They made her face softer, drew attention straight down her pert little nose to the way she absently nibbled her lower lip while she read or parted them in surprise and delight—depending on what she found between the pages.

The best part about the whole thing? Gavin felt fairly certain no other man ever witnessed this nightly revelation. Just him.

Except he hadn't seen it the past two nights either.
I'm losing ground instead of gaining it.
This sort of situation made a man reevaluate, and the more he looked, the less Gavin liked what he saw. A couple short weeks ago, the stage brought him a bride. An inconsequential error—a mere technicality—robbed him of the possibility of a union once she discovered the truth. And in trying to change her mind, he'd forfeited even the simple pleasure of companionship.

The more he thought about it, the angrier it made him.
Aside from labeling that letter ambiguously, I've done everything right. How long is she going to let stung pride get the best of her ... of both of us, Lord? Or is it just that she doesn't appreciate any of the effort I've made? Did learning I'd proposed to Daisy first harden her heart so much she can't be reached?

He ignored the sound of feminine voices coming from the guest room.
Her
room. If Marge passed the afternoon talking with Grandma, that meant she wasn't reading, and nothing short of her spectacles could lure him closer than necessary for now.

It took him a few moments of digging through the chest at the base of his bed, where he kept odds and ends, before he unearthed his whittling knife.

I haven't used it since I moved west.
The realization didn't surprise him. What with building a house, reshaping the land, forming a millpond, and building the mill, he'd had precious little time for anything but work.
I sent for her as soon as I got everything ready.

“Stop shaking your head and say hello to your grandmother.” She called orders from where she half sat, half lay on the bed, surrounded by an assortment of girly things. “Marge needed to ... step out ... for a moment.”

“I see.” It felt strange to step into her room, take in telltale signs of unpacking.
She's settling in?

“She's kept everything boxed up this entire time, so I convinced her to at least sort through.”

Neat piles of clothing covered the foot of the bed; a sewing case leaned against Grandma's hip while she perused an album of tintypes. “Quite a collection.” Most of all, though, he saw books. Marge's Bible lay on her nightstand, but another Bible, this one looking to be written in French, now lay beside it. Stacks of volumes marched along the floor in orderly lines. The collected works of Shakespeare held vigil next to a complete set of McGuffey's Readers. The travels of Marco Polo vied alongside
Gulliver's Travels,
outgunned by sets attributed to Dante and Milton.

“If you wondered what she packed in all those trunks of hers, now you know. Marge brought a library along with her.”

“I believe it—would have believed it without seeing them. It's Marge all over.” Words, wisdom, and wonder—that's what books offered. And Marge knew they were rare out west. “Back in Baltimore, we spoke about the lack of education and availability of reading material in the territories.” The memory took him off guard.

“Looks like she aims to fix that.”

“She's passionate about books.” Surely Grandma didn't hear the disgruntled note that entered when he said “books”?
No helping it that I want her to be passionate about more.

“Paper.” Grandma's gaze went sharp as the razor Gavin used, but the hint of a smile deepened the grooves bracketing her mouth. “I need a bit. Get me some from the desk, would you?”

It wasn't a question. Gavin pressed the latch, folding down the drop front to look for some paper. He stopped looking when he caught sight of what else the desk held.

A crystal vase, filled with fresh water, cradled a few slightly wilted purple blossoms. Tahoka daisies, to be exact. Gavin shut the desk, apologized to Grandma for not finding any paper, and made his way back to the mill, mind spinning.

She snuck outside and saved some.
It made no sense. It didn't have to.
Marge still feels for me. It's not too late to win her back.

It seemed so early to retire to her room, yet since the day she'd made a hash of accepting Gavin's gift of the wildflowers, Marge hadn't mustered up the courage to sit across from him in the parlor reading, as they'd settled into.

“Give him time to let that temper of his cool off ... and then give him an extra day to help him realize what he's missing,” Ermintrude had advised after her grandson stalked out that awful morning. She'd also muttered something about a healthy change in perspective for mule-headed women, but that, Marge ignored.

It's been a few days now. Perhaps enough time passed that Gavin's temper cooled and he wouldn't dislike company this evening?
The spark of hope died a swift death.
He's scarce looked at me since that day, much less spent a moment alone.

Refusing to let her shoulders slump, Marge snuffed the lamp in the now-clean kitchen, preparing to follow where Ermintrude had gone upstairs a scant hour before.
Well, here's proof that it's men, not children, who age women before their time. How many seasons
have I spent in a room of youngsters without ever turning in early, only to change my habits after mere days living around a man!

Her head turned toward the parlor as she passed, despite her determination not to peek in. Truth of the matter was Marge couldn't pass up the opportunity to see Gavin relaxed at the end of a long day—even if she simply snuck a glance on her way to self-imposed exile. Evenings showed Gavin in a different light—not just the literal lamp glow either—than his busy days.

He rose with the sun and seemed determined to out-busy it. Sure, the sun shone all day, illuminating the entire world. Gavin put it to shame with his constant motion. After all, everyone knew the sun remained stationary. End of day proved the only time the miller stayed still, dropping into an armchair scarcely large enough to accommodate his width.

Not because Gavin ran too large. Simply because his broad, strong frame dominated furniture. He sat down, settled back, propped his booted feet on an ottoman, and sank into a relaxation so complete it only lacked a sigh of satisfaction. Of course, a sigh might ruin the entire masculine appeal he presented so effortlessly.

He should make things easier on me and start sighing.
She felt the wry twist to her lips and knew the idea counted as unreasonable.
I don't care. If Ermintrude is wrong and his temper hasn't cooled ... and he doesn't miss me, the man needs to demonstrate the courtesy of being less fascinating. That's the absolute least he could do.

“Marge?” His baritone, rumbling right beside her, made her realize she'd loitered at the base of the stairwell for far too long. “Are you all right?”

An unbecoming flush surely painted her cheeks. “Woolgathering. If you'll excuse me....” She made for the stairs, mortified to have been caught daydreaming.
Did he see me stare at him?

His hand caught her elbow, blocking her bid for escape. “Wait.”

Even if she'd wanted to leave him standing there, it wouldn't have been possible. Not when he asked her to stay. Not when he stood so close. Not when warmth spread from his fingertips to rush up her arm, five streaks of heat to rival the strength of her blush. For a heartbeat—no, several. The sound of her own thundered in her ears loudly enough for her to know, after all. For a brief moment she stayed still as a statue, waiting.

“I hoped you would join me this evening.” Gavin inclined his head toward the parlor but didn't move his hand.

“Oh?” If the word came out a bit squeaky, Marge could do nothing to help it.
He's asking to spend time with me!
Swiftly on the heels of that thought came one slightly less welcome.
That makes Ermintrude right—I'll never hear the end of it. No matter. It's more than worth the price to have Gavin seek my company!
She beamed like a fool.

“Yes.” Now he removed his hand, taking away his warmth.

“I'll just be a moment.” She turned to the stairs again, her step light. “Let me fetch my book.”

“Of course. Oh, and Marge?” His smile brightened his tone—she could hear it even with her back to him. “Don't forget your glasses.”

Had it been over a week since he told Midge he intended to prove a man could adore her? Amos could hardly believe the time went by so fast. He made a point of seeking her out every day and was gratified when she rarely declined a walk or a meal with his family. In fact, the only two days they hadn't spent time together had been the past two Sundays.

She doesn't seem herself on Sundays.
The thought plagued him. Amos found it increasingly difficult to keep his mind on the sermon when he noted so many signs of Midge's discomfort without even bothering to look. A simple glance or the number of times her shifting or fidgeting would catch the corner of his eye told a story plain as day.
But what story? And why am I so drawn to it, Lord?

He'd hurry to catch up with her after church, but she either surrounded herself with friends or hied off like a hunted hare. If she spoke with friends, she smiled too brightly and laughed too hard. If she disappeared, it seemed to serve none of the purpose Amos had come to expect of anything Midge did. So even as he spent time with her and enjoyed more of her wit, humor, and the heart she hid beneath them, Amos discovered more distance lay between him and the girl he'd chosen.

Even now, while he waited for Josiah Reed to finish his short speech marking today's occasion, the puzzle of how to bridge the
Midge gap,
as he'd come to call the problem, tickled his mind. There she stood, beside the Reeds, smiling as her grandfather/uncle turned to face him. It had taken Amos awhile to understand precisely why Josiah Reed could claim either title, but now he knew Josiah was father to Saul and husband to Doreen, Clara's aunt, so he stood as adopted grandfather and great-uncle to Midge. Amos snapped to attention as the mayor of Buttonwood motioned him forward.

“Here's the man who's brought us this far along. The town council felt they'd found a good man for the task of building a fine schoolhouse in the middle of the Oregon Trail, and Mr. Amos Geer didn't disappoint. When the scarcity of wood made it prohibitively expensive, as did the freight cost of brick, it was Amos who suggested using clay from the Red Basin not overly far from here.”

“At least,” Amos interjected, “not far compared to big cities like Baltimore or Independence.”

“So he fetched the clay, made the bricks, and built up the walls a ways to show us how it's done. Now it's our turn for a schoolhouse raising the likes of which the West has never seen!” Cheers filled a brief pause. “We're going to finish these walls and raise the roof, including the bell tower, today.”

“This morning.” Amos didn't mean to interrupt, exactly, but with the large, thick bricks already made and dried, fitting them in place and mortaring them together shouldn't take too long. “Work gets done fast with the whole town to help—yes, the ladies, too. The men should admit we wouldn't be so willing to do this without the promise of the fine dinner we know you're all preparing while we build.” Laughter and agreement greeted his acknowledgment, but Amos watched Midge, whose slow smile was all the approval he needed.

He swiftly divided the townsmen into four teams, one for each wall, as the women dispersed. For each team, he selected a foreman. Adam Grogan, Gavin Miller, and Saul Reed joined him in organizing their crews and getting work underway. Soon they had things up and running in a rhythm Amos hoped would keep on until they finished the walls.

The
glop
of mortar plunked atop set bricks, followed by the
slap
of the next thick brick hefted in place, and then the relentless scrape of trowels removing whatever excess oozed between the layers. Multiply it by the many men working, square it to take into account the four walls, and it formed a symphony of sound the likes of which Beethoven never dreamed.

Amos loved it. The echoes of efficiency provided a sort of workingman's music to the sight of an entire community coming together for the best reason he could imagine—their children. He rolled up his sleeves and got his hands dirty, reveling in the different scents and textures as he always did when working with his hands, particularly whenever he worked in the great outdoors.

The rich, gummy smell of wet clay skimmed over the lighter scent of sun-warmed stone as a soft sandy silt covered his hands and had him breathing in the earth. Amos kept on, working until his crew needed to use one of the pulleys he'd rigged to swing the huge bricks into place on the top of the walls.

With the work slowing, he looked around to see the other teams matching him, or close to it. The sun hadn't reached its height. His optimistic prediction might come true, with their completing the bulk of the work before breaking for dinner.

A glint of red caught his eye, and he turned to see Midge watching him. A smile, a wave, and she turned back to the children who tugged at her skirts in an obvious demand for attention. With the breeze in her hair, a smile on her face, and children gathered around, Midge looked to be in her element. It made Amos think something that had been cropping up more and more as he watched her interact with his brothers and sisters.

Midge will make a good mama....

I'm going to be the world's worst mother someday.
Midge tramped around with an entire herd of scapegraces aping her every move.
Mothers are supposed to be stern, supposed to be genteel, supposed to teach little girls how to be little ladies.

Midge, for her part, far preferred playing with children to raising them. All the fun, very little of the responsibility—if it weren't for the fact she so badly wanted a little girl to name Nancy and give all the things taken away from her sister, she'd be content as Auntie Midge for the rest of her days.

Auntie.
Not
Teacher
. Teacher
implied responsibility and living up to standards Midge couldn't aspire to.
Even if I could stand and sit still in a classroom all day long—even so fine a one as Amos is having built—I'd make for a poor role model. The children don't seem to mind, but I know better.

The question is ... why don't their parents?

A frown creased the space between her eyebrows; she could feel the wrinkle forming. Worse, the kids noticed it.

“Miss Collins,” Annie Doan, a bright, outspoken girl of about eight who reminded Midge of her own younger self, spoke up on behalf of everyone. “Did we do something wrong?”

“Of course not.” Her smile felt forced, so Midge quickly turned it to one of exaggerated suspicion. She narrowed her eyes in a dramatic scowl and raised on eyebrow. “Did you?”

“I asked if we could play at dodging?” Billy Geer, Amos's younger brother—and the one he'd pointed out to her as having had diphtheritic croup four years ago at Fort Sumter, and the reason he'd tackled her to keep her out of the sick room—carried a leather ball and eyes full of hope.

With his sandy hair and brown eyes, he was the spitting image of how Amos must've looked at that age. The thought of his almost dying made her heart squeeze up so tight it was hard to get words out, so Midge just nodded.
Thank God Saul came through when he did to save Billy. Otherwise, so much might be different....

She took a stick and drew a large circle in the dirt, an impromptu playing field for a game of dodge the ball, but stopped once she realized what she'd done.
Thank God?
Shaking her head didn't do much to clear it.
Thank Josiah for sending for Saul. Thank Saul for going and caring enough to be a doctor to help Billy. Thank Amos for pulling me away so I didn't catch the sickness. Thank any and everyone involved, but God had precious little to do with it!

No. People looked after other people. At least, the ones who cared did. Folks like Saul and Clara were the first she'd met, aside from her own sister. The longer she stayed in Buttonwood, the more people she counted as genuine and caring—what Aunt Doreen would call the “salt of the earth.” She didn't even have to explain that one—Midge understood the instant she heard the phrase back when she was thirteen.

Salt of the earth ... salt was good for two things, flavor and preservation. If someone added something enjoyable to a life and helped preserve or further the good in and around it, the person was like salt. If someone managed that for just about everyone he or she knew, Midge could see a sort of domino effect where the whole world was kept from the decay of people just using each other for momentary wants.

The way people treated Nancy. The way people used to treat her. The way Midge tried never to treat anyone, no matter how despicable. And the way she most deserved to be treated.

Thud.
The muffled declaration of a leather ball striking shins through layers of cotton skirts and petticoats came at the same time as a forceful knock to the back of Midge's knees. She faltered, almost corrected herself, but jerked back when little Sadie Warren darted just in front of her. Then it was all over.

Midge went down, hitting the hard prairie earth with a jarring impact. Her ankle bent at an awkward angle beneath her, a byproduct of trying to avoid Sadie. Aware that every child froze the instant she met the ground, Midge pushed herself into a sitting position and tried to reassure them.

The way children handled an upsetting situation said a lot about the type of people they'd grow into, and Midge got a chance to witness firsthand the foundation of Buttonwood's future. Not many could say they saw so far when their rumps hit the ground.

Most of them fretted, asked if she was all right, hovered anxiously. One excitable five-year-old burst into tears and ran for his mama, while a seven-year-old ignored the entire mess and chased down the renegade leather ball. In spite of the usual reactions, a few young ones stood out right away.

Maggie Reed, Midge's three-year-old sister, scampered off in a flash to go fetch her pa the doctor, while her best friend, Tessa Burn, trundled over to offer more immediate comfort. Popping her thumb in her mouth and her favorite doll, Bessie, into Midge's lap, she half sat, half tumbled to cuddle at her side.

Annie Doane announced it was Roger Warren whose throw had gone awry and watched the older boy like a hawk. She gave the impression of a girl ready to haul a criminal to justice the moment he made a false move.

Roger Warren, for his part, mumbled apology after apology, squatting back on his heels and reaching for Midge's hands to help her up. Of course, she couldn't accept his gallant offer with little Tessa tucked at her side, but Midge could tell the ten-year-old had the makings of a fine man. Someday. In fact, Midge wouldn't be surprised if he and Annie were casting more appreciative glances at each other in another five years.

But it was Billy's course of action that most ruffled Midge. At twelve, the boy should know better than to run tattling to his older brother over the slightest mishap. Not that Billy seemed to have learned the value of discretion. Instead, he trotted back toward her with his brother overtaking his pace in long strides.

Midge stifled a groan.
He had to fetch Amos?