Bride Blunder (3 page)

Marge perched atop the wagon seat, right hand curled around the rough board to help keep her balance as they rolled toward Gavin's mill. After days on end in the stagecoach, jouncing along rutted dirt prairie roads was nothing new. Her backside could attest to that. No matter. The journey paled in comparison to what she found at its end.

Gavin....
She snuck a sideways peek at his profile, gaze traveling from the sweep of his sable hair to the firm set of his jaw. Back home, the family encouraged friends and close acquaintances to call her Marge, and Daisy by her favored nickname. Having two “Miss Chandlers” created far too much confusion. So Gavin had been using her given name for quite some time, but today marked her first use of his. He'd seemed surprised, though not displeased—a reaction that reassured her of her new place in his life.

He hadn't said much, but Marge found that reassuring as well. What words Gavin did give were enough.
“So good to see you!”
Simple, warm, and welcoming—genuine. Her fiancé remained the man of her memories, which meant they'd have a good marriage. Solid. Comfortable.

Marge peeped through her lashes at him once more, drinking in the way hard work beneath the sun had bronzed his skin since last she saw him. His lips formed an almost-straight line, swallowing the slight fullness she remembered. It looked as though he was thinking....

As though sensing her perusal, he turned his head. His dark brown gaze searched her face as if seeking answers to some unspoken question.

The sudden intensity of it warmed her cheeks in what she knew to be a blush ... although Marge wasn't in the habit of blushing. Blushing, she'd always maintained, was for two types of girls: silly wigeons who didn't realize that it was whomever spouted the drivel who should be embarrassed, or those naturally charming women like Daisy whose blushes meant she was enjoying herself. Marge didn't fit either category.

Which meant Gavin's scrutiny had turned her into a temporary wigeon.

She silently blamed Daisy even as she offered him a smile and he returned his attention to the road.
This behavior is all Daisy's fault! Nattering on and on about how romantic it was that Gavin nursed an affection for me but never spoke up until the time was right, then brings me across the country to be by his side ...

All right. Perhaps it wasn't
entirely
Daisy's fault. Marge thought the same things, let the knowledge fill her with delight until it seemed nothing and no one could make her frown. What she could—and would—lay at Daisy's door were the ridiculous fantasies she'd indulged in throughout the long journey. If her cousin hadn't filled her head with ludicrous scenarios of her grand reunion with Gavin, she wouldn't feel self-conscious now.

But truly, she'd known full well there'd be no overblown display of passion. She hadn't expected him to sweep her into his strong arms the moment she stepped off the stage and declare how very much he'd longed for her arrival. Such behavior wouldn't be in keeping with the reliable, steady nature she so valued in her groom-to-be.

Marge Chandler wasn't a woman who expected or even sought a grand passion. Such theatrics wore thin over time and flaked away to reveal the tawdry substance beneath. Like gilding atop plaster—it wouldn't last. No, she looked for something simpler and sturdier, and Gavin Miller provided exactly what she'd always dreamed of.

He chose
me
.

A gentle breeze pushed away the last lingering bit of warmth from her blush as the mill came into view. It didn't seem to be running, but she hadn't expected it to be, with Gavin not there to attend it. The slightest shift or stress in the workings could set off a reaction to ruin the entire operation, so a mill required constant vigilance.

Much like a classroom.

She smiled at the connection until a small twinge of regret chased it away. Married women weren't permitted to teach, and she'd miss it sorely. But now wasn't the time to think of the students she'd left behind or the injustice of how men could work and support families and women weren't allowed to teach.... No, now was the time to begin her new life. As a bride. As a wife.

She stifled a groan of frustration as the blush returned.
Wigeondom awaits.

Instead of dwelling on the thought, she inspected the structure before them. Three stories high, the stone building reached toward the sky like a beacon, breaking the relentlessly flat stretch of prairie, despite the manufactured hill built behind it for the millpond. The source of the mill's power looked placid but slightly murky—typical for water of the Platte River. A thick millrace connected the pond to the waterwheel standing upright alongside the building, easily reaching the second story.

“It's beautiful—easily as fine as any big-city mill.” She craned her neck as they rode by toward a modest, two-story, whitewashed house beyond.

“I like to think so.” Pride colored his voice as Gavin hopped down and came around to lift her out of the wagon. Broad hands closed around her waist, sending heat skittering up her spine until he set her on the ground. “After I put Smoose in the barn, I need to start her up. Would you like to see?”

Smoose?
Marge eyed the massive draft horse, decided it did rather resemble a moose in horse form, and gave an enthusiastic nod. “I couldn't tell whether the overshot wheel had buckets or paddles.”

“Paddles. Buckets don't keep the pace as steady, in my opinion, and paddles are simpler to replace.” His appreciative glance made her glad she'd read up on gristmills. A short walk to the small stable and they headed onward to the mill.

The manufactured hillside made easy access into the second story, where the millstones and housing dominated the center of the floor. A wooden grain chute slid from the ceiling to just above the large receptacle above the stones.

“This is the hopper.” Gavin pulled a lever and the chute opened, allowing grain to fill the hopper. When he was satisfied with the amount, he closed the chute. “The grain will funnel down through the hole in the top stone and be crushed beneath and come out here.” He touched various parts of the machine as he spoke, and Marge could see the loving familiarity even as she knew he was giving an oversimplified explanation.

“The gears are housed on the bottom floor and have to be turned by the wheel—which you noticed earlier. Now that there's grain to be ground, we're ready to get her running.” Marge followed Gavin to a door at the far end, which opened to a wooden walkway of sorts above the end of the millrace.

“The sluice gate”—he crouched and gestured to the mechanism as he spoke—“adjusts to different heights, depending on the amount of water speed and pressure needed to turn the wheel at any particular time.” He raised the gate, releasing a gush of water that steadily streamed down to hit the flat paddles of the overshot wheel, pushing them downward until the wheel caught the momentum in a constant, smooth turn.

“It seems so simple, but it's not at all. So much thought and time and precision to make it run...” When he smiled at her musings, Marge decided to make a request. “Sometime, after I meet your grandmother, I'd like to see the gears and learn more.”

“I'd like that.” He took her arm and led her back outside. The pleasure of showing his mill faded from his expression. “Let me tell Grandma Ermintrude you're here then bring you to her.” With that, he released her arm and hurried into the house ahead of her.

Blinking at the sudden change and odd behavior, Marge followed at a slower pace. Why wouldn't he simply walk her inside and introduce them when the old woman knew she would arrive today? A jumble of voices, a sound of exasperation—surely that came from Gavin—began to raise doubts.

“Marge.”
She heard him stress her name but didn't catch the lady's reply. Unwilling to eavesdrop, she halted a few feet away and tried to calm the tumult suddenly arising in her stomach. Something didn't feel right....

Somehow, Gavin had to figure out what he was going to do before the gnawing numbness wore off. Shock, folks called it. Sure, it'd seen him through a cursory round of introductions in town, loading up the wagon, and the ride home. He'd even managed to put it all aside for a few moments because she seemed so interested in the mill. But now he had to take her to the house.

And Grandma Ermintrude.

Shock couldn't save him there. Everyone else only knew his bride-to-be's name as Marguerite Chandler, as was proper. Grandma, on the other hand, would immediately try to gain the upper hand by calling her Daisy.
And then the secret would be out—that I sent away for a bride and got her cousin by mistake.
My
mistake.
He winced.

The farce unfolded without him knowing until it was too late to prevent disaster. He forgot Daisy and Marge were
both
Marguerites when he wrote the proposal. They received it, knew he'd been sent an invitation to Daisy's wedding, and logically assumed he'd been sending for Marge. So here he sat, driving the wrong bride back to his home—and she had no idea about any of it. This was the sort of situation that could drive anyone to abandon civilization and make like a mountain man.

But he couldn't do that. He had Grandma—and now Marge—to think of.
No Daisy.
That hit him hard. If she'd refused the proposal, he could've taken it. But thinking she'd consented to be his bride and he'd have the wife he wanted for the rest of his days, only to be disillusioned later?

Lord, I prayed over this and trusted in Your will ... and You sent me Marge? Now I know how Jacob felt when he got Leah instead of Rachel.
A dry swallow didn't make the knowledge go down any easier.
Except Jacob still got Rachel after a few years, and I'll never have a chance with Daisy. The only way I can figure is to marry Marge and never let her know of the mix-up. I sure as shooting can't tell her she's the wrong one.... Besides, I sent for Marguerite Chandler as my bride, she arrived, and I need to follow through on that commitment.

It didn't make doing the right thing any easier though.

With a mishmash of half-formed thoughts clashing in his mind, he told Marge something about telling Grandma she was here and rushed off. It didn't come across as gentlemanly, but when a man had no options, he couldn't be choosy.

“Grandma.” He burst through the door and plowed into the parlor. “Marguerite is here.”

“I would hope so. Not at all good manners to leave your bride in town.” She raised her head slightly, in the manner of a fox trying to catch the scent of new prey. “Don't leave her outside. Bring her to me.”

“In a moment.” His mind raced madly. Telling Grandma Ermintrude about the mix-up would be the fast way to ensure Marge got beat over the head with it. Gavin wouldn't allow that. So, the only thing left was to say, “I made a mistake.”
Did I ever.
“She goes by Marge now. Don't call her Daisy.”

“Not Daisy?”

“Marge.”
He waited for her nod before dashing back out the door to fetch his bride.

And face his future.

“She's ready.” Gavin emerged from the house with a smile stretching his face—but that's exactly how it looked. Like a painful stretch.

Marge's stomach clenched still more tightly.
Just how difficult could one old woman be?
She straightened her shoulders.
No more difficult than a room full of students. God brought me here. He'll see me through whatever lies ahead.
She accepted Gavin's hand and returned his strained smile as they walked inside her new home.

Grandma Ermintrude waited in the parlor, posture ramrod straight, back not conceding to so much as touch the back of the settee. Steel gray hair trapped in a bun topped a face etched with a hardness to rival that of any metal. Eyes narrowed, lips thinned, hands folded and clenching the top of a cane—Grandma Ermintrude could easily have descended from a Gorgon.

So Marge did what every brave woman did in the face of imminent threat—resorted to pleasantries. “Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Miller.”

The woman didn't respond at first beyond a further narrowing of the eyes and what Marge could only deem an indulgent harrumphing. And quite a harrumphing it was. Ermintrude Miller made it not only a sound, but a physical expression of disdain, as her shoulders raised and her chest puffed in indignation before finding relief in that not-so-genteel snort.

“We'll see about that.” One wizened hand lifted from atop her cane in an imperious motion. “Come over here so I can get a good look at you.”

Gavin seemed reluctant to release her, a sign Marge couldn't read as positive or dreadful, but she moved to stand before her would-be grandmother-in-law.

“Take off that hat. My eyes aren't what they used to be.”

Somehow, Marge had a feeling that the woman before her remained as sharp as ever, but kept her tongue between her teeth. She untied her hat and slid it from her hair, resisting the urge to smooth back any wisps that might have escaped. Preening would be a mistake—and a useless one, at that.

Another harrumph. “You're not what I expected, girl.” The inspection shifted from her hair, to her eyes, then swept down to the tips of her toes. “Taller, for one thing.”

“To be fair, you aren't what I expected either.” Marge imbued her shrug with a nonchalance she was far from feeling. “Although you didn't ask, my journey went well and I'm pleased to be here. I trust your day has been pleasant so far.”

“Well, she has a mind.” A cackle accompanied the comment directed at Gavin. “That's better than I hoped, although she's not as pretty as I pictured.”

Marge sucked in a breath at that but held on. “Pretty is as pretty does, they say. I always say you can judge a person based on his or her decisions.”

“Interesting.” Two eyes sharpened upon her like knifepoints. “And you've made quite a few decisions recently.”

“Yes.” She smiled at Gavin, although his face could have been etched from the same stone he'd used to build his mill. “And I stand by them.”

“So tell me, Miss Chandler ... when did you decide to stop going by Daisy?”

“Grandma, don't—” A sort of fear flashed across her fiancé's face at the evidence of his grandmother's lapse. Men never dealt well with seeing weakness in their loved ones. Marge had seen it before.

“It's all right.” Marge put a hand on Gavin's forearm when he moved forward. “It's easy enough to get confused, and Grandma Miller never met both of us, after all.”

“No.” Gavin shook off her hand and looked severely at the older woman. “She needs to remember herself.”

“I haven't forgotten.” A smile multiplied the grooves bracketing her mouth as she ignored her grandson. “
Both
of you, you say?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Marge struggled to reconcile Gavin's harshness with her image of him, choosing instead to focus on Ermintrude's turnaround. “Daisy is my cousin, you see.”

“Is she, now? Marge—short for Marguerite, yes?” A raspy laugh greeted her nod of acknowledgement. “Would this cousin of yours happen to be ... oh, at a guess ... a petite, green-eyed charmer with black ringlets?”

“Does it matter?” The angry burst from Gavin sent the fine hairs on the back of Marge's neck prickling.

“I'm not sure.” Suddenly, it felt as though Marge were watching herself speak from over in the corner. “Why did you ask me where Daisy was after I got off the stage? I assumed you thought she'd accompany me, but that's not the reason, is it?”

The look on his face provided all the answer she needed. Shame, disappointment, anger—they chased one another across his features until they burrowed their way into her heart.

“I did say she had a mind.” Ermintrude's voice bore into the descending blackness. “I'll bet Marge here is a better choice than that Daisy you wanted in the first place.”

“Marge!” Gavin slid one arm around her surprisingly slim waist and cupped her too-pale cheek with his free hand. At Grandma's words, she'd closed her eyes and swayed slightly.

“Ooh.” A small moan, almost a whimper, broke through her lips—lips that bore the only color in her face aside from the dark fans of her lashes.

“Don't faint.” He put the words to the panic gripping his chest. What would he do with a fainting female?

Her eyes flew open, two small palms pressed to his chest, and she pushed him away with a strength belying her sudden pallor. “I am not,” she seethed, “the type of ninny who faints.”

“Bravo!” Grandma Ermintrude thumped her cane in a show of approval. “I've seen enough ninnies to last a lifetime.”

“Well, the world has seen enough liars.” Hazel eyes suspiciously bright, Marge made as though to push past him and out the door.

“Where are you going?” He caught her elbow to bring her up short. It wasn't as though she could just flounce out of his sight and march back home.

“I need some time.” She jerked her arm away. “To think.”

“That's the one problem with those gals who have minds. They think on things.” Grandma's delighted commentary made a muscle in Gavin's jaw twitch.

If the old bat had kept her mouth shut, I wouldn't have this problem.

“There's nothing to think about. We'll get married as soon as you're ready.”

“Ready?” Her eyes grew even brighter as a strange, flat laugh hitched from deep inside her. “You'll have a long wait for that.”

“You changed your mind?” The hot sting of wounded pride whipped around his throat, making the words tight.

“You change yours?” She tossed the challenge over her shoulder as she sailed out the front door.

“No.” He stalked after her, anger fueling his steps so that he caught up to her just outside the mill. “I set out to marry Marguerite Chandler, and that's what I intend to do.” He snagged her wrist this time, and the force of her halted momentum made her turn to face him.

“You set out to marry
Daisy
Chandler.” Those long eyelashes of hers had gotten darker—and belatedly Gavin registered they were damp. Her eyes went so shiny because she held back
tears.

The breath left him as fast and painful as if he'd been kicked in the gut.
I made her cry.

Hurt angled her brows as she whispered her question. “And you weren't even going to tell me about the mistake?”

“Marge...” He wanted to say something to make it better but couldn't. “I didn't want you to know.”

“You would have made me live a lie!” Fury blazed away the tears—a welcome change from where Gavin stood. Anger, he could deal with.

“I—” The loud groan of stressed oak poured through the mill windows, warning of calamity. “Stay here. I'll be right back.” He sprinted to close the sluice gate, reaching it just as a great, splintering
crack
rent the air.

The water flow trickled to a stop, the wheel halted its turning, and all sounds of the running mill ceased. Somewhere down below, on the ground floor, he'd find a broken runner on a gear wheel. But now wasn't the time to inspect it. He had a bride to take care of.

Hustling back, he turned the corner to where he'd left Marge ... and found no one.

His bride had vanished.

Amos Geer had been staring at her again. Midge shivered and picked up the pace, heading for the spot that never failed to calm her down.

When Gavin Miller and his new woman drove off, she'd stopped concentrating on figuring out what seemed a bit askew between those two and had looked down to gather her thoughts. Then she looked up to find a pair of blue eyes, so dark they seemed stormy, peering directly at her from behind a shaggy lock of corn-colored hair in desperate need of a trim.

Looked like she'd found a fellow watcher.

Not good.

Even worse, it looked like he'd found her ... first.

Midge let loose a huff as she pressed onward. Living in Buttonwood for the past four years must've made her turn soft. She'd have to work on that with another watcher around. The last thing she needed was someone paying close attention to the life she'd built in this small—although much larger than when she'd arrived—town.

She remembered the week before, when Amos blocked her escape behind the smithy. Yes, she'd been avoiding him since he first showed up in her town. It'd taken no more than a minute to sum up that the man was too confident, too perceptive, and too curious to be anything but trouble. But when he confirmed that he watched her as closely as she watched everyone else, she'd sealed her verdict regarding the tall newcomer.

Dangerous.
He'd turned that considerable curiosity on the mystery of Midge Collins—and she'd spent years guarding those secrets. Nothing could persuade her to leave it to chance that Amos would not remember their encounter from four years before.

The more distance she put between them, the better she felt. Just as she went around the millpond, the point where she breathed easier knowing the apiary lay not too far ahead, something snagged her.

The sound of boots thudding against earth, still audible despite the muffling layer of thick prairie grass, gained urgency as someone came up fast from the left. Midge whirled around, instinctively crouching in a defensive stance, making her vitals less accessible to any attacker.

A flash of violet through the scrawny scrub oaks caught her attention just before Mr. Miller's bride-to-be came tearing full tilt around the millpond. Skirts streaming behind her, chignon bobbing precariously without the covering of any hat, Miss Chandler presented a picture of panic.

“Marge!”
A deep yell from around the other side of the mill provided all Midge needed to know. Somehow, Mr. Miller scared this woman—and men who frightened women didn't deserve them.

Women on the run from such men, however, unquestionably deserved her help. Midge burst into a sprint, helping close the short distance between them, and grabbed Marge's hand. The other woman raised glistening eyes to meet her gaze but only faltered for a moment when Midge matched her stride.

They dashed past the scrub oak, past the border of Miller's land, and didn't stop running until Midge found the familiar grove of black walnut trees bordering Opal's apiary on Grogan grounds. Marge matched her pace—an impressive feat, and something more to respect in a woman who had enough sense to find the road when a man found his temper.

Neither of them spoke for a few moments, both too preoccupied with drinking in great gulps of fresh air laced with the faintest hint of honey. As their breathing calmed, the merry
buzz
of hundreds of worker bees busily zooming in and out of the dozens of wooden movable-frame hives in the meadow before them became discernable.

At least Midge could make it out in between the hitched, sniffle-laden, quickly-stifled breaths of her companion. Miss Chandler dabbed at her eyes and nose with a pressed linen handkerchief, tucking it into a pocket in her skirts before looking up. The mop-up job hadn't done much to hide the fact she'd gone on a crying jag. Red nose and watery eyes tattled on both her upset and her inability to play a good damsel in distress. That made her more likeable in Midge's book.

“You don't have to go back,” she piped up once the other woman seemed ready to hear her out. “We'll get you taken care of. Now, what did he do?”

“It's a mistake.” Miss Chandler's lips moved almost too slowly for the words she spoke. “A terrible mistake.”

“Don't you worry.” Midge reached over to give her a soothing pat on the back. “We'll make sure you get home again, safe and sound. No woman need put up with a man who done her wrong.” She heard her molars grind in the silence as she waited for her new project to confide in her.

But this woman managed a rare feat—she kept her lips buttoned and her thoughts sewn up. She simply looked to the right, off to the distance, as though trying to make a plan, and periodically shook her head as though to clear it.

“Did he hit you?” Midge couldn't see any marks.

“No! Gavin would never do such a thing. How could you say that?” In an instant, the sorrow and uncertainty gave way to bristling indignation. “He's a good man.”

“If you're so fond of him, I don't know why you were dead set on running away from him. I suppose that's your business, but seeing as how I thought he'd done you wrong and tried to lend a hand”—Midge worked what scant angles she could—“maybe you could see your way clear to explaining why you don't want to marry the man?”

“If only it were that easy.” The tears came back. “I'd rather no one saw me like that, but I needed some time to think on my own.”

Obviously this would take some additional needling to get any useful information. Midge used another tactic. “Understood. I'll just wait here while you finish thinking about the reasons you don't want to marry such a fine man.”