Bride Blunder (5 page)

“Prove it?” Gavin echoed the challenge she'd thrown down like a gauntlet. “Doesn't me saying so and asking repeatedly do that?”

“His mother's side, I tell you.” Grandma Ermintrude couldn't seem to hold it in. “If he only took after my son, he'd cotton on far quicker.”

“I'm inclined to believe you, Mrs. Miller.” How he'd ever thought that Collins girl would be helpful stumped Gavin at the moment. It must have shown, because she addressed her next comment to him. “From where I sit—quite comfortably, I might add—you have a lot of proving to do. For one thing, I haven't heard you ask Marge to marry you on one single occasion. You do, however, demonstrate a distinct talent for giving orders.”

“Now
that
he gets from me.” Leave it to Grandma Ermintrude to make a man proud.

“You're both wrong. I didn't issue orders. I stated facts.” If he had to stand trial, he'd provide a solid defense. “Marge will marry me. It's the obvious decision based on what she's already done.”

“Forgive me for failing to see how my refusals would make marriage a foregone conclusion.”

“A man proposes to be sure a woman wants to marry him.” Gavin didn't know how women managed to get these things so twisted around, but he'd straighten them out. “I know Marge wants to marry me. She wouldn't be here otherwise.”

“You think ... that's why ... ooh. Wrong!” The woman he'd just proclaimed wanted to marry him spluttered the most vehement denial he'd ever heard.

“If you didn't want to marry me, you wouldn't have left your home and family and come here as my fiancée.” He could be patient, even understand that her position made her vulnerable. But the woman had to see reason. “I'm not wrong.”

“That proposal theory of yours was.” Grandma Ermintrude shook her head. “A man doesn't only ask a woman to wed him to see whether or not she wants to.”

Miss Collins simply glowered at him. “Her wanting to is only half of it. A man proposes to demonstrate to his woman how much he values her.”

“The mere act of asking implies that.” Three women in the house were two too many. Possibly three too many, but that wouldn't help Gavin win a bride.

“And you haven't asked.” Marge recovered her ability to speak. “You asked Daisy. You've proven that you want to marry
my cousin.
”

All of a sudden, the problem became clear.
Easy enough to get that bee out of her bonnet so we can get married and move on. Marge will be a good wife, and no one need ever know things weren't planned this way.

He closed the short distance between them, dropped to one knee, and took one of her hands in both of his. Looking up into hazel eyes wide with surprise, Gavin gave his future wife the one thing that would make all the mistakes better—a proposal. Better yet, a proposal before witnesses.

“Marge Chandler, will you marry me?”

Her lips parted, her eyes searching his, she held perfectly still for one spellbound moment. Then she snatched her hand from his grasp and backed away. “No!”

“What do you mean, ‘No'?” He lurched to his feet and tracked her. “You said prove it.” She scuttled farther back when he came within reaching distance. “You said a man proposed to demonstrate how much he valued his woman.”

Their deranged dance continued—his stalking closer, her scooting backward around the room in a bid to avoid him. “I proposed. I proved I valued you.” With his final point, he backed her into a corner. Literally.

“I mean, ‘No, I will not marry you.'” She lifted her chin, defiant despite being caught. “Or, if you like, ‘No, you have most certainly not proven yourself.'”

“I don't like it.” He leaned closer, deliberately placing one palm against the wall. “You can't change the rules.”

“Don't accuse me of cheating.” Sparks of green blazed in the honey brown of her stare—he'd never noticed that before. “Yes, a man proposes to show he values his woman.” She reached up and pushed on his elbow. When it didn't give way, she ducked beneath it and made an escape. “But the problem is you can't skip the steps that come before.”

“You made no mention of other steps.” He looked at the space where she'd been so neatly sandwiched a scant moment before. A faint scent of something ... clean ... lingered. He liked it. “What other steps?”

“I'm not
your
woman.” She'd taken refuge between Miss Collins and Grandma Ermintrude, of all people.

“You will be as soon as we're wed.” Confound her circular logic.

“Wrong way around.” The ever-helpful Miss Collins poked her nose in again.

“I didn't have to prove she was my woman when she first came. Why now?”
And how?

“Before, everyone thought she was the woman of your choice. That was enough.” An exasperated
thump
of Grandma's cane sounded. “Think, boy. How do you win a woman?”

Gavin swallowed a groan as the answer hit him like a pebble between the eyes ... with enough force to fell a lesser man. “You three are saying I have to court my own mail-order bride.”

“I think it's best you stay here with Grandma Miller while you teach”—Miss Collins directed the statement to Marge—“rather than come home with me, after all. Seems only fair to allow Mr. Miller the opportunity to”—she turned to give him a meaningful look—“get to work.”

Hard work was to be met head-on.
“And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men....”
Amos considered the verse in Colossians a daily challenge. Fulfilling it meant food on the table for Mother and his six siblings, a sense of satisfaction in a job well done, and a well-earned night's rest.

It also, he reflected as he sat on a church pew on Wednesday morning, brought with it the benefits of clean living. The Geers hadn't set up in Buttonwood for much more than a month, as of yet, and already people took notice of a solid work ethic. With the mill finished—though he'd only been around to help put on the final touches—the town council contracted him to build a schoolhouse.

Perfect timing, since he and the family arrived too late for spring planting on the homestead and a paying job came as nothing short of a blessing. Amos went ahead and stretched his boots beneath the pew ahead of his. Might as well get comfortable—his presence was more of a formality than anything else.

It wasn't as though he had much to say in the hiring of a new schoolmarm. He hadn't been in town long enough to bear any right to vote on anything so important. No, Parson Carter and Josiah Reed—minister and mayor, or Field Mouse and Fox, as Amos privately dubbed them—requested his presence so that they could all discuss the progress on the schoolhouse. Ostensibly, if they hired on the new woman, she might make some requests and such forth.

No matter. He'd adjust whatever they liked. Today's meeting caught his interest for a few reasons—that he had four school-aged brothers and sisters didn't even make the top two. A few questions rustled around in the files of his mind, so Amos made sure to show up early. Good call.

The council filed in and took chairs at the front of the church. Then in walked the two points of interest. Amos stopped slumping and sat up straight as Midge Collins strolled in alongside Mr. Miller's new bride.

Just as I suspected. Only one new woman got off that stagecoach—but married women don't teach.
Here then lay an entire collection of questions waiting to be answered. Amos couldn't help but notice Mr. Miller didn't join his bride-to-be for the interview this morning.
Never a dull moment when one pays attention.

Especially when Midge Collins made an appearance. Amos's focus slid to her and stayed put—with good reason. Now there was a woman to work for. She knew it, too. Had half the pups in town sniffing after her skirts but knew better than to go twitching them at anyone. Every man alive heard of women who played hard to get. Well, here he'd found a woman who meant it.

He never could resist a worthwhile challenge, and it didn't hurt that this one came wrapped in a petite package with that saucy smile and a few freckles.
Always had a soft spot for freckles.

But the one girl Amos fixed on talking to went to extreme lengths to avoid him.
I wonder if she remembers our encounter four years ago. How long can she hold it against me for “manhandling” her?

He'd find out soon enough. Until then, Amos fully intended to enjoy the view. So he watched and listened as Midge explained to the council how Miss Chandler came to them highly qualified, with letters of reference, and would like to help them set up the Buttonwood school.

More importantly, he listened to what Midge avoided saying. No mention of how it'd been rumored she herself was to be given the post. Not a word about Mr. Miller and Miss Chandler's impending marriage. The unsaid attracted more and more attention.

“Miss Chandler, your references exceed expectation and your experience speaks to your ability.” Saul Reed gave a satisfied nod and fell silent amidst nods of agreement.

“There is an issue left to address.” Frank Fosset, a short, jovial man who sold and traded oxen to wagon trains heading to Oregon, apparently hadn't gotten the same information as others on the council. “Miss Chandler, it is my understanding you came to Buttonwood to be Mr. Miller's bride. As you know, married women find themselves carrying many responsibilities that preclude them from teaching. I apologize for asking a personal question, but it seems the council has forgotten to look into this matter of your marital plans. Are you getting married or not?”

“Eventually.” Marge refused to slouch. “I plan to marry in the future, but Mr. Miller and I have yet to determine absolute compatibility and set a date.”

Despite Midge's efforts on her behalf, Marge knew there'd be questions. This council meeting would only be the beginning of the queries, speculation, and downright gossip about her and Gavin.

Gavin.
Strange how she couldn't re-erect the barrier of his name in her mind. After calling him “Gavin” in her mind for when she claimed him as her fiancé, then for a scant hour in person, she couldn't convince her head or heart to reclassify him as “Mr. Miller,” as was proper. Oh, when she spoke to others she could adhere to social convention easily enough. But in private...

They always say you're at your truest when no one else is watching.
Marge didn't want to think about the things she hid within, the things she allowed no one to see.
What does that say about who I am?

“The Grogans, my son, and I are aware of the ... uncertainty regarding Miss Chandler's arrangements with Mr. Miller.” Josiah—at least she thought that was his name—Reed, owner of the mercantile and mayor of Buttonwood weighed in. “Until such a time as the matter is settled, we understand she is to live with Ermintrude Miller, while Gavin takes up temporary residence within the mill itself.”

“While Miss Chandler and Mr. Miller go about reacquainting themselves,” Dr. Reed—Midge's adoptive father—added his voice, “she is applying for the position of schoolmistress. Should she wed, obviously another candidate would be needed.”

“Which would leave us in the lurch.” Mr. Fosset seemed unlikely to cave to popular opinion. “We need some sort of stability or contingency plan if we're to take on such a poor risk.” He belatedly realized how that sounded as he added, “No offense, Miss Chandler.”

“None taken.”
Though I'm not half so poor a risk as you might think. Have they not noticed Gavin didn't bother to accompany me this morning? In all likelihood, I'll be a schoolmarm until I can no longer remember the subjects I teach.

“We'd be no worse off than before.” The farmer, Mr. Grogan, held true to Midge's prediction.

“No. I remember us discussing Miss Collins as a possible candidate for the position.”

Marge held back a sigh. Normally she didn't like to judge. But to her understanding, Mr. Fosset dealt in oxen. Perhaps that was the source of his bullish obstinacy?

“I don't believe I'd make a good candidate.” Midge didn't mince words. “Besides having no experience, patience isn't my strongest suit. Everyone knows that.”

Guffaws met her admission.

“What if we compromise?” Parson Carter leaned forward. “Hire Miss Chandler to help set up the school and keep her on so long as is possible, but with an added provision.”

Hope, vibrant and welcome after the flattening revelations of the day before, fluttered to life. “What provision?”

“Miss Collins trains alongside you as your successor.” The parson couldn't look more pleased as the rest of the council nodded in agreement.

Marge stood in no position to protest, although one look at her friend's face told that Midge felt just as she had when she realized Gavin didn't want her.

Trapped.

Peace and quiet. That's all Midge really wanted. Complete silence. A place with no one and nothing but utter stillness. So she could shatter it by shrieking.

Instead, she got a guided tour of the new schoolhouse-in-progress. Led by none other than Amos Geer. Amos. Geer. The very reason—aside from her total lack of patience and inability to remain still indoors for any significant length of time—she balked at becoming a teacher.

The moment they contracted Amos Geer to construct the school, Midge decided to have nothing to do with it. Folks were always saying to “listen to her gut,” and that man made hers grumble. Not in a sour milk sort of way, but in a keep-your-distance type of warning.

A warning she'd done her level best to heed until a scheming town outmaneuvered her. All because she'd tried to do the right thing for a fellow outsider.
The old adage is true—no good deed goes unpunished.

She scarcely refrained from aiming a kick at the stray rock in her path—that would have been childish. Instead, she played a little game as the three of them trouped toward the building. A game of how-many-things-about-Amos-are-unattractive. Midge prepared to create a long list.

Four years ago, that incident at Fort Bridger, for one thing. He most likely didn't even remember it.
But I do.

Then there was the sad matter of his overconfidence. His walk alone should be a source of shame. That stride, legs swallowing the distance as though it was nothing, shoulders relaxed as though completely at ease.

Why couldn't he slouch, stoop, strut, swagger, or go stiff in the neck like every other man in town? Those men had the sense God gave a goat and knew full well that everybody had something to cause a hitch in their get-alongs. Any man unaware of his flaws made for a fool.

And any man who could hide his so well became a threat.

“Here we are.” An obvious statement—and another thing to add to her list of things to dislike, since people who said obvious things lacked ingenuity, as Amos gestured to the already-laid foundation of the schoolhouse. “You can see it'll be a good size, but plan for the walls to be thick.”

“It's larger than the schoolroom I managed in Baltimore.” Marge seemed pleased, at least. “Why will the walls be so thick, I wonder?”

“Council batted around a few ideas when I came up with the building materials' cost. Wood's scarce around these parts, so we'd have to ship in whatever we used. It's not the best insulator against weather. Would need steady upkeep and repainting, too. But the main argument against it seemed to center around the issue of safety.”

“Fire.” Midge fought to keep from going pale. Amos would notice—and it made her freckles stand out.

“Yep.” His nod didn't seem to notice anything unusual. “Some folks saw a wooden schoolhouse full of boisterous children and a stove as a catastrophe waiting to happen.”

“Not worth the risk.” She let them both know she agreed with that opinion. “Brick is a better choice.”

“Expensive.” Marge frowned. “Wouldn't the money be better spent on books, slates, ink, and paper for the children to use?”

“They balked at the high freight cost, but I found a substitution.” He made his way behind a cornerstone and lifted a piece of canvas to reveal an orangish red block far larger than a normal brick. “This is made from a type of red clay found not too far from here. It holds up well to wind and water, and the thickness of the blocks will keep the building sturdy enough to withstand the worst storms.”

In spite of herself, Midge crouched, stripped off a glove, and ran a hand over the block. A fine layer of soft reddish grit dusted her fingertips. She rubbed them together. “Little red prairie schoolhouse—not brick and doesn't have to be painted. Ingenious.”

“I can see now why the walls will be so thick,” Marge commented. “We'll be glad of it in the heat of summer.”

“This will make the place dark.” The very thought of it—forced to stay cooped up inside in a dim room with thick walls—made Midge's toes twitch with the need for a quick escape.

“We've ordered a total of six windows.” Amos pointed first to the length then to the breadth of the foundation. “Each side will have two, so you'll get light in morning and afternoon. The third pair is slightly smaller, to bracket the entrance.”

“Glad to hear it.” Her toes stopped twitching, at least. Well ... mostly.

“Will I need to speak with the council about ordering a blackboard, desks, and supplies?” It seemed Midge wasn't the only one who made mental lists, as Marge began rattling off things like primers and hornbooks. “Or has that been seen to?”

“The blackboard and desks, they're ordered. I couldn't speak as to the rest.” Amos stepped up onto the foundation, walking to the very center. “This is where we planned to put the stove so it'd heat most evenly come winter. If you ladies approve that, then there's not much else to discuss.”

“I approve.”
Time to leave Mr. Geer behind ... far, far behind. So I don't have to consult with him again.
Midge looked expectantly at Marge.

“The council mentioned a bell?” Her friend's question may have been reasonable, but Midge didn't appreciate it all the same.

Especially when they all walked back to the general store and Amos Geer pointed up a narrow flight of stairs. “It's up there. You can't miss it.”

Marge started up without a moment's hesitation. Midge, however, balked when Amos stepped back to let her go ahead.

“I've already seen it, thank you.” It would take far more than a bell to make her waltz up those stairs, knowing her rump would be straight in his sight line.

“Good.” A wide smile revealed that the slight gap between his front teeth hadn't completely closed in the past four years. He moved in such a way to block the stairs. “Now you can explain why you've been avoiding me.”

Amos didn't bother to hide his amusement as his quarry looked to the left then right for avenues of escape. Let her look. He'd chosen well—with Josiah Reed at the far end of the counter, clear at the other end of the mercantile with another customer, Midge couldn't pawn him off on anyone.

At the same time, if she tried to go out the door, the bell would jangle to catch everyone's attention. He already blocked the staircase, and good manners dictated she wouldn't abandon Miss Chandler in any event. All he needed was time.

“Miss Chandler?” He pitched his voice to carry up the stairs but not across the store.

“Yes, Mr. Geer?” The miller's would-be-wife peeped over the top of the stairwell. “Will I not be able to find it?”

“I'm sure you will. It's to the left.” A smile would reassure her—and concern Midge—so he flashed one. “Mr. Reed might have mentioned a crate of primers up there, if you'd like to look for a moment.” He heard a quick exhalation from the woman at his side, the type of sound that could only be called a huff. His grin grew.

“He mentioned no such thing,” Midge spoke through gritted teeth. How anyone could call her something so stuffy as Miss Collins escaped Amos's understanding.

“I said he
might
have.”

“We both know better.”

“Then tell me something I don't know.” He really shouldn't be enjoying this so much. “What did I do to set up your back?”

“What makes you think you're of any concern to me?” The imperiously raised brow could have fooled someone who hadn't watched her systematic avoidance over the course of weeks.

“Speak plainly. Are you in a sulk because you think I don't remember you?” He deliberately provoked her, intent to see whether she knew what he meant.

“Sulk?” She latched on to the word and ignored the question. “Grown women don't indulge in sulks.”

“A girl I met once did—at Fort Bridger.” Amos saw the flash of recognition in her eyes and felt a surge of satisfaction.
She remembers.

“Did she? If I had to make a guess, I'd say you deserved whatever she threw at you.” Her studied nonchalance missed its mark only because it was a shade
too
studied. “For amusement's sake, why don't you tell me about this so-called sulk.”

She wants to know how much I remember.
That boded well. For the first time, he caught a glimpse of the curiosity she kept contained around him. The curiosity that shone from her whenever she spoke with just about any other soul in Buttonwood—only to shutter when she glanced his way.
Why?

“Scrawny gal.” He saw her eyes narrow at that.
Good.
“Thought her to be about eleven when I first caught sight of her poking her pretty little nose where it didn't belong. Not time enough to shout a warning and be sure she'd hear me—much less heed it if she did—I ran up and pulled her away from the door.”

Midge opened her mouth, obviously fixing to interrupt, but he held up a hand to stop her. She'd asked him to tell the story, and he'd finish his version before she got her say.

“You see, my brother Billy almost died in that room just a few days before, and it hadn't been cleaned out. That nosy little girl could've died if I hadn't saved her. But did she thank me for my troubles?” Amos shook his head mournfully as Midge's glower grew still more fierce.

“No. Instead, she stomped on my foot, elbowed me in the ribs, and threatened me with a bloody nose. That little girl sure lucked out that I had a soft spot for freckles.”

“You grabbed me from behind with half the force of a freight train and no word of warning!” she burst out in rebuttal the moment he stopped. “Then had the nerve to tell me it wasn't manhandling. Any male who sneaks up on a woman deserves whatever he gets—including that bloody nose you escaped.” Midge drew a breath, still visibly livid. “And you're wrong. I did thank you.”

“But you didn't apologize.” Suddenly he recalled that she had thanked him after he explained about Billy.

“Did so.”

“Only for stomping on my foot—not for elbowing me in the ribs. Now that I know you remember Fort Bridger,” he said, shifting closer and lowering his voice, “you still owe me an apology.”

“You won't get it.”

“Looks like you're lucky.” Amos heard the unmistakable sound of feminine footsteps on stairs and got in the last word. “I
still
like freckles.”