Heartland Wedding (5 page)

“Rebecca, please,” he whispered, knowing his soft manner came too late.

“No.” She wrapped her dignity around her like a coat of iron-clad armor. “We have nothing more to say to each other.”

Just as another tear plopped onto the toe of her shoe, she turned and rushed out of the kitchen.

Stunned, Pete stared at the empty space she’d occupied. “That,” he said to himself, “could have gone better.”

With a gentle hand on her arm, Emmeline stopped Rebecca before she could run up the stairs. “Rebecca, wait.”

Rebecca swiped at her eyes. The onslaught of tears was close at hand, and she didn’t want an audience when she gave into her emotions. She looked frantically around the parlor. “Are we alone?”

“Completely.”

She blew out a relieved sigh. “Good.”

“What happened?” Emmeline’s gaze narrowed. “Did Pete hurt you?”

“No.” Not in the way Emmeline meant.

“Well, he must have done something. You look like you’re about to cry.”

“He—he—” Words backed up in her throat. Her emotions were too raw to push them out in English, but she
threw her shoulders back and tried once more. “He asked me to marry him to stop Matilda Johnson’s gossip.”

Emmeline drew her deeper into the room, then applied pressure on her shoulders until Rebecca was forced to sit in one of the wing chairs facing the brocade divan.

“Is that such a bad thing?” Emmeline asked.

Unable to explain why Pete’s proposal had hurt so badly, Rebecca leaned her head against the chair and shut her eyes.

It wasn’t that she expected him to love her, or forsake his feelings for his dead wife, but she wanted him to…to…know something about her. Her favorite color, her favorite recipe. Something. Anything. She didn’t want her marriage to be only about duty and honor.

She wanted…
more.
Affection, at the very least.

“Rebecca? Was he cruel with his words?”

“No.” She shook her head fiercely. “He was honorable. Noble, even. And…and…” She sighed.
Heroic.
Very heroic. He hadn’t cared what marriage to a Norwegian immigrant would mean to his own standing in the community.

“And?”

“And, nothing. He was very respectful, if a bit blunt.”

Emmeline let out an unladylike snort. “So he botched it.”

“I suppose he did. But his intentions were pure.”

If nothing else, Pete’s proposal proved that he was a man of Christian integrity and a true follower of the Lord. Unfortunately, the thought of his steadfast obedience made her a little sad. She didn’t want a marriage driven by duty alone.

“I don’t see the problem here.” Emmeline smoothed a hand down her dress, then plucked at a pleat until it fell neatly into place. “Marriage is a perfect solution to the gossip.”

“But Pete doesn’t know me. And I certainly don’t know him.” Not really. Not enough to build a life on.

“If you give it time, that could change.”

Time. The one commodity they didn’t have. Despite his noble intentions, Pete had told Mrs. Johnson of their impending marriage. The talk would get worse if they didn’t follow through.

She slumped forward, as reality settled over her. Her choices were limited now. No, they were nonexistent. What did it matter whether she and Pete knew each other well? By trying to defend her—which was really rather sweet—he’d tied her to him as no ceremony or vow before God could have done.

“I…” She fought back another onslaught of tears and stood. No. She would not cry over this horrible turn of events. Unfortunately, another lone tear made it past her defenses.

All right, maybe she would cry.

But not here. Not in front of Emmeline.

“I…” She glanced to the ceiling and pressed her fingertips to her temples. “Have to check on my pies.”

“Oh, Rebecca.” Sighing, Emmeline pulled her into a fierce hug. “It’s going to be all right. I just know it.”

Surprised at the relief Emmeline’s words brought her, Rebecca clung to her friend. “What am I going to do?” she choked out.

“You’re going to pray for guidance, and trust the Lord. He already has the particulars worked out, you just can’t see the solution clearly yet.” Emmeline patted her back. “And if all else fails, follow your heart.”

“Pray. Trust the Lord. Follow my heart,” Rebecca repeated, chewing on each word as though she was learning the language all over again.

Emmeline pulled back and gave her an encouraging nod. “It’s really that simple.”

And that complicated,
Rebecca thought.

How could she explain to her friend that her greatest desire was to be loved solely for herself? She’d spent her entire childhood second best in her parents’ eyes. They had loved her, in their own way, but they had loved each other more. And when the hard times had hit, they’d turned to each other, ignoring Rebecca completely. With Edward already gone, she’d been alone in her own home.

She couldn’t live like that again. Pete’s heart would never truly be hers. After all, he hadn’t
chosen
to marry her. And, to be fair, she hadn’t chosen to marry him, either. Their union would hush the gossip, but how could anything good come from something based solely on duty and obligation?

Rebecca flicked her gaze toward the kitchen, surprised at the little gasping sobs that slipped past her lips.

“Follow your heart,” Emmeline repeated. “And trust the Lord to take care of the rest.”

If Rebecca did what her friend suggested, if she followed her heart, she feared she would agree to Pete’s proposal. And spend the rest of her life in a forced marriage neither of them truly wanted.

She couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t do it.

W
ith tension scratching under his skin, Pete pushed out the back door of the boardinghouse and set off at a brisk pace.

Rebecca might have just refused his proposal, but he wasn’t giving up. He
would
convince her to marry him. For her sake, not his own. It was not a matter of if, but when.

The how? Now, that was the problem.

Lord, I could use a little guidance here.

Eyes locked on the horizon, Pete rounded onto Main Street. The air was thick with the pleasant smells of summer, the scent equal parts sweet wildflowers and the tang of fresh-cut timber.

It was no wonder he loved July on the prairie. He loved every month on the prairie, even when the harsh snows hit in winter. Sadly, Sarah had never been happy in High Plains.

Pete should have known she wouldn’t adapt to life on the frontier. She’d always been fragile, frail even. Carrying his child had been the final blow to her uncertain health.

He flexed his fingers several times, clamped his lips tightly together. He hated thinking about Sarah. Memories
of her always made him restless and uneasy. He missed her, missed what might have been, missed the child he’d lost along with his wife. There were too many regrets, too much blame, so he cleared his mind, a growing habit since Sarah’s death.

Tense, hands brushing his thighs, he prowled around the perimeter of what would eventually become the new town hall.

The original building had been leveled by the tornado. Miraculously, neither the church on its right nor the schoolhouse on its left had been harmed. Some said the tornado had chosen one building over the others, as though it had a mind of its own. Pete believed otherwise. The Lord had protected the church and the schoolhouse.

Pivoting on his heel, he retraced his path along the perimeter of the building. So far, only the frame, the east wall and several window casings had been constructed. There was a lot of work still to do to rebuild the town.

Frustration rose, strong and urgent. And then, as if to taunt him, his mind circled back to Rebecca and the gossip that had started about them. A sickening dread dropped in his stomach. Just as he had failed Sarah, he was going to fail Rebecca.

Marry her,
a voice blazed through his mind.
Today. Marry her today. Before it’s too late.

Shocked at the intensity of the thought, and the tightening around his heart, Pete paced to his left, back to his right, and then rounded to the front of the building. With his gaze unfocused, he lifted his face toward heaven.

Lord, how am I supposed to convince Rebecca that marriage is our best course of action when we hardly know each other? What if this doesn’t work out for her? What if she ends up hurt? What if—

“Brooding again, Benjamin?”

Unhappy with the interruption, Pete crammed his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Don’t push me, Zeb.” He kept his gaze locked on the sky above. “I’ve already been pushed enough for one day.”

“Don’t doubt it for a minute.”

Unsure what he heard in the other man’s tone, Pete swung around to glare at his friend. But instead of judgment, or even sarcasm, he saw only rough understanding staring back at him.

As the owner of the town’s only mill and a town founder, Zeb Garrison was the wealthiest man in High Plains. Yet today, like most days, he was dressed in ordinary work clothes. Dark trousers, muslin shirt, broad-brimmed hat plopped over his black hair, all were covered with a thin layer of sawdust.

“Been hard at work, I see.”

Zeb shrugged. “Town can’t be rebuilt without lumber.”

Pete heard the determination below the mildly spoken words. He knew firsthand just how strong his friend’s commitment was to High Plains and its people. Zeb was one of Pete’s oldest friends, and he had been the one to coax Pete to move here as the town’s blacksmith, paying for his and Sarah’s passages when there wasn’t enough money to make the trek across country.

When Sarah died, Zeb had begun the search for a new town doctor. Not that Pete blamed Doc Dempsey for the tragedy, but it had been clear that the old man needed help. Zeb’s year-long search hadn’t proved successful—
yet
—but Pete knew Sarah’s death, Doc Dempsey’s advanced age and all the increased need for medical help since the tornado, kept his friend diligent in the ongoing pursuit.

For that alone, Pete valued Zeb’s friendship.

“Think we’ll get the building done in time for the festival?” Zeb asked.

“We have to,” Pete answered with conviction. “The town needs a day of celebration.”

Zeb nodded. “Yeah. It’s about time we focused on High Plain’s founding principles of faith, love and fortitude, rather than all the tragedies and loss we’ve had to endure.”

Pete’s gut clenched, but he refused to think about Sarah or his son. He forced his mind on the town hall, and nothing else, especially his own loss.

“It’s a mighty task we have ahead of us,” Zeb added.

“We can do it.”

“Yes, we can.”

Of course, neither of them stated the obvious. If they wanted the town hall complete in time for the summer festival they would have to focus all their efforts on this one building. Even then, they would be cutting it close. The festival was scheduled for the end of August, a mere seven weeks away. There was at least nine weeks of work still to be done.

Pete recognized the curling in his gut as apprehension. Unfortunately, the emotion wasn’t due solely to the rebuilding task that lay ahead. Zeb wasn’t finished with him yet.

Feet braced, Pete swallowed back a sudden urge to return to his smithy, the one place where he could use work to free his mind and avoid well-meaning friends.

“I heard about your conversation with Matilda Johnson this morning,” Zeb said in a deceptively neutral tone.

Pete kept his gaze cemented to the window casing just to the left of the front door. “I suspect everyone in town has heard about it by now.”

“Does Rebecca know she’s marrying you yet?”

A pall of defeat enveloped him. “I informed her, yes.”

“You
informed
her?”

“Yeah.” Pete’s throat tightened. “She refused me.”

“Pete, Pete, no wonder she turned you down, you can’t—”

“Don’t, Zeb.” He lifted a restraining hand in the air. “There’s nothing you can say that I haven’t said to myself.”

That earned him a dry chuckle.

In the midst of his burning frustration, Pete experienced something he hadn’t felt in a long time.
Peace.
The kind of soul-deep serenity that came when he followed the Lord’s will for his life. He didn’t know why a sense of calm settled over him so completely. Nor did he know how he’d come to this point of acceptance. All he knew for certain was that marrying Rebecca Gundersen was the right thing to do.

“She
will
marry me,” he said with renewed confidence.

“Is that so?”

Before he could explain further, Pete felt a prickling at the back of his neck. He shot a glance over his shoulder.

“The Tully brothers.” He nearly spat the words.

A muscle twitched in Zeb’s jaw. “Those boys have just about worn out their welcome in this town.”

Pete made a sound of agreement in his throat, although “boys” was not an accurate term. Sal, the oldest and meanest, was in his late twenties. The other two were only a few years behind him. But no matter their age, with their filthy clothes, matted hair and raucous natures, the Tully brothers were walking, talking trouble.

They’d arrived a month ago with the wagon train that had been devastated by the tornado, and had chosen to stay in town when the rest of the train had moved on. From
day one, the “boys” had accepted food and lodging while providing little in return.

“We’ve seen their type come through before,” Pete reminded Zeb. “They usually move on once boredom sets in.”

“Yeah, well.” Zeb’s eyes frosted over. “
That
blessed event can’t come soon enough.”

Pete nodded. He’d broken up more than one fight the brothers had instigated. Flashing the three a dark glance, he then went back to inspecting the town hall’s skeletal frame.

It would take everyone’s combined effort to get the building completed in time for the festival. Looked like his livery wasn’t getting a roof anytime soon.

“Here we go again,” Zeb muttered.

Pete turned in time to see Edward Gundersen rounding the corner of the mercantile. The glare on the big Norwegian’s face, along with the bunched shoulders and clenched fists, told Pete the man was spoiling for a fight. And, of course, Rebecca’s brother was walking straight toward the Tullys.

As if Pete’s day hadn’t been filled with enough conflict, now he had to break up another Tully fight.

“Leave this to me,” he said, looking to his right and then his left before stepping off the planked sidewalk.

“Not on your life,” Zeb said. “This is my concern, too.”

Pete and Zeb made it halfway across the street when Edward closed the distance between him and the brothers. Sal Tully, the oldest and meanest of the three, said something low and menacing. Pete was too far away to make out the specific words.

Edward raised his hands in a show of surrender, as though he was trying to behave rationally and stay calm despite the anger on his face.

The Tullys advanced on him anyway. Shoulder to shoulder, they created a wall of hard muscle and bad attitude.

Out of the corner of his eye, Pete saw Will Logan heading toward the fight from the opposite direction. It was anybody’s guess who would get to the group first.

Edward pushed back.

Pete broke into a run. Zeb’s footsteps pounded behind him.

Just as Edward raised his fists in obvious defense, the two youngest Tullys grabbed him from either side and slammed him against the wall of the mercantile. Edward’s elbow broke through one of the store’s new windows. The high-pitched shriek of shattering glass rang out over Edward’s grunts.

The boys held Edward in place while Sal pounded his left side. The brute focused on the same spot, over and over again.

People spilled out of buildings from both sides of the streets. One woman in particular rushed forward.

“How dare you start a fight in front of my store,” Matilda Johnson said in an outraged voice.

In the next moment, Pete drew alongside her. He nearly clipped her on the shoulder in his attempt to rush past her. Matilda’s pinched-faced daughter, Abigail, yelled at him to watch his step. But then she saw Zeb and her face softened. She approached him, but he barked at her to stay back.

Unfortunately, the Tully brothers had Edward down on the sidewalk by then. The hard thuds of boots connecting with human muscle and bone were followed by Edward’s grunts.

Furious, as much by the underhanded tactics as the growing audience they were attracting, Pete grabbed the closest Tully by the shirt and waistband. One hefty swing and the man went flying into the street. Pete reached for the next brother, but Zeb already had his hands on him.

Tully number two landed on top of his brother.

They tumbled over each other, arms and limbs tangling together. Dust swirled in the air, twisting around them in a choking brown cloud. Will warned them to stay down. Three of his ranch hands joined him, circling around the brothers.

Sal continued kicking Edward. In unison, Pete and Zeb lifted Sal backward and then slammed him against the wall in an identical move to the one his brothers had used on Edward.

Zeb told the crowd to go back inside their homes and businesses. “Nothing to see here,” he added.

That only drew the gawkers closer.

Pete pressed his forearm into Sal’s collarbone and glanced over his shoulder at Edward. “You all right?”

Moaning, Edward lifted to his knees, released a breath, then collapsed back to the ground. “I think he busted my ribs.”

Sal strained against Pete’s grip. “Serves you right, you dirty immigrant.”

As one, Pete and Zeb slammed Sal harder against the wall. “Keep your mouth shut,” Pete growled. “Or I’ll shut it for you.”

“What?” Sal jerked his chin in an angry gesture. “Like you’re so good? I know what you are, and I know what you do behind closed cellar doors with unmarried women.”

A wave of unconscionable anger flooded Pete’s ability to think logically.

But just as he raised his fist, Edward reached out and yanked Sal’s foot. Hard. “You’re scum, Sal Tully.”

Unprepared for the attack, Pete and Zeb lost their grip and Sal tumbled to the ground.

The crowd gasped.

Edward muttered a string of angry Norwegian as he
struggled to grab Sal. Sal didn’t deserve the effort. The realization helped Pete calm his own anger.

“That’s enough, Edward.” He lifted his friend off Sal while Zeb shoved the oldest Tully into the street with his boot heel.

Sal ended up on top of his younger brothers, who were still tripping over one another in a whirlwind of cursing and dust.

Fingers squeezed into white-knuckled fists, Will waited until all three found their footing at last. “You’ve officially worn out your welcome. I want you out of my town now.” He paused. “And if I see any of your faces around here again I’ll make sure you wished you were never born.”

Sal wiped his nose with his sleeve. “I ain’t scared.”

Will held his ground. “You should be.”

Opening his mouth to speak, Sal closed it when he took note of the ranch hands closing ranks around Will.

With the odds no longer on his side, Sal accepted defeat at last. “Let’s go, boys.”

The Tully brothers limped away, muttering ugly epitaphs with every step. Pete prayed the three kept on walking, all the way out of High Plains for good.

Sensing most of the trouble had come to an end, people edged closer to Edward, who was still sprawled on the ground.

Pete helped him to a sitting position. “Easy now.”

Edward swallowed, then narrowed his eyes into two angry slits as he glowered over Pete’s shoulder. “What are
you
looking at?”

Squeaking, Abigail Johnson, round-eyed and blinking rapidly, scampered behind her mother. Although Pete estimated the petite blonde to be about the same age as
Rebecca Gundersen, Mrs. Johnson treated her daughter as if she was still a child.