“Fiona? I don’t think so. She and I have very different tastes.”
“Not Fiona.”
Phoebe stared at him. “You? You helped him?”
“Maybe.”
“You are certainly full of surprises.” She laughed when he affected a modest shrug. “I don’t know how the two of you did it, or when you did it, and I suppose your motives had something to do with me not changing my mind, but I don’t even care about that. Mrs. Fish is coming here tomorrow morning to manage the alterations. That was Fiona’s idea. She needed to fuss and would not accept that I could make the nips and tucks myself.” She pointed a finger at Remington. “And you will be discharged to some far corner of Twin Star so there is no possibility of you seeing me in the dress until Saturday. Thaddeus, too. Fiona does not trust him not to peek and tell you how enchanting I look in it.”
“It’s disappointing, but not unexpected, and just so you know, enchanting is exactly what we had in mind.”
She regarded him dubiously. “If you say so.” They fell into an easy conversation, then, reviewing the plans for the reception. There were the details that needed to be discussed for any after-wedding repast, but there were additional things to consider in regard to the roundup. Fiona, who felt more strongly about observing certain refinements about the wedding than Phoebe did, insisted that Thaddeus hire a photographer to make a record of the event. Thus, there would be a wedding album and photographic evidence of the guests, particularly the no-chin Puttys. Remington and Jackson Brewer judged it was too dangerous for John Manypenny to appear at the wedding, even if he agreed to make the journey from his sister’s, but having him look overphotographs seemed like something they could insist that he do.
Nothing was sure. No one could know for certain that the men they were seeking would be among the guests, or if they were, whether or not they might allow themselves to be photographed. There was no proof that the no-chins were part of the Putty clan. It seemed unlikely that the men who had worn the blue bandannas would appear at a reception with those same kerchiefs dangling from their back pockets.
And yet, they were hopeful. If Les Brownlee had accurately described the antics of the Puttys, there was a good chance they’d be drawn to an event that promised an opportunity to get liquored up and carry on. There would be dancing, carousing, plenty of food, a fair number of single women, and what might prove to be the irresistible urge to rub elbows with Phoebe Apple and the law. There would be a certain kind of satisfaction in getting close to her, perhaps even asking her to dance, confident in their anonymity. They’d see Jackson Brewer among the guests, maybe have a laugh behind his back, viewing him as the hapless sheriff who couldn’t track them down. It was easy to imagine them exchanging elbow jabs when they saw Remington Frost and recalled that he had been so helpless to stop them on the train that they had not cared whether they stepped on or over him.
Those were the behaviors Remington and Phoebe hoped to see, the reactions that could place them apart from others and make them worth watching as the evening wore on. No one was particularly worried that they would be an excess of trouble. Few guests would arrive wearing or carrying guns, and those that did would have them taken and put up to prevent mishaps. Breaking with what Phoebe had called a Frost tradition, this was not a shotgun wedding.
• • •
“He ain’t to be found,” Doyle said. He knuckled the flat bridge of his nose. “You know what I’m thinking, Willet. I’m thinking we was lied to.”
“Uh-huh,” Willet said mildly. “Seems so.” The newspaper rattled in his hands as he shook out the creases to give it a new fold. He largely ignored his brother, which was easier to do when Natty wasn’t around.
Doyle gave Willet a sour look before he heaved a sigh and leaned back on the wooden bench they occupied. The Harmony train station was hardly bigger than an outhouse. When he stretched his legs, the toes of his dusty boots touched the base of stationmaster’s counter. The stationmaster was no longer at his post but had stepped outside to smoke. Doyle could see flakes of tobacco and ashes dusting the floor so it was clear the old man didn’t always smoke out on the platform, but it suited Doyle just fine that the stationmaster didn’t seem to care for present company. Doyle didn’t much care for anyone at the moment either, including his brother, who had about as much to offer to their present dilemma as a side of beef. “Can’t believe the whore lied,” he said, mostly to himself. There was a large slate hanging on the wall behind the counter with the train schedule neatly printed in chalk. For lack of anything better to look at, Doyle stared at it. “Cashdollar. What the hell kind of name is Cashdollar? Fabricated. That’s what it is. A fabrication. You know what a fabrication is, Willet?”
Willet did not look up from behind his paper. “A goddamn lie?”
“That’s right. It’s a goddamn lie. She made it up, right there on the spot. There was money on her bureau. Bills. Cash. Dollar. See? Cashdollar. It probably inspired her. She died with a lie on her lips. She’ll have to answer for that when judgment’s passed. I reckon a lot of other things, too, her bein’ a whore and all.”
“There’s that.”
Doyle set his folded arms across his chest. “You figure she lied to them? The deputy? Frost? The Apple girl?”
“Maybe.”
“Then they don’t know any more than we do.”
“And maybe not,” said Willet.
Doyle’s hands curled into fists. “Damnit, Willet, I’ve gota good mind to put my fist through that paper, and if it connects with your face, then...” He shrugged. “You see where I’m goin’ here?”
Willet lowered the paper, gave it another shake, and folded it neatly into eighths. He held it out for Doyle to take, the item of interest centered on top. When Doyle showed no interest, Willet waved it in front of his face.
Doyle snarled, snatched the broadsheet as if it offended him, and held it almost at arm’s length to see. He still had to squint. He read it through quickly the first time and was nearly at the end when he understood the import of what he was reading. Once he did, he began again, more slowly. His lips moved as he read. When he was done, his lips moved around words that were not on the page.
“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” he whispered. “They’re gettin’ hitched.”
“Yep.”
“Am I readin’ this right? Open invitation? Friends, family, town folk, friends and relatives of town folk, friends and relatives of folks associated with Twin Star. That’d be merchants and breeders and stockmen. Lord, from what I’m seein’, it could be the whole damn county.”
“Yep.”
“Les is there.”
“Uh-huh.” Willet held out his hand for the paper.
