Doyle slapped it into his palm. “Seems like we could go regardless, but havin’ Les there makes it better, I think. More...” He paused, searching for the right word. “Genuine. Like we have more reason to be there than other folks.”
“Don’t know about that.” Willet flicked the article with a fingertip. “It says right here that everyone’s welcome to come celebrate the nuptials. Real friendly.”
“Real quick, too. Saturday. Kinda makes you wonder why. Could be there’s some urgency. Maybe there’s really a baby on the way this time.” He shook his head. “She pulled the wool over our eyes on the train, and damn, but I hate to be taken for a fool. I wanted to drive my fist into her belly when I heard the truth.”
“Hope that’s behind you, Doyle. That’s not the sort of thing you’ll be able to do in front of witnesses, and I figure there will be a couple hundred of them there.”
Doyle shrugged. “Maybe not, but it warms me some to think about it. You reckon she’ll be there?”
“She’s the bride. Of course she’ll be there.”
“No, I mean Ellie Madison. Aren’t you curious how she’ll be if we show ourselves?”
“Not exactly curious,” said Willet. “But I figure this wedding is a fine opportunity to remind her how things stand. That’s a woman you don’t want gettin’ ideas in her head and speakin’ out of turn. She’s a loose end.”
“So that’s your game.”
Willet nodded. “You have somethin’ else in mind?”
“Maybe.” Doyle pointed to the newspaper in Willet’s hand. “You gotta figure that if they paid for the gal when she was just Miss Phoebe Apple, they’d pay that and more once she’s Mrs. Remington Frost.”
• • •
Phoebe brushed bits of hay off the bodice and skirt of her calico day dress and knocked Remington’s hand out of the way when he tried to pluck more bits out of her hair. “Attend to yourself,” she said, giving him a withering glance.
More amused than chastised, Remington finger-combed his hair and brushed stray pieces of hay off his shoulders, some of which drifted onto her dress.
Phoebe pointed to a spot three feet distant. “Move over there. You’re making it worse.” When Remington merely grinned, she scooted sideways. “I don’t know how I let myself get talked into coming up here with you.”
“Sweet talk. I sweet-talked you into it.”
“Yes,” she said dryly. “That must be it.” The smile he turned on her was a shade wicked, and Phoebe was reminded that talking, sweet or otherwise, had nothing at all to do with why she was in the barn loft. “You know, you’re getting to be as good as Johnny Sutton at shirking work.”
“I know. The boy is an inspiration.”
Phoebe tossed a handful of hay at him. “Work on that.”
Remington’s attempt was haphazard at best before he gave up. Leaning back, he stretched out comfortably and supported himself on his elbows while he watched her. “Ben mentioned in passing that his mother is coming to the wedding.”
“I know. Fiona told me. He must have said something to Thaddeus.”
“Actually, I did, but that’s neither here nor there. Thaddeus had hoped Ellie would find a reason not to come, but he’s not going to insist she stay away. Ben still doesn’t know why his mother left—not the truth—and my father wants to keep it that way as long as Ellie does.”
“I’m glad she’ll be here, and only a little bit of that is because of Ben. I like Ellie, and I’m sorry it all ended so badly for her. I imagine that if I had a rival for your affections, I’d offer her money to leave, too.”
“A lot of money?”
“Enough to purchase the pine box I’d put her in.”
He laughed then sobered abruptly. “Wait. You’re serious.”
Phoebe merely raised an eyebrow.
“Well, that’s something to think about.” He batted away the next handful of hay that she tossed at him. “What did Fiona have to say about Ellie coming?”
“Interestingly, she wasn’t bothered at all.”
“So there won’t be a cat fight.”
