“You probably should not sound disappointed when you say that.”
“Noted.” Watching her, he cocked his head to one side. Her meticulous grooming fascinated him. He could imagine her sitting at a vanity, her gaze looking past her reflection to where he sat on the bed. Maybe she was preparing to join him, or perhaps she was repairing the plait of hair he had unwound when she was lying beside him. It struck him anew how truly lovely she was, how indifferent she was to it, how unaffected. He couldn’t say when she had ceased to make unfavorable comparisons to Fiona, only that it had happened. She believed him when he told her she was beautiful, but she liked it better when he said she was clever.
He was tempted to test those waters as she plucked a long hay stem out of her hair, but he said nothing about the fact that she beguiled him. She was certainly astute enough to divine he wanted a chance at a second tumble. He picked up the piece of hay she dropped aside and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger.
“You know,” he said casually, “if you’d married me in Liberty Junction, you wouldn’t have to say your vows in front of a packed house on Saturday.”
“I’m aware. I’ve played for an audience before, so I know I’ll be fine, but I’m thinking you might have stage fright.”
“Maybe, but to be clear, we are not playing at anything. This is real.”
Unconcerned that she was burrowing into the hay again, Phoebe threw herself at him with enough force to drop him off his elbows. She cupped his face and kept it still while hovering above him. “I know this is real. Never doubt it. Perhaps I should not have offered our wedding reception as a means to capture Blue’s murderers, but it’s done and I’m unlikely to have regrets if we’re successful. As for the wedding itself, I have no regrets. None. Ever.”
She kissed him on the mouth. It surprised neither of them that this kiss lingered. And lingered.
Without quite knowing how it happened or what he had done to provoke it, Remington got his chance at a second tumble. He took it.
Chapter Thirty-nine
People began arriving shortly after the noon hour. They came, not bearing gifts for the couple, but cold side dishes and desserts. Scooter Banks and Ralph Neighbors were in charge of the spits where the sides of beef had been turning since early that morning. The aroma of roasting meat wafted in the air and guests caught the scent of it before they sighted the ranch house.
Johnny Sutton, much to his dismay, had labored alone for days constructing enough sawhorses to support a dozen long tables. Fiona insisted on covering the rough wooden planks with blue-and-white-checked cloths. She filled jars and pitchers and little tin pails with wildflowers she’d collected and arranged them carefully on the table tops, each equidistant from the next. Phoebe doubted the waitstaff at Delmonico’s took such pains to be precise, but watching Fiona being mindful of every detail had the power to blur her vision. She ducked behind the curtains in the front room before anyone saw her peeking out.
There was a general cacophony coming from the kitchen. In addition to the very recent hire of a housekeeper, the widowed mother of Jackson Brewer’s wife, Fiona was also paying for the services of three young women from town to assist with the reception. Mrs. Packer, a straight-backed, no-nonsense sort of woman who would have been comfortable wearing epaulets on her shoulders and brass buttons on her cuirass bodice, kept the girls busy and attentive to their tasks when she was in the room. When she stepped away, they tended to snarl and hiss at one another like cats trapped in a bag. Mrs. Packer was away from them now. Pots banged.Dishes clattered. Someone squealed. Phoebe avoided the kitchen.
The parlor was deserted. She stepped inside, closed the pocket doors behind her, and leaned back against them. She closed her eyes. Outside there was a swell of sound as more guests arrived. The back door opened and closed and opened and closed. Women came and went with their baskets. She could hear Mrs. Packer trying to organize the chaos, directing which platters needed to be taken out and which required to be placed on ice. Phoebe recognized Arnie Wilver’s strident voice inquiring of someone if it was time to tap a keg. A chorus of women, Fiona among them, informed him the answer was no.
Phoebe looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. She and Remington were supposed to exchange vows at one thirty. She had forty-five minutes to dress. Fiona had arranged her hair earlier, swept it up in a full pompadour so that it framed her face and sat high over her forehead. Where it was upswept around the sides and back, Fiona had dotted it with seed pearls that she’d picked out of an old necklace and painstakingly glued in her hair. It was a stunning look, Phoebe agreed, but she couldn’t help wondering if hay stems wouldn’t be easier to remove and better suited to a wedding where the men were wearing boots, the woman were wearing banded straw hats, and cows were roasting on spits. She kept this thought to herself. Fiona would have argued that, as the bride, she was expected to occupy center stage. Phoebe was sure that was about to happen.
She was wearing all the appropriate undergarments beneath her robe. Her white silk stockings were held up by ice blue garters, the exact shade of her tightly laced corset. She wore a sheer chemisette under the corset and a frothy, silk taffeta petticoat that rustled with her every step. The rustling sound was oddly seductive and it gave her a little thrill to know that at some point this evening that sound would be for Remington’s ears alone.
The knock behind her made the doors rattle. Phoebe jumped away then turned quickly to hold them closed. “Who’s there?” She was tempted to peek but didn’t dare.
“It’s me.”
“You can’t be here, Remington.”
“Why not? I can’t even see you.” He played with the doors, but it was more in the way of teasing her than out of any real attempt to part them. “Are you dressed?”
“Of course I’m dressed.”
“Mrs. Packer says the last time she saw you, you were still in your robe.”
“Which means I’m dressed.” She could hear him bang his forehead against the doors. She glanced back at the clock. “I have time. Besides, the last I looked, people were still arriving.”
“Sure, and they’ll keep on arriving all afternoon. You have to understand that the early folks are mostly good friends who want to observe the marriage rites; the stragglers will be here for the revelry.”
“I heard Arnie ask if he could tap a keg.”
“Then you probably heard the response. No serious drinking until anyone carrying has his gun put up and we’ve said ‘I do.’ They’re passing flasks, but they’re also getting anxious.”
Phoebe spoke directly into the narrow crack between the doors. “So am I, Remington. I’m wondering if we shouldn’t get married in here.”
“I’m sending in Fiona,” he said in a voice that brooked no argument. “Unless you want someone else. Ellie’s here. She brought someone with her, which was good of her when you think about it. They look handsome together. Would it be better to send her?”
Phoebe shook her head before she realized he couldn’t see her. “No. Not Ellie. I want my mother.”
• • •
