“Oh, I think it’ll come to you natural, and ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t think Mr. Frost is going to give you much trouble.”
Phoebe couldn’t help laughing. Handy entertained her for quite a while, mostly with stories about his experiencesat the Boxwood, and many of those were about Mrs. Jacob C. Tyler, who had returned to Saint Louis three days before the wedding announcement appeared in the paper. Except for those times when guests came by to introduce themselves and extend more good wishes, Handy happily chattered on.
Thaddeus strolled over. He pulled out a handkerchief as he sat beside Handy and wiped his brow. “I swear to you, dancing has me more tuckered than a week of roping and wrestling calves.” He pointed to Fiona, who was high stepping with a new partner. “She has not lacked for attention since the music began. I know it’s your wedding, Phoebe, but this is your mother’s coming-out party. I should have had some kind of shindig when I brought her out here.” He tucked his handkerchief away and looked around. “Speaking of inattentive and cloddish husbands, where is yours?”
“In the bunkhouse, according to Handy. I think your men are plying him with drink and feeding him the kind of wedding night stories that are not fit for female ears. It’s all right, though. He’ll tell me later.”
Thaddeus laughed. “Handy, if you would be so kind, I sure could use a beer.” Handy launched himself off the bench before Thaddeus could tell the boy he wasn’t to sample any of the drink.
Phoebe watched Fiona twirl like a dervish with her partner’s expert guidance. She lifted her chin in that direction. “Who is he?”
“Couldn’t tell you. Too many people here I don’t know, have never seen before, and am likely to never see again.”
“He looks familiar,” she said, studying the man as he matched Fiona’s steps. He was tall, slim-hipped, and broad-shouldered. Unlike many of the men present—Remington and Thaddeus also being notable exceptions—he wore a high-buttoned, single-breasted box-cut suit, black peg-top trousers, and a black vest. Under the vest was a crisp white shirt, and above it was a high, stiff collar. In spite of his exertions, he looked at his ease and, most miraculously, managed to keep his felt derby secured on his head. His dark hair and mustache were neatly trimmed, his beard onlya little less so. He could have been a professional gambler or an undertaker, Phoebe thought, but what he wasn’t was a no-chin relative of Les Brownlee’s. That eased her mind.
“I should cut him out,” said Thaddeus. He didn’t move, though. Instead, he sighed. “She looks very well on his arm, doesn’t she? And he’s of an age with her.”
“What does that have to do with anything? Besides, I just realized why he caught my eye earlier. He was on Ellie’s arm. I think he’s her escort. Get back in there, Thaddeus, before there’s scratching and clawing and someone’s dress is left in tatters.”
“But... my beer.”
Phoebe placed her hand on his back and gave him a less than gentle shove. “Never fear. Handy will find you.” She stood and continued to nudge him toward the dancing. “Likewise, I’m off to find my husband. If you have any kindness in your heart, you will not organize a search party for us.”
Chapter Forty-one
Phoebe opened the door to the bunkhouse and poked her head inside. There was indeed a card game. She attempted a reproving look but couldn’t manage to sustain it. The men crowded around the table were regarding her with apologetic expressions largely softened by too much drink. Chief among the penitents was the man presiding over the game by virtue of his status and his winnings.
“Hello, Judge.”
“Ma’am.” The Honorable Judge Miner waved a hand over the table, an invitation implicit in the gesture. “Come. Sit. Poker’s a woman’s game as much as a man’s. Mr. Sutton will give you his chair. Go on, boy. Get up.”
Johnny’s chair scraped the floor as he began to push away from the table.
Phoebe opened the door a few inches wider and put out a hand to stop him. “No. Stay where you are, Johnny. Thank you, Judge. Men. I’m looking for Remington... my husband. I was led to believe you hustled him in here. Up to no good is the consensus. What did you do with him?”
It was Scooter who answered. “Teased him some, had a couple of shots. Mostly he humored us. Said he was going to dance with his bride and then he left.”
“He wasn’t exactly walkin’ a straight line,” said Arnie. “Not staggering, but not the straight and narrow, if you know what I mean.”
“I think I do. It’s all right. I’ll find him. I have an idea where he’d go.” She looked around the table a second time. “Where’s Ben? I thought he’d be with you.”
Arnie and Ralph shrugged in unison. Johnny spoke up. “He left before Remington. Said he wanted to spend time with Ellie. He’s a mama’s boy, that one.”
This brought a hoot of laughter since the other hands often described Johnny Sutton in just that manner. Phoebe waited until the laughter subsided and young Johnny’s ears were marginally less crimson. “Good night, gentlemen. Judge, don’t take unfair advantage.”
“No, ma’am.”
Phoebe knew when she was being placated. Shaking her head, she ducked out and headed for the barn. Because no one knew what the weather would bring, the barn had been cleaned to accommodate the guests, the food, and the dancing. The stalls had not merely been mucked, they had been scoured. The horses were penned farther afield, but the scent of them lingered. Bales of fresh hay were stacked steplike against the back wall to provide additional seating, and more bales lined the interior of the stalls.
Phoebe stood just inside the door, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark. The barn was quiet, almost eerily so. She was more aware of the absence of the animals in a way she hadn’t been earlier when Thaddeus and Remington had invited her to inspect the work. She had been able to see everything then. At the moment she was relying on her memory of the space.
“Remington?” She said his name tentatively, barely raising her voice above a whisper. It was absurd to call for him so quietly, especially when she could hear the fiddles and banjo playing across the way and the voices of the guests raised in song, but something about the barn, with its high ceiling and wide-open entrance, put her in mind of a church and she felt a certain reverence for the sanctuary.
She carefully picked her way around the scattered bales of hay and headed toward the loft ladder. There had been talk about removing it to keep guests out of the loft. It wasn’t out of the question that there could be drunken mishaps, either an accidental fall or a dare to dive. Instead of taking the ladder away, they lined the loft’s edge with heavy balesof hay to form a barrier. A country balustrade, Thaddeus called it. Phoebe wondered if her husband was passed out behind it now. She set one hand on a rung and hiked up her billowing skirt with the other. “Remington?”
