Margaret Brownley - [Rocky Creek 02] (27 page)

Never compare your escort unfavorably with another. It will only
give him an inferiority complex.

— M
ISS
A
BIGAIL
J
ENKINS
, 1875

J
enny arrived back at the hotel just in time to greet Mrs. Taylor and Mrs. Hitchcock and show them to her room. She was grateful for the distraction.

For some odd reason, the members of the Rocky Creek Quilting Bee seemed relieved—overjoyed in fact—to hear of Brenda’s betrothal, and they all offered to help with the wedding decorations, cake, and liquid refreshment.

Sarah had assured Jenny that no finer seamstresses could be found throughout Texas than Mrs. Taylor and Mrs. Hitchcock. That might be true, but judging by the women’s apparel, sewing skills were no guarantee of fashion sense.

Mrs. Hitchcock’s purple gown, with its exaggerated bustle and layers of ruffles, made her already generous proportions look twice the size.

In contrast, Mrs. Taylor looked almost mouselike in her plain gray dress and unadorned bonnet. Even Brenda, who had previously shown little or no interest in fashion, regarded the women with a skeptical eye.

Despite her reservations, Jenny spread one of Brenda’s frocks across the bed. She hoped they could turn the plain cream poplin dress into a wedding gown. The color complemented Brenda’s complexion, and redesigning the dress rather than starting from scratch would save an enormous amount of time and money.

Brenda anxiously watched the two seamstresses examine the seams of her dress.

“I think it will work perfectly,” Mrs. Taylor exclaimed.

Mrs. Hitchcock looked less enthusiastic. “It
is
rather plain,” she said then repeated herself as she tended to do.

Jenny agreed. “I know, but lace is so expensive.”

“We don’t need lace,” Mrs. Hitchcock assured her. “Some ruching here, some ruffles there.” She swept a hand up and down the length of the gown, describing an amazing array of flourishes and embellishments, some of which Jenny had never heard.

“Mark my words. When I get through, no one will notice the lack of lace, lack of lace.”

Mrs. Taylor looked horrified. “Nor will anyone notice the bride.”

“Oh, there you go again,” Mrs. Hitchcock complained in a tone that suggested the two never agreed on such matters. “If you had your way, she would look as plain as a whitewashed wall, white-washed—”

“Indeed!” Mrs. Taylor threw up her hands. “Ever since the invention of the sewing machine, fashions have taken a turn for the worse. Just because one can whip up a thousand yards of ruching in a flash doesn’t mean they must all be attached to a single gown.”

Mrs. Hitchcock heaved, her ample bosom rising and falling like a loaf of overbaked bread. “It’s the fashion.”

“It’s a disgrace!”

The argument escalated, with each woman trying to outshout the other. Brenda tried to say something, but neither paid her any heed.

Finally Jenny had enough. She gave a firm clap of her hands. “Ladies, ladies.”

She waited until she had their attention. “I believe we should let my sister decide what kind of dress she wishes to wear to her own wedding.”

“An excellent idea.” Mrs. Taylor turned to Brenda. “What Mrs. Hitchcock suggests would make you look like a lamp shade. Whereas I—”

“Will make you look like day-old cream,” Mrs. Hitchcock stormed. She glared at Mrs. Taylor, but she addressed her comments to Brenda.

Mrs. Taylor glared back. “If it were up to you, she’d look like a ruffled rooster.”

“That’s better than looking like a plucked hen, plucked hen!”

Mrs. Taylor’s eyes narrowed. “The last dress you made was mistaken for a feather duster.”

Mrs. Hitchcock folded her arms across her chest, no easy task. “That christening dress you designed was as dull as a porcelain bedpan.”

The women might have gone on indefinitely had Jenny not yelled, “Stop!” She took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. “All right,” she began in a low but firm voice. “It’s Brenda’s turn.”

The women turned in unison to face the bride-to-be. It was obvious by their expressions that each thought she had won Brenda over to her side.

Brenda looked from one to the other and promptly burst into tears.

Late that night, Mary Lou waited for Jeff Trevor in front of the hotel.
Please, God, don’t let Jenny wake and find me missing
.

She’d been doing that a lot, lately. Talking to God. In the past, prayers had never come easy and her mind wandered whenever Jenny got it into her head to say a blessing before meals. Lately, though, since going to church, she found herself thinking about the sermons or humming one of the hymns to herself. Mostly, she talked to God.

She glanced up at the starlit sky. Would God approve or disapprove? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t snuck out before, back in Haswell. She once even slipped out of the house to go to a barn dance that Jenny had forbidden her to attend. Now, instead of feeling smug for getting away with something, she was overcome with guilt.

What a nuisance. Since attending church, she was turning into a Goody Two-shoes just like—
gasp
—Brenda. Or at least the Brenda she knew before Mr. Barrel entered the picture.

She had just about decided to do the right thing and return to the hotel when Jeff galloped up on horseback. At precisely the same moment, all thoughts of right and wrong went out of her mind.

Her heart beat so fast, she could hardly stand it. She had taken great pains with her appearance. Even so, she felt unsure of herself. Was her blue gingham skirt and white frilly shirtwaist too much or too little? Should she have added another handkerchief or two to her bosom? Perhaps wound her hair on top of her head rather than let it cascade down her back?

He dismounted and walked up the stairs to the boardwalk. A thin, waxing moon smiled down at them. Or maybe it was laughing at the preposterous situation she found herself in.

“Miss Higgins,” he said, his voice smooth as satin. His gaze drifted down the length of her before returning to her face. The warm light of approval in his eyes banished any insecurities she felt earlier about her appearance. One look from him and she felt like the most beautiful woman in the world.

Trembling, she bit her lip. “You may call me Mary Lou.”

A wagon drawn by two horses drove past the hotel. A group of drunken men staggered out of the saloon singing off-key.

“Would you care to walk a bit?” he asked.

She swallowed hard and nodded. Together they strolled along the boardwalk to a quieter part of town. In the distance came the whining sound of a fiddle. A dog barked. Laughter rose, then faded away.

“I heard about your sister’s betrothal to Kip Barrel,” he said, leaning against one of only two lampposts in town. Bathed in amber gaslight, he looked even more handsome than usual.

Grateful to talk about something, anything, she replied. “Yes, it’s very exciting.”

“A good man, Mr. Barrel.”

“So I’ve heard,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t elaborate. Mr. Barrel was all Brenda could talk about. If Mary Lou heard about the man’s fine qualities one more time, she’d scream.

“I didn’t think he’d meet with your older sister’s approval,” he said.

She tossed her head. “Jenny doesn’t have the final say over what we do.”

“Really?” His voice was as dubious as his expression. “I would never have guessed it.” He shook his head. “Your sister persuaded close to a hundred men to fill out one of her applications. I hadn’t seen so much paper flying since the tornado blew the roof off the bank.”

The memory of standing in front of all those leering men brought a flush of embarrassment to her face. “Jenny worries about us.”

She still couldn’t believe Jenny had so willingly accepted Brenda’s choice for a husband. Would Jenny be as accommodating to her? Somehow she didn’t think so.

“It must be nice to have a sister like that.”

His comment surprised her, and she wondered if he was only saying it to be polite. “It can be a nuisance sometimes.” She eyed him with curiosity. There was so much she wanted to know about him. “Have you any family?”

“A brother,” he replied. “His name is Michael. Last I heard, he was stationed at Fort Bridger in Wyoming. Our parents died when we were young and our grandmother raised us. She runs the boardinghouse on the other side of town. Everyone calls her Ma.” His voice warm with affection, he added, “That’s because she has no qualms about dishing out opinions and advice.”

“Sounds like Jenny,” she said.

His gaze held hers. “I told her about you.”

She stared at him. A man generally didn’t talk to his family about a woman unless he was serious. “What . . . what did you tell her?”

“That you refuse to marry me.”

She held her breath for a moment before replying. “I hardly know you.”

“You know all the important stuff.”

She laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“You. I know what . . . two things about you? Three? Let’s see, I know you work at the sawmill. You said you can neither read nor write—”

“It’s all true.”

“Your grandmother runs a boardinghouse, and you have a brother. Oh, yes, and you go to church every Sunday.”

He shrugged. “Like I said, the important things.”

“So how about some of the
unimportant
things?” Her sudden interest in trivial matters surprised her. Maybe something good did come out of reading all those Wordsworth poems.

He gave a low laugh. “You’ll be bored to tears.”

“I’ll take my chances,” she said, though she couldn’t imagine him boring her. “Let’s start with . . . your favorite food? Favorite color? What do you do in your spare time?”

He grinned and shook his head as if he couldn’t imagine anyone caring about such mundane matters. “If you insist.” He then answered her questions one by one. “Let’s see, my favorite food. That’s easy. My grandma’s pies. My favorite color is . . . the blue of your eyes.” He lowered his voice. “In my spare time, I think about you.”

A knot caught in her chest, making it hard to breathe.

“Your turn,” he said.

She forced herself to inhale. Trust him to turn a few simple questions into a game. “I like roast beef. My favorite color is yellow.” She thought a moment and decided to give him some of his own medicine. “In my spare time, I think about you.”

His laugh held a wistful note. “If only that were true.”

It
was
true, though she wasn’t about to argue with him. Better to keep him guessing.

“Music,” she said to hide her discomfort. “Let’s talk about music. What is your favorite song?”

He thought for a moment. “A hymn I learned to sing while in the Union army. It’s called ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic.’”

“I never heard of it,” she said.

“More’s the pity. It was written by a woman. She heard the men singing ‘John Brown’s Body’ and rightly decided that such a strong marching beat deserved more meaningful words.” He sang the song right then and there. The words practically moved her to tears.

When he finished, he bowed at the waist and she clapped.

“It’s your turn,” he said. “Name your favorite song.”

“All right, but don’t expect me to sing it. I was going to say that new Christmas carol, ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem.’” She’d heard it sung by a group of carolers a few years ago and never forgot it. “But I think I like yours better.”

They whiled the time away, talking about anything and everything that occurred to them. She told him about growing up in Haswell. He told her about joining the Union army as a drummer boy at the tender age of fourteen.

“You were so young,” she whispered, imagining him in uniform.

He shrugged. “It was a boy’s war,” he said. “Over a hundred thousand of us were fifteen or younger. One boy was only nine.”

She folded her arms with a determined nod of the head. “No son of mine is going to fight in any old war.”

“Let’s hope and pray that no one ever has to fight another war,” he said.

A rooster crowed and Jeff pulled out his pocket watch. “Five thirty,” he announced.

She stared at him in disbelief. It wasn’t possible, was it? Never could she imagine having so much fun. “I better get back before Jenny wakes.”

He stepped toward her. “We never did take care of that . . . little business between us.”

The kiss
.

No longer shy in front of him, she gazed into his eyes. She didn’t need to kiss him to know that, not only was she in love with Jeff Trevor, but she wanted to be his wife.

On the outside chance she was being too hasty in making such an important life-changing decision, she rushed into his waiting arms to make absolutely certain.

Twenty-four

When a man’s on his knee proposing, resist the urge to look triumphant.

— M
ISS
A
BIGAIL
J
ENKINS
, 1875

J
enny was first to smell the smoke. Instantly awake, she shook Brenda and jumped out of bed. Running to the window, she threw up the sash and stuck her head outside. “Fire!” she yelled. “Fire!”

Smoke curled out of the window next to theirs. She brushed the smoke away from her face. “Wake up,” she shouted, hoping to raise the occupants.

A movement in the distance caught her eye. Despite the early morning hour, a man and woman walked hand in hand. She waved her arms to get their attention and blinked. It looked like . . .

She glanced over her shoulder. Brenda sat up in bed rubbing her eyes. Next to her the bed was empty. Mary Lou was gone!

Forgetting about the fire, Jenny turned back to the window. It couldn’t be . . . She squinted. Between the early morning light and the smoke, it was hard to know for sure. She coughed and waved the smoke away with her hand.

It
was
Mary Lou. But who was the man with her? And why were they holding hands? Anger swelled up inside. “Why that little—”

“Hurry!” Brenda shouted.

Reluctantly, Jenny pulled away from the window. There would be time enough later to deal with her wayward sister. Sliding her feet into her slippers, she grabbed her dressing gown. She followed Brenda into the hall, stuffing her arms into the sleeves as she ran.