Bride Blunder (11 page)

The days settled into an easy pattern. Too easy. Marge awoke the following Thursday feeling as though something had changed. She lay perfectly still beneath the warm weight of the bedclothes, trying to determine the difference. When she couldn't, she closed her eyes.
Lord, what new thing awaits me this morning? I try to put my trust in You—though I'm afraid my hopes still lie with Gavin. Whatever the day holds, help me trust in You, and help me put my hope where it belongs.

Upon opening her eyes again, Marge suddenly knew. The icy misgivings that she'd clenched around her heart since the moment Ermintrude first mentioned Daisy's name now thawed. All the concern and hurt and disappointment hadn't melted away, but the unrelenting, pinching pressure of it lessened. She pushed the covers aside and hopped out of bed, eager to get downstairs for her morning debate with Ermintrude as they prepared breakfast.

I'm trying, Lord. Thank You for seeing that and helping.

She tackled her long mane of hair, amazed to find her brush sliding easily through the thick strands. Since her first night in Buttonwood, she'd slept so restlessly it'd become a morning battle to untangle night's knots. As a result, she beat the older woman downstairs and had the milk and water already inside by the time Ermintrude showed up.

“Either you're rising earlier, or I'm sleeping later. I choose to believe it's the former.”

“I agree.”

“Now
there's
a pleasant surprise.” Ermintrude's brows winged upward until they almost touched her hairline. “I take it you've grown tired of losing our little arguments every morning and decided to take the easy way out from now on?”

“Hardly. I enjoy our
discussions.
” Marge emphasized the final word in that sentence. “Arguments indicate a sort of bitterness and a cyclical futility I don't believe describes the way we converse.”

“That's more like it.” She thumped her cane on the floor in approval. “Glad to see you've not lost your spirit.”

“On the contrary, it grows stronger by the day.”

“Then Buttonwood must be doing you some good.” The deep timber of Gavin's voice in the doorway caused them both to turn around. He stood there, one arm behind his back, a broad smile brightening his face.

“You're early, too.” Ermintrude's grumble sounded genuine, and Marge softened slightly at the idea the older woman felt cheated of their debate time.

“We'll continue our conversation later today. Don't think you've escaped.” Her jest had the intended effect, making her opponent straighten up at once in anticipation.

“You'll be the one wanting to escape!”

“No.” Gavin crooked a finger, still keeping one arm behind his back as he called to her, “Marge wants to come over here.”

Instantly suspicious, she didn't budge. “We've played this game, Gavin. I said I'd give no more steps until you proved yourself worthy.” It didn't help the situation that Ermintrude watched them both with avid curiosity.

“That's what I'm trying to do. We were far closer at the end of that round. Give me that, at least.”

Against her better judgment, her curiosity guiding her, Marge shuffled until only a few feet separated them. “This is as far as I go.”
Physically, at least.
Her heart and dreams drummed onward, until her hopes placed her firmly in his arms.
He says he's trying to prove himself—Lord, let him succeed! Please, please let this be the end of the difficulty and that be the reason I felt better this morning.

“I told you I'd earn my prize.” His stare caught her, held her fast. “You told me to prove myself. I've spoken the words, shown you before my peers and been proud to claim you, treated you well as the woman in my home.” Here, he ignored a faint squawk from Ermintrude, though it sounded more like a reminder of her presence than any true protest. “I've proven myself in all the ways I know how, save the traditional courting gifts.”

“Oh, Gavin.” Shame flooded her even as something softened at his determination. Could it be that Gavin truly wanted to wed her for reasons beyond duty or guilt at his mistake? “No gifts. It was never my intent for you to purchase anything.”

“They say the thought matters most.” He pulled a massive bouquet from behind his back with a dramatic flourish. “I bring these to you and hope you read my thoughts and find all the proof you seek.” He held the bunch of flowers in front of him, his expression gleefully expectant.

Marge stared at the overlarge clump of daisies he thrust toward her, mind working furiously. Smashed together, the blossoms wilted, bent, leaned at unnatural positions. Leaves trapped between the stalks poked through Gavin's thick fingers as though trying to escape confinement. All told, the flowers looked about as manipulated and abused as Marge felt.

“Thank you.” Somehow she choked out the expected phrase.
He's trying. He brought you flowers. He picked them himself. They're even your favorite color—not that he remembers that. But he's trying, at least.
Some logical, optimistic part of her mind sent a litany of cheery thoughts in an attempt to mitigate the crashing disappointment, but it was no use.

Daisies. Daisy. The cousin he wanted but didn't get. He promises to show me his true heart and prove he wants me but brings the only thing he could possibly find to symbolize the bride he cannot have.
Rigid cold spread its fingers through her chest once more, stretching their reach beyond where they'd dipped the first time she'd seen Gavin's heart.

“Aren't you going to take them?” Two lines furrowed between Gavin's brows as he inspected his offering. “You seem overcome?”

The statement sounded like a question as Marge started to raise one hand to accept his gift then dropped it back to her side. “I can't accept these, Gavin.” She took a step back—a larger step than normal, though she doubted he'd notice. “I appreciate what you're trying to say and the thoughtful manner you chose to do so. Thank you.”

“If you don't like them I can pick something else.” His grip tightened, forcing the poor plants into even more contorted positions. “Your cousin only likes violets and roses, but I thought you'd appreciate these.”

“You still think of her often.” Marge let loose a humorless rasp of laughter. It was either that or allow the parched ache in the back of her throat to bleed into dry sobs. “You can't have Daisy, so to tell me you've made your peace with your second choice, you bring me her namesake?”

“What?” Astonishment blanketed his features. “No. Marguerite means
daisy.
These are your namesake, Marge, every bit as much as your cousin's.”

“I don't identify myself with the flowers.”

“But...” Frustration brought his brows together entirely, and she could practically see him turning over her interpretation of his gift in his head, unable to argue with it. “Grandma, didn't you tell me these aren't even real daisies? They're Tahoka daisies—a sort of wild version. Different.” He beamed as though that made everything better ... instead of worse.

“Uu–u–g–g–h–h.” A
thud
punctuated Ermintrude's moan.

Marge couldn't be certain, but she suspected the older woman dropped her head onto the table. Heavily. Which meant that Ermintrude, at least, saw the reason why Gavin should have kept this little fact to himself.

“I see.” She stared at the increasingly bedraggled grouping as though it threatened to bite her. “So they're
fake
daisies?”

Marge saw the moment he realized where he'd gone wrong—he caught himself midnod and started shaking his head vehemently.

Too little, too late.

Where did it all go wrong?
Gavin knew well and good he didn't have the time to hammer out when his scheme turned rotten, but the entire thing carried the flavor of an ambush.
When I realized she objected to the idea of my giving her daisies, I shouldn't have tried to soften it by backtracking on what sort of daisy they were.
That much, he should've seen coming.

Now, she'd stepped back from him. Not a small step, or even a series of hesitant shuffles, but one great big decisive step that showed he'd well and truly damaged his chances this time. Worse, no matter how fetching she looked with her eyes that bright, Marge seemed to be gaining more steam than she let off.

“Imposters, I suppose? Like myself?” Her voice rose with each question, gaining volume but losing fullness, as though getting louder somehow stretched it out.

“No. Absolutely not. Marge, that's not what I meant at all.” He moved to close the distance she'd increased, but she backed away more with every move he made, until the kitchen table sat between them, with Ermintrude right smack in the center of it all. “You're taking this the wrong way.”

“Since you asked me to read your thoughts by your gift and you brought fake daisies for the imposter who arrived in place of the Daisy you sought, I'm taking it rather well.”

“If that's the way I meant it, you would be.” Frustration started to seep through into his own tone. After all, he'd made a real effort here.
Even if I botched it.

“Man finds himself in a hole, best thing to do”—Grandma poked him in the side with her cane to let him know she wasn't making a general observation, as though she ever just made general observations—“stop digging!”

“I thought you'd like them, so I went and got them for you. Being wrong about your reaction doesn't change the reason I did it.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Purple is your favorite.”

“You knew that?” His fiancée's stance relaxed slightly.

“Yes. You said so on the day you came to town—your dress was your favorite color.” He scowled at the thought she implied he would lie about such a thing. “Easy enough to remember.”

“But not everyone would.” She softened a little more.

“I did. And I remembered that you're a flower every bit as much as your cousin. But when I picked you a bouquet, you looked at it like I insulted you.” He stared down at the pitiful, if still enormous, lump of flowers in his hand. Suddenly he didn't want to be in the house anymore, standing in front of the woman who kept refusing him, holding a clump of mangled blossoms as though still hoping she'd accept them.

“Call when breakfast is ready.” With that, he stalked outside, going a few paces before flinging the daisies into the dirt.

This is why men don't make grand gestures very often. When they fail, the blast knocks us back farther than we can afford.
Now Gavin had to come up with a new plan.

Just as soon as he decided whether or not he really wanted to.

I don't want to ask him.
Midge grappled with the issue, livid at how well Amos had played his hand. Somehow, the man understood that the one thing she couldn't stand—aside from someone hurting any of her people, a depth to which Amos would never stoop no matter how badly he wanted her attention—was awareness of her own ignorance.

She took pride in knowing things no one else did—noticing what others didn't bother to look for reaped many rewards. So she didn't often find herself the last to know something. And it was driving her up the wall—or at least as close to it as physically possible.

The agitation provoked by Amos's secret, which everyone stayed cursedly closed lipped about, took her all over town. Clara beamed at her in the kitchen but wouldn't spill whatever Amos told them. So Midge hied off to Saul's office, waited for him to finish treating a patient, and launched into an interrogation he withstood with good humor—but no information.

Which took her to Josiah, in the general store. Midge made herself pleasant and useful, but her adopted grandfather didn't return the favor. He'd outright laughed at her attempts to nudge anything out of him and directed her to go ask Amos.

When Midge tracked down Aunt Doreen helping the Dunstalls with an afternoon of baking at the town café, she'd heard the same advice.

An exhausting day of fruitless attempts to coax anything from her loved ones brought Midge to the edge of becoming cranky. She squashed her irritation and made a fresh try the next day. And the next. Now, after a week of trying to wear down any of the adults in her makeshift family and failing to elicit anything but amusement, Midge needed a new strategy.

Pretending she didn't care wasted time. Not only did all the Reeds know better, Amos suspected her true reaction. If he didn't give her so much grief, Midge might even have given him some measure of respect for his clever scheme. She avoided him whenever he came near—so he'd thought up a way to make her come to him. A grudging appreciation for his shift in tactics didn't bring her any closer to thwarting him though.

She scowled.
If I could somehow let it go—not care about whatever he trumped up to manufacture a senseless conspiracy—that would show him how far above his silly games I am.
Midge gave a resolute sniff, turned on her heel, and headed back toward the house.

Or my apathy will provoke him to new heights.
Her steps slowed.
I can't maintain the pretense of disinterest in the face of a continual onslaught. And the longer I hold out, the more humbling it will be when I finally ask him for something.
She halted in the middle of the street, debating.

Only a fool persisted in winning minor battles if it meant losing the larger war.
It's been five days—near enough to a week to show him he can't pull my strings so easily. If I wait longer, he'll know how
much I fought against my curiosity.
Somehow, she'd almost arrived at the site of the schoolhouse before making the decision to go there.
So now is the best time to face him—beard the lion in his den, so to speak.

Come to think of it,
lion
proved an apt association for him. The afternoon sun gleamed gold on his sandy hair, darkened at his temples from perspiration. As she drew closer, Midge watched him draw a large handkerchief from his back pocket, her gaze following the motion of his hand upward. Vaguely she noted that he wiped his brow, but Midge's attention caught on the breadth of his shoulders.

At some point during the day, as he shaped clay, straw, and water into the thick sun-baked bricks to build the reddish schoolhouse, he'd abandoned his coat. The loose white lawn of his shirt caught whatever scant breeze chanced by, the wind playing a happy game of hide-and-seek with his chest as it alternately pressed then lifted the fabric away. Dark suspenders outlined the broad V of his back as he mopped his neck and returned the bandanna to his pocket.

Midge sucked in a breath. No matter how devious his mind, there was no denying Amos Geer cut a fine figure of a man.

At least, he did until he turned to give her one of those slow, infuriating grins of his.

“Like what you see?”

His question made her throat go dry. “I suppose.” Midge framed her answer cautiously. He'd snagged her staring, and it wouldn't do to pretend not to know what he meant. “Though the view improves with distance.”

“Odd. The walls aren't tall enough to be seen from far off.” His brows knit as though considering her words, and Midge realized her mistake.

“It's easier to imagine,” she hastened to cover her mistake.
Amos didn't see me looking him over.
Relief tingled all the way to her toes.

“Now that's the first smile I've seen from you in a while.” He tilted his hat back atop his head. “Pretty sight.”

“I smile often.” She stopped herself midglower and gave an overly sweet simper. “Interesting you see otherwise.”

“Well, every minx needs some time to sharpen her tongue. I assume you credit me with the ability to withstand your practice.”

Midge strangled a laugh at the quick brilliance of his riposte, instead focusing on her response. “Is it any wonder I lose my habitual good humor around you?”

“Wonders abound.” His gaze grew more intense. “Although you don't seem the type to lose much.”

“Oh?”
If only you knew.
“You might be surprised.”

Amos watched the mirth fade from her features and could have kicked himself for whatever he'd said to provoke the signs of sorrow that stretched soul deep.

Fool. The Reeds took her in—obviously she's lost much.
It was just too easy to forget that in the face of her vibrancy.

“What have you lost?” He wanted to step closer but sensed she'd see it as a violation. Instead, he held his ground.

“No less than anyone else.” Sadness sifted into wariness. She must have realized too much of her thoughts showed.

Amos found himself torn between wanting her to stop throwing up barriers and donning cheerful masks and hating to see any glimpse of suffering in this indomitable woman. “Most likely, you've lost more than many.”

“I do fancy myself to be exceptional, but in this case I'd gladly forfeit my status.” An impish grin told him she'd recovered from whatever regrets tugged at her heart moments before. “Seems I'm doomed to lose many things.”

“Such as?” He followed the prompt of her exaggerated sigh.

“Push buttons. I lose track of time when I'm enjoying myself. My temper, when I'm not.” The grin grew shrewd. “But most of all, it seems I can't keep hold of my patience.”

He burst out laughing at her display of wit. “So now we've come down to it—the reason for your unscheduled visit to the schoolhouse site?”

“You dance well, but I lack grace. Mr. Geer, you know full well why I've come here today.”

“Ran out of the last drop of your limited supply of patience but have a surplus of curiosity?” Amos hazarded a guess and was rewarded with her grudging nod. “You held out longer than I'd anticipated.”

“What? I wasn't holding anything.”

It was almost too easy, but he couldn't resist prodding her. While she'd been refusing to come ask him what he'd spoken with her family about, he'd cooled his heels waiting on her pride. He raised his brows in a credible imitation of surprise. “Then you've lost more than your patience. What were those other things you listed—track of time? Must be the reason you've dawdled so long before coming to talk to me.”

“Dawdled?” Scathing tones made the echo blister, but she hushed and didn't continue with whatever she'd almost set loose. Which, of course, made it all the more interesting.

Luckily, Amos knew well and good what she'd been up to for the past five days. Midge Collins didn't dawdle. She asked, interrogated, wheedled, and downright demanded information, but she'd kept busy trying to ferret out information for the entire week. Amos knew, because he'd kept himself entertained watching her venture all over town trying to run her family members into the ground. Apparently none of them had broken their promise not to reveal what he'd asked. Doreen even went so far as to commend his strategy.

“Your family wouldn't explain my request, I take it.”

“Not so much as a peep.” This was the closest thing to an admission of trying to discover what he'd said to them that Midge was likely to make. Yet she didn't come out and ask him.

“You're adorable when thwarted.”

“I,” she seethed at his compliment, “am
not
adorable.”

“
Cute
describes children, and
pretty
is too common.” He crossed his arms and made a show of looking her up and down. “We both know, Miss Collins, that you're anything but common.”

“I'm many things.” She looked somewhat mollified in spite of herself. Irritation turned to expectation, and she lifted a brow to prompt him. “Right now, I'm waiting.”

“And I'm considering the minute possibility I was wrong.”

“Of course you are.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “About what this time?”

This time. Ha.
Her attempts to goad him affected him in exactly the opposite way. The more she opposed his attention, the more firmly he fixed it upon her. “If I am wrong in this instance, you bear the blame.”

Triumph flashed in her eyes before wariness dampened it—she was too clever to think she'd won that easily. “How so?”

“If you aren't adorable, it's only because you won't let yourself be adored.” He finally took the step he'd been denying himself, closing the distance between them. “
Now
tell me I'm wrong.”

She stared at him in a silence that brought him more satisfaction than all the sparring he'd enjoyed before. “No.”

“No?” He noticed she didn't step back. Whether she simply stood her ground out of stubbornness or didn't mind his nearness was hard to tell. Except he remembered their first meeting and knew Midge wouldn't put herself within arm's reach unless she felt good and comfortable there. “I want you to.”

“But you're right. Adoration isn't for me. I don't look for it and I won't inspire it.” She tilted her head a notch to look him in the eye. “So for once, we agree.”

“In that case”—Amos reached and tweaked a strand of hair that escaped her bun, fingering its softness before tucking it behind her ear—“I intend to prove us both wrong.”