The Bridegroom. Linda Lael Miller
of embroidery floss in the bottom of her sewing basket.
Mittie, now solicitous, patted her arm. “Has your headache returned, dear?” she asked. “You really do look dreadful. Perhaps you should lie down, and Helga will bring you your supper in bed—”
“I will not serve Miss Lydia’s supper in bed!” Helga shouted, already halfway to the kitchen, from the sound of her voice. “She’s not an invalid—so just forget that nonsense, all of you!”
Mittie, Millie and Lydia all looked at each other.
“I think Helga has grown a mite obstinate,” Mittie confided, wide-eyed.
“Papa would never have tolerated such insolence,” Millie observed, but her expression was fond as she gazed toward the space Helga had occupied in the parlor doorway.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Lydia snapped. “Have neither of you noticed, in all these years, that Helga not only manages the household, she manages us?”
“Perhaps we should send her packing,” Mittie said, tears forming in her eyes at the very idea.
“Show her the road,” Millie agreed, crying, too.
“She’s not going anywhere,” Lydia told her aunts, softening at their obvious dismay. “You’re not, either, and neither am I.”
Mittie sniffled. “We’re not?”
“No,” Lydia assured her, slipping an arm around each of her aunts’ shoulders.
No, echoed a voice deep within her heart, with sorrow and certainty. Because Gideon Yarbro or no Gideon Yarbro, tomorrow afternoon, at two o’clock sharp, you’re going to do your duty as a Fairmont and marry Jacob Fitch.
Lydia lifted her eyes to the Judge’s portrait, glaring down at her from above the fireplace.
Sure as sunrise, he was breathing.
THE FIRST THING GIDEON had to do was talk himself out of going back to the Golden Horseshoe Saloon and swilling whiskey—forget beer—until he stopped thinking about Lydia Fairmont.
The second thing was track down Jacob Fitch.
That was easier. He asked about Fitch on the street, and was directed to the First Territorial Bank, right on Main Street.
Still full of that strange fury Lydia had stirred in him, Gideon strode into that bank as though he meant to hold it up at gunpoint, and the few customers inside actually fled as he approached the counter.
The clerk, apparently alone in the place, looked as though he might drop right to the floor and cover his head with both hands.
Gideon slapped his palms down on the counter top. “I want to see Jacob Fitch,” he said. “Now.”
The clerk, a small man with a twitch under his right eye and a nose that wriggled like a rabbit’s, blinked behind his thick spectacles. “Well,” he said tremulously, “you can’t.”
“Why not?” Gideon demanded, not to be put off.
“Because he’s not here,” the clerk retorted, getting braver. “He’s at the tailor’s, being fitted for his wedding suit.”
“And which tailor would Mr. Jacob Fitch be patronizing?” Gideon asked.
“I don’t have to tell you that,” the clerk said.
Gideon reached over the counter, got the little man by his shirt front, and pulled him clear off his no doubt tiny feet. He didn’t normally handle people, at least not ones that were smaller than he was, but he was in a state and nothing would do him but finding Jacob Fitch. “Which tailor?” he repeated. Then, realizing the man couldn’t answer because he was being choked, Gideon slackened his grip just enough to allow the fellow to suck in some wind.
“Feinstein’s,” the clerk sputtered. “On Third Street.”
Gideon allowed the man to slide back to his feet. “Thank you,” he said moderately, and left the bank.
He found the tailoring establishment right where the clerk had said it would be. Mindful of the stir he’d caused in the bank—and regretting it a little—Gideon paused on the sidewalk out front to draw a deep, slow breath. He read and reread the golden script printed on the pristine display window—Arthur Feinstein, Purveyor of Fine Men’s Wear—even examined the three-piece suit gracing a faceless mannequin, as though he might be in the market for new duds.
When he thought he could behave himself, Gideon pushed open the door and went into the shop.
A little bell jingled overhead.
The place seemed deserted, a development that threatened Gideon’s carefully cultivated equanimity.
“Anybody home?” he called. You could take the boy out of Stone Creek, he reflected, but you couldn’t take Stone Creek out of the boy.
A bald head appeared between two curtains at the back of the store. “I’ll be with you right away, sir,” the man said, speaking clearly despite the row of pins glimmering between his lips.
Mr. Feinstein, no doubt. Purveyor of fine men’s wear.
“I’m looking for Jacob Fitch,” Gideon said, raising his voice a little.
Another head appeared beside Feinstein’s, also balding. The face beneath the pate was sin-ugly, and none too pleased at having the fitting interrupted.
“I’m Fitch,” the second man said. “Who are you and what do you want?”
Lydia, Gideon answered silently. I want Lydia.
“My name is Gideon Yarbro,” he said aloud, nodding to the tailor. “And I think you’d prefer it if we had this discussion in private.”
“Feinstein has been my tailor for years,” Fitch said. “I’ve got no secrets from him.”
Gideon did not remark on the oddness of that statement. “All right, then,” he said. “I want to talk to you about Lydia Fairmont.”
Fitch’s face broke into a broad and somewhat lecherous smile, which did nothing to improve Gideon’s mood. “My little bride,” he said. “The wedding is tomorrow.”
“The wedding,” Gideon said, amazed at his own audacity even as he spoke, “is postponed. Maybe even cancelled.”
Fitch stared at him, finally came out from behind the curtains. He was wearing a fancy suit, with the cuffs of the trousers pinned up, but no shirt. Whorls of thick hair covered his chest. “Is Lydia sick?” he asked.
“No,” Gideon said. “She just needs a little time to think.”
What was he doing? Had he gone crazy?
Lydia had told him, straight-out, that she meant to go ahead with the marriage. He had no earthly right, interfering this way.
And yet, she’d sent that letter.
Kept it all those years, and then mailed it.
That, he couldn’t ignore.
Fitch reddened, clearly displeased. Mr. Feinstein ducked back behind the curtains, looking as though he might swallow the pins in the process.
“Time to think?” Fitch thundered. “What is there to think about?”
“Well, sir,” Gideon said diplomatically, “she’s not sure she loves you.”
“What?”
“Things like this happen. Women get the jitters. What with the wedding night and all—”
“Who the hell are you?” Fitch shouted, knotting his banker’s fists at his sides, but not advancing.
A prudent choice, Gideon thought.
“I told you. My name is Gideon Yarbro.”
Fitch,