One #3
There were footsteps on the wooden sidewalk out front, and some of the chatter was discernible now.
“I’m sure she’s here somewhere,” a woman said.
“I saw her heading this way,” said another.
“I wouldn’t blame her for taking to drink,” offered still another.
And then the saloon doors opened again, and four women in voluminous gowns of pale pastels—pink, blue, green and yellow—surged into the saloon.
“There you are, Mads!” cried the blonde in pink.
“We were worried about you,” chided the brunette in blue.
“Big-time,” confirmed the redhead in green.
The last of the company, dressed in yellow, wore a turban, and apparently had nothing to add to the conversation.
“Is he gone?” Madison asked, turning slightly to look back at the gaggle of bridesmaids.
She was just as beautiful in profile.
“Gone?” the blonde echoed, pink skirts swishing as she crossed the sawdust floor to touch Madison’s shoulder gently.
“For now, yes. He left the venue right after the confrontation, with Mommy tripping solicitously along behind him, tsk-tsking all the way.” She laughed, and Liam decided he liked her.
“I suppose they’re probably at the hotel by now, recovering from the humiliation. ”
The brunette giggled and did a little dance. “Mads,” she said, “this was absolutely the best wedding I’ve ever been to!”
“It was an s-show,” Madison reminded them, somewhat dryly.
“Social media gold, as far as drama,” added the redhead. “All that yelling!”
“Who’s this?” purred the one in the yellow turban, giving Liam the once-over.
“This,” Madison said, with an exaggerated gesture of one hand, “is Liam McKettrick, the bartender/architect/town marshal.”
He inclined his head slightly, in an unspoken hello.
“Liam,” Madison went on expansively, “meet my best friends—”
She reeled off their names, rapid-fire. Not one of them stuck in Liam’s brain.
“I think it’s time we got you home,” the blonde—Alisa, Ariel, Annette?—said, turning her attention back to her friend, the flight-risk bride. “You need to get out of that dress, have something to eat—”
“And sober up,” put in the redhead.
“Home?” Madison ruminated. She was definitely drunk. “And where is that, exactly?”
The blonde hooked an arm through Madison’s and helped her off the barstool.
The almost-bride hesitated, frowned. “Wait. I didn’t pay for my drink!”
“On the house,” Liam said.
“Thanks,” said the blonde, with a brief glance his way.
With that, having surrounded her, the group maneuvered Madison toward the doors.
Liam followed, at a little distance, amused by the colorfully dressed women, all of them talking at once.
They navigated the wide sidewalk, then made their communal way around the hitching rail and water trough directly in front of the saloon.
Liam leaned against one of the poles supporting the narrow roof above the entrance, watching them move toward a white compact car waiting in the road.
Getting everyone inside was a somewhat jumbled effort, mildly comical.
And then they were driving away.
Liam watched the vehicle—most likely a rental, given its nondescript design—until it zipped beneath the archway at the end of the street and finally disappeared.
Then he went back inside the saloon.
Costumed barmaids and dance hall girls were arriving, having entered through the back way, tying apron strings and adjusting feathery headpieces as they came.
“Wait till you hear about that wedding over there at the Lodge, Boss,” chuckled Sylvia Red Bird, the piano player and sometime torch singer. “Craziest one yet.”
Liam pretended to be clueless. “You were there?”
“No,” Sylvia replied, grinning. She was eccentric, to say the least, dressing herself in trousers, a pointy-collared shirt, a striped vest and a top hat for her shift at the Hard Luck.
Sometimes, when she helped out in the gift shop across the street, next to the old-time photography place, she wore authentic medicine woman garb, which she’d created with her own hands.
“Didn’t need to be there. It’s all over town, what happened.
The ceremony went off without a hitch, according to Miranda from over at Bailey’s restaurant, but when it came time for the reception, all hell broke loose.
There was a lot of shouting, and then the bride tore up the wedding license and stormed out of the reception. ”
Liam hid a grin. “Is that so?”
“It’s so,” verified Molly Steel, who was paying her way through community college over in neighboring Silver Hills by dancing with, and for, saloon patrons. “I saw the videos. They’re all over YouTube and Instagram and probably TikTok, too. All that show needed was footlights.”
“You better show me those videos,” Sylvia told Molly, “soon as we go on break.”
Slowly, the saloon filled, first with staff, then with customers. A lot of these, it soon became apparent, had been guests at the thwarted wedding.
There were a lot of toasts, followed by laughter and anecdotes told from just about every perspective: old and young men alike and their female counterparts.
The caterers. Even the groomsmen, who were all in a jocular mood, despite the groom—ostensibly their buddy—being summarily dumped at his own wedding reception.
They were knocking back liquor like there was no tomorrow, laughing a lot, shaking their heads at their friend Jeffrey’s unnatural attachment to his mother.
Sheriff Eli Garrett stopped in around eight o’clock, as he always did whenever there was a big shindig in or around Painted Pony Creek, accompanied by his good friend the chief of police, Melba Summers.
“Quite a day,” Eli sighed, taking a place at the end of the bar.
“So I hear,” Liam acknowledged. “Whiskey? Maybe a gin and tonic?”
“I wish,” Eli said. “I’m still on duty, so it’s coffee for me, I’m afraid.”
Melba, truly beautiful and tough as logging chain, stood beside Eli, smiling. “Sheriff’s just trying to preserve his stellar reputation,” she remarked. “Afraid I’ll muscle in, one of these election years, and push him out of office.”
Liam laughed, and so did Eli.
Both officers were served coffee—like always.
“The groom’s mother, Yolanda somebody, turned up at my office a few hours ago,” Melba said. “She wanted her son’s would-be wife arrested for creating a public nuisance.”
Eli nearly spat out his coffee. “What?”
“Well,” Melba reminded him, “after the bride left, chaos reigned. And somebody knocked over the wedding cake by accident. Do you have any idea how much a cake like that costs, Sheriff?”
Eli sighed again, shoved a hand through his light brown hair.
“Actually, Chief, I do. My wife orchestrates most of these shindigs, and it’s downright scary, the price of goods and services these days.
It’s not uncommon for the bridal gown alone to run in the thousands.
And all for one day . I sure hope the star of this spectacle got her money’s worth, given the way the event turned out. ”
Melba sipped her coffee. “The bride,” she said, “is a Bettencourt. You know, those Bettencourts, the ones who struck silver back in the day? The ones who built that big old house out at the end of Sparrow Bend Road? She’s not hurting for money, I can tell you.”
“I thought all the Bettencourts had died off, except for Coralee, of course,” Eli said, finishing off his coffee and shoving the cup away with a hint of reluctance. “And she’s holding on by a thread, from what I’ve heard.”
“Nope,” Melba said, sounding pleased to set the sheriff straight on the matter. “She’s got a granddaughter, Madison. The woman who was supposed to get married today. In my opinion, she came to her senses just in time to avoid tying herself down to a total waste of human bone and muscle.”
Eli shook his head. “Small towns,” he muttered. Then he thanked Liam and turned to leave.
At the Hard Luck Saloon, officers of the law got their sandwiches, sodas and coffee free. So did firefighters, paramedics and half a dozen old-timers who knew how to spin a damn good yarn.
From the sound of things, Madison Bettencourt was going to be starring in more than her fair share of tall tales for a long time to come.
And Liam wanted to hear every last one of them.