Chapter One #2
Beau was supposed to be spending the day sweetening Junebug’s batch of sour cucumbers and stuffing them into jars, so what was he doing here, skiving off his chores? That lazy rodent.
And what was he so cheerful about that he was bursting into song all over the place?
Junebug crept closer, glad the sodden ground muffled her steps.
Beau was right out in the open in the little grassy clearing, singing to himself like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Or any cucumbers to pickle. He really did have a lovely voice—her advertisement hadn’t lied about that.
Far be it from Junebug not to give praise when praise was due: the man could sing.
His singing might even be the thing Junebug liked best about him.
But what in the hell was he doing?
Beau was standing oddly in the middle of the clearing, with his arms held out rigid like a scarecrow. Like he was holding onto an invisible something. Or someone, she realized in startlement, as she saw him take an awkward step back and to the side.
Was he… dancing?
There was a book open on the damp grass in front of him and he was peering at it and muttering between verses.
Now and then he’d squat down and examine the book closely with a furrowed brow.
Junebug rose on tiptoe as she peered around the conifer.
She wished she’d thought to bring the spyglass up with her from the trading post. She glanced around, wondering if she could get a better vantage point.
Stealthy like a bobcat stalking a deer, Junebug crept between the soppy trees, trying to get closer.
Beau seemed powerfully absorbed in his book and didn’t notice her.
Eventually she came to the trunk of a fallen sapling and managed to furtively gain higher ground.
From here she could see that his book had diagrams and everything—little feet and dotted lines spackling the page in arcane loops.
Beau stood again and his arms wrapped around an imaginary dance partner.
Goddamn, he was dancing. And he didn’t look half bad.
This wasn’t the usual McBride kind of dancing, which they did in the summer meadow to Jonah’s fiddle; this was actual proper civilized dancing, like they did at fancy cotillions and such.
At least so she’d read. Junebug had never actually been to any cotillions.
Nor even to a barn dance. But that was the kind of dancing Beau looked like he was educating himself for, the cotillion kind, where ladies in fancy dresses had dance cards looped to their wrists and wielded little bitty pencils at gentlemen to make them dance.
And they drank champagne and ate fancy sandwiches, like those cucumber sandwiches without the crusts Junebug had got Pip to make once.
Junebug didn’t think those sandwiches would do a thing to satisfy an appetite got up by dancing.
But that was cotillions for you, she supposed. A lot of dainty nibbling.
Beau had started singing proper as he swung his invisible partner around the clearing. It was that sappy ‘Eileen Alannah’ song that Maddy was always asking him to sing. He was crooning it to the empty air with his whole heart.
Which meant only one thing… the blockhead had found himself a wife. Because who the hell else was he going to dance with around here? Thunderhead Bill? Purdy Joe? He certainly wasn’t dancing with Junebug.
“I know you’re there, you little sneak.”
Junebug jerked in surprise at the sound of his voice, and almost fell off the log.
Beau gave his imaginary partner a spin. “If you’re so keen to see what I’m doing, why don’t you just come look?”
“Sneak!” Junebug was outraged. “If anyone’s sneaking in this circumstance, it’s you.
” She was annoyed at being caught, but even more annoyed at Beau singing and dancing and generally being all Beau-ish all over the place.
How dare he find a wife before she did. Junebug jumped off the log and stalked over to his dumb dancing book.
She looked down at the pattering of black steps on the page.
“What the hell are you learning to dance for?”
“My wedding,” he said smugly. And then he gave the most irritating twirl.
Junebug scowled. “Now hold your damn horses. You ain’t allowed to go getting married without considering all the options. We had a deal!”
“I’ll stick to the deal. But consider this bet won, Bug.”
Junebug had an urge to stick out her foot and trip him as he danced by with some offensively ostentatious footwork. “This bet has barely got going,” she said hotly. Hell, she hadn’t even begun sorting her mail. “You ain’t even seen my wife yet. I’ve got some mighty fine candidates.” She hoped.
“I’ll take a look,” he said, giving her a grin that made her want to scream.
“But I’ve got to tell you, I think I’ve found the perfect woman.
” He spun to a halt and offered his phantom dance partner a flirty bow.
And then the blockhead reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope.
Carefully, almost reverently, he opened it and withdrew a card.
He held it out for Junebug to see, grinning like he was already kicked in the head, and he hadn’t even met anyone in person yet. At least as far as she knew.
Junebug reached for the card, but he snatched it back. “Uh-uh, no touching, Bug.”
Oh, this was bad. He was looking down at that card with an expression that could only be described as amative.
Junebug made an irritable show of tucking her hands behind her back and then bent so close to the card her nose was just about touching it.
“It’s a photograph!” Junebug pulled her head back so she could see it properly.
“Like that cabinet card Morgan and Pip sent from Nebraska.” That one had been a sepia photograph of the two of them, flanked by Pip’s whole wealth of unsmiling relatives.
Morgan had looked like a startled hare; Pip had been grinning ear to ear.
Junebug hadn’t seen many photographs in her life, and it was kind of a thrill to see Beau’s, even if it was a threat to her circus ambitions.
The girl in Beau’s picture had a queenly look.
She stood posed beside a velvety looking chair, holding onto its curved back and giving the camera a sideways glance.
She was glowing like moonshine, but that could be the vagaries of photography—if she glowed like that in real life Junebug didn’t stand a chance of winning the bet.
The girl had silvery pale hair, all swept up in an elegant hairstyle.
Her nose was straight, and her figure was willowy and graceful.
Her clothes weren’t too fancy, though. Junebug could tell because the first wife she’d (misguidedly) picked for Kit had been plenty fancy.
Willabelle’s clothes had looked like a box of ribbons had exploded everywhere, and the fabrics were all shiny and exotic.
This woman, on the other hand, was in modest calico cotton, all buttoned up to the chin, with a hint of lace at the collar.
But she was a hell of a lot prettier than Willabelle, who had been… well, obvious. This woman was—
“A natural beauty,” Beau declared, sounding satisfied as all hell.
“You like ’em natural, huh?” Junebug couldn’t keep the sourness out of her voice.
“When they look like this I do.” He was grinning fit to bust.
It was true that the moonglow girl was better looking than was normal.
Again, it was probably the vagaries of photography, but she sure looked like something that belonged in a book.
Like one of those illustrations of goddesses wrapped in sheets.
She was the kind of girl poets got wordy about.
Roses in June and all that junk. Junebug guessed it made sense that Beau’s instinct was to find someone as pretty as he was, but she thought his instinct was impaired.
He had looks enough for two people. What he needed was someone sensible, someone who could steer him straight.
She had to be appealing, sure, but appealing didn’t have to mean glowing all over the place at innocent people.
How was Junebug supposed to find a woman to compete with this?
“Did she write you at all, or did she just send the photograph? Have you picked based just on looks?” Junebug demanded. “Because that would be powerfully stupid.”
Beau was magnanimous in his assumed victory. “Oh, she wrote. I’ve got a stack of letters.”
“She know how to spell?” Junebug asked, frowning at the way he slid the photograph back in its envelope like he was wrapping up a treasure.
His eyes were actually twinkling at her he was so happy. Goddamn it.
“She spells better than me,” he said.
“That wouldn’t be hard.”
“She’s a delightful correspondent.”
“I’m sure. Can I read her letters?”
“No.” He had the gall to laugh, still twinkling. Since when did Beau twinkle? He wasn’t the twinkling type. He was the flat-out irritating type.
“They’re private,” he told her firmly, and there was a tenderness in him that made her blood run cold.
Junebug’s mind raced. “How long have you been writing to each other?”
“A few weeks.”
“A few weeks!”
“She was the first one to answer my advertisement.”
Junebug swore. She couldn’t help it. This was irksome in the extreme. She hadn’t even finished reading her mail yet and here he was, through the choosing already. “You ain’t supposed to pick the first one who answers, you sap. You’re supposed to survey the field.”
“I didn’t need to. I liked this one. And now that she’s sent me this”—he patted his pocket, where the photograph was resting against his heart—“I know I picked the right one.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. She might have a voice like screeching cats.”
“You wish.”
Junebug did wish, very much.
“She’s smart,” he said smugly, “and funny, and—”
“You know all this from a few letters?”
“More than a dozen letters.”
“How often have you been writing? And stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Twinkling.” His fat lips twitched in response. “I hate seeing you this happy.”