Chapter Four #2
Lottie looked toward the back of the church.
Mr. Peterson’s gaze was fixed on Jeb, but not on his face. He stared at Jeb’s hands.
The realization came quietly but strongly. Peterson was watching the way Jeb held Delly’s fingers. Carefully. Fully. With both hands.
Lottie looked down at Peterson’s right hand, hidden away as always. Understanding pressed lightly against her heart. It wasn’t absolute, but now she knew.
When it was Delly’s turn, her voice held. Barely.
Lottie’s eyes filled despite her best efforts. This was ridiculous because Delly would strongly object to anyone weeping over her practical arrangement, and Lottie had already cried twice since arriving in Wild Rose Ridge. She blinked hard and failed.
Beside her, Val slipped a handkerchief into her fingers without looking away from the ceremony.
“Thank you,” Lottie whispered.
Val smiled. “Weddings have a way of finding the soft places inside us.”
“They do not ask for permission.”
“No,” Val said. “The important things rarely do.”
At the front, Preacher Sutton said, “You may kiss your bride.” Jeb looked down at Delly. Lottie held her breath along with the rest of the church.
He bent and kissed her forehead.
Not her mouth. Her forehead.
It was warm, brief, and so full of restraint Lottie felt the whole church soften around it. This was not a man claiming what he had a right to take. This was a man promising he knew the difference between a vow and possession.
Lottie lowered her gaze quickly because looking at them felt almost too intimate. When she looked up again, Peterson was looking at her. The question was still there. Or perhaps she only wanted it to be.
Would she expect him to take vows with a complete hand and a whole heart when he believed he had neither? Lottie wished she knew how to tell him she was not afraid of broken things.
No. That was not right.
She was afraid. Of course, she was. Only a foolish woman would not be afraid of marrying a man who would not tell her his name, would not show his hand, and seemed determined to stand as far from hope as the room allowed.
Lottie had come west to be brave, and fear was not the same as refusal.
After the ceremony, the church erupted in congratulations. Looking dazed in a way Lottie had never seen, Delly stood beside Jeb.
Lottie waited her turn in the receiving line, then stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her sister.
For one startling second, Delly held herself stiff. Then her sister’s arms softened, and she hugged Lottie back.
Hard.
“I love you,” Lottie whispered.
“I know,” Delly said, but her voice had gone uneven. “Do not start crying again.”
“I am not starting. I am continuing.”
Delly gave a half-cough, half-laugh, and pulled Lottie tighter. Jebediah Simms stood beside them, quiet and watchful. Lottie looked up at him.
“You will be good to my sister. Understand?”
It came out less like a request than she had intended. Jeb’s brows lifted. Delly made a mortified sound.
“I mean it,” Lottie added, because retreat seemed pointless now. “She is difficult, bossy, and inclined to write down things no one should write down. She has loved me better than anyone in the world, and if you hurt her, I shall never forgive you.”
The corner of Jeb’s mouth moved.
“Miss Charlotte,” he said gravely, “I’ll do my best to avoid your wrath.”
“That would be wise. I have many books.”
“So, I hear.”
Delly closed her eyes. “This is unnecessary.”
“It is extremely necessary,” Lottie said.
Jeb looked at Delly then, and whatever humor had been in his face settled into something much steadier. “I know what she is worth.”
Delly looked away at once. Lottie did not. She believed him.
The knowledge eased something in her she had not realized was wound so tight.
A small reception followed in the churchyard because the hotel parlor had already done its duty the night before and because Clara’s cake deserved witnesses.
Children ran along the wall. The brides gathered around Delly.
The Busy Bees discussed whether this wedding counted as matchmaking success, providential intervention, or something which needed its own category on Mrs. Schulte’s list.
Lottie escaped to the edge of the churchyard with a slice of cake on a napkin and the botany book still tucked under one arm.
She found Mr. Peterson standing beneath a pine, looking toward the road leading to the camp.
“Are you leaving?” she asked.
He turned. “Soon.”
“Do weddings trouble you?”
He looked back toward the church.
The question had been too bold. Lottie knew it the moment it left her mouth. Still, he did not leave.
“They should trouble sensible men,” he said.
“Then I am glad Delly was not too sensible today.”
He glanced at her. “Your sister is plenty sensible.”
“Yes. That is why this is all very alarming.”
For once, his almost-smile came easier.
Lottie took courage from it. “I thought weddings would feel more like stories.”
“And?”
“They feel more like promises.”
His face sobered. “They are.”
The quiet answer moved through her.
“Yes,” she said. “I saw that.”