Plum Pudding Bride Read Online Free PDF Page A

children clinging to her leg leaned over from the pew behind. Dark circles ringed her eyes and her cheeks were gaunt. “Wish I had known that at nineteen.”
    “Oh, Mr. Dehaven’s a pillar of his community. His reverend nominated him for church deacon just this last fall. I think.” Patience’s fingers knotted around each other now. Last time Peter had seen that expression on her face was five years ago when she was telling little Kitty whoppers about tadpoles growing into dragons.
    Mrs. Clinton made a scoffing sound. “He’s probably the only other able-bodied man in the district. So it’s not like there was competition.”
    Dropping Kitty’s hand and a conversation about what kind of diamond would best suit her fair skin tones, a lady clothed in maroon spun around. “What sort of man proposes over letter without even meeting a girl? He probably has something to hide.”
    Exactly! Peter brought his hand down on the pew in front of him. The man could be a criminal. The train conductor shouldn’t even be selling a ticket to Patience for this wild venture.
    “Mrs. Clinton said herself Montana was sparsely populated. There probably simply aren’t any eligible young women in his town.” Patience hopped off the bench. Her boots hit the floor with a clatter.
    “A likely story. Does he drink? You joined our temperance league the day you turned twenty-one. You know it’s against our core principles to become one flesh with a drinking man.” Mrs. Clinton stuck a finger in Patience’s face.
    Above, gusts of wind blew through the cracks in the eaves. The organist thumped on the organ pedals impatiently.
    “I’m certain he doesn’t.” Patience’s arms crossed over each other again. But instead of jutting out her shoulders, she drew them in.
    “Certain? Most drunks are wifebeaters, you know.” Mrs. Clinton coughed loudly.
    “He’s not a drunk. He’s a pillar of the community.” Patience glanced over at Peter. Her brown-eyed gaze met his for one moment. No spark of mutual affection there though, just a summary appraisal. “Like him, only much more so.”
    “As a rancher?” Mrs. Clinton let forth a snort. “That set’s a wild lot.”
    “He’s very charitable.” Patience’s fingers played with the lace of her collar now.
    Peter had seen her work the lace on Friday evenings when he’d found excuses to steal a spot at the Callahan hearth.
    “Broke a rib climbing down into a mud pit to rescue a fallen traveler.” Patience’s voice was like crystal—clear and bright amidst the chattering all around. If only she’d speak of Peter with that lovely voice.
    “Charitable?” Mrs. Clinton clicked her tongue. “He sounds more like a wild animal. My John’s been riding out West for nigh on fifty years now and never fell into a mud pit.”
    “You’ll see, one of these years, when we come back to visit with a parcel of well-behaved children raised in the invigorating air of the Montana ranch land.”
    Up front, a crash sounded.
    Faces turned up.
    The organist pounded a chord, her plain face wrinkled in displeasure.
    The reverend cleared his throat loudly. “We will start with ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.’ Ladies?”
    As the knot of women dispersed to their pews, Patience sank onto the bench where she had stood.
    “He really is amazing, my Mr. Dehaven,” she mumbled. “They’d know it if they met him.”
    No, he wasn’t. Or maybe he was. But Mr. Dehaven could never love Patience the way Peter did. Couldn’t Patience see that? The starched black of Peter’s worsted churchgoing trousers made contact with the pew seat. The point of a hymnbook poked his leg.
    Kitty held the other half. “Smile.”
    “What for?” Taking the other edge of the hymnbook, he commenced a dirge-like chant of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.”
    “Patience’s out of her faculties with envy.”
    “No.” Peter rotated back towards the pew where Patience sat.
    She stared intently at her raised hymnal as if she had no