Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(63)

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Material for your wedding dress! I realized I was never going to coax you into a dress shop. And then I thought about it—why must you have a boughten dress, anyway? We could get one tailored just for you.”

It looks like a tub of butter exploded in a vat of cream. “It’s . . . nice.”

Becky beams and starts tearing open another package. “And I found the perfect lace to go with it!”

I admire the lace and try not to think about how, when I get married, I’m going to look like a giant pastry covered in spun sugar. “You’re so thoughtful, Becky.”

“This one is for you,” she says to Jefferson, opening the final package to reveal wool and satin in varying shades of plum—unripe plum and juicy plum and nearly prune. I’m going to look like butter and sugar, but Jefferson is going to look like a giant walking bruise. I glance over at Henry, but he’s no help at all, because he stares at the nearly prune satin like it’s manna from heaven.

“You shouldn’t have,” Jefferson tells Becky flatly, and I have to stifle a giggle.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Glory’s first wedding is going to be a special event. Historic. It’s the least I could do for the two of you.”

“I . . . thank you,” Jefferson says, looking at me with panic in his eyes.

“The tailor will be here Friday to take your measurements,” Becky says. “I would have scheduled it sooner, but they’re very busy right now, finishing up new clothes for Mr. Hardwick’s party. I declare, any person with an aptitude in San Francisco right now is bound to make a fortune.”

Movement catches my eye, and I look up and see Olive and Andy peering around the corner. I beckon to them, and Olive runs over and climbs onto my lap.

“Do you love it?” Olive asks.

“I love it,” I say. “Your ma is a very good friend.”

“This is the color I would have picked,” Andy announces, grabbing at the fabric for Jefferson’s suit. Becky slaps his hands away.

“No touching. You haven’t washed your hands,” she says.

Andy sticks his fingers in his mouth and licks them vigorously, then wipes his hand on his trousers. “Now can I?” he asks.

I am eager to see the result of this inquiry, but we’re interrupted by banging at the door.

“I’ll see who it is,” Jefferson says, and he heads down the hallway to the entrance.

Before he gets halfway, he starts backing up. Following him is Frank Dilley, his hand on one of his guns.

I slide Olive from my lap and push her behind me.

My Hawken rifle is in my room, beneath my cot. I’ll have to get past Dilley.

“I let myself in,” he says. “Well, ain’t this a proper reunion with you wagon-train bootlickers, the Johnny-come-latelies. I don’t suppose Wally Craven is around here somewhere?”

“Your former wagon master and superior is momentarily engaged,” Becky says. “If you have a message for him, you may leave it and go.”

“No, I have a message for you,” he replies. “Well, you, specifically,” he adds, indicating me. “But I’ll extend it to all of you, even the brats.”

He reaches into his left vest pocket; Jefferson starts forward.

“Slow down, tiger,” Dilley says, and draws his gun just far enough to make Jefferson freeze.

He removes a gilt-edged envelope, which he tosses onto the galley table.

“Mr. Hardwick requests the pleasure of your company, and that of your guests, at a little soiree he is hosting at his home tomorrow night. It’s a farewell party for all his business associates before he leaves for New York. He’s done business with you, as a representative of the town of Glory, and would like to show his appreciation. The details are in the invitation. Be sure to bring it with you. I’ll tell them at the gate to expect you—the children too.” He glances at Henry. “Your good pal Tom doesn’t need an invitation. He’ll be there working for Mr. Hardwick. And I understand the doc deserted you, like he should have a long time ago. But he’s still invited.”

“Why’d Hardwick send you?” I ask. Hardwick knows our history with Dilley.

“Oh, I volunteered. A chance to see some old friends one last time.”

He tips his hat and backs out the way he came, keeping his hand on his gun the whole time.

The second he’s gone, I run to my room and grab my rifle. I have my powder horn out and I’m shoving a wad of shot and cotton down the muzzle when Jefferson stops me. “You can’t shoot him,” he says.

“I’m not an idiot. But he was here. In our home. He just walked right in. So I’m keeping this gun loaded.”

“Lee, you know better. That gunpowder will get wet. Next time you shoot, it will backfire in your face. There’s nothing to be done that we aren’t already doing.”

I glare at him, hating that he’s right. It’s exactly what my daddy would have said. “We have to do something, damn it.”

“You’re entirely correct,” Becky says softly. “He shouldn’t get away with just walking into our home. But the children are listening, and I would still ask you to mind your language.”

All the fire goes out of me, doused by the ice-cold water of Becky’s words. “I’m sorry.”