Page 7 of May I Kiss the Bride
“Sheriff.” More than one man tipped his hat and nodded in greeting.
Rey kept his gaze on Thatcher. Was it possible that his deputy had gone rogue in his short absence? Was Rey about to witness a gunfight or—heaven forbid—be in the middle of one?
“Thatcher, what’s happening?” He strode to his friend and acting sheriff, an older man with a bit of a pot belly, graying handlebar mustache, and with arms as strong as an ox.
Thatcher swung on Rey, gun still pointed.
“Easy,” Rey said. “What’s going on?”
“Boy, am I glad to see you,” Thatcher huffed. His eyes were bloodshot, and Rey hoped the man wasn’t hitting the bottle during working hours again. It was tricky to keep law and order in a town where the lawmen themselves were being disorderly.
“This here line isn’t supposed to be added to after two p.m.,” Thatcher blustered. “I promised Beth I’d make sure there was a cutoff.”
Beth Cannon was the baker who ran Main Street Bakery. Been doing it before Rey moved into town. A sweet yet outspoken woman. Had been struggling with arthritis the past year, so she’d hired a couple of girls to help her with the baking in the mornings.
Rey wasn’t sure what exact time it was, but he assumed it was now after two, thus the struggle.
“Come on, Thatcher, I got here late on account of my horse going lame,” Billy Warner said. “Can’t blame me for that. Tell ’im, Sheriff Rey.”
“Did everyone run out of food the same day or something?” Rey asked to no one in particular.
“Oh, this man isn’t buying anything,” Thatcher said, pointing at Billy. “The likes of him are just taking a look.” He turned his full attention upon the man. “So, get out of line. No money, no line. After two, no lining up to peek.”
Billy scowled, but he shuffled away, hands in his grimy pockets.
“Thatcher,” Rey said, “put your gun away and tell me what all this fuss is. Looks like a parade, but I don’t see any silver marching band or dancing ponies.”
Thatcher grumbled something incoherent, but he holstered his pistol. “It’s Beth’s niece. Venice, or Vanna, or something. She’s a looker, and all the men want to get a look.”
Rey frowned. “I didn’t know Beth had a niece.”
“None of us did,” Thatcher said. “But she’s the talk of the town. Hair the color of summer wheat—”
“Eyes like a thundercloud,” Gerald said from somewhere down the line. “The kind of storm you want to get caught in.”
“Smile that lights up the whole darn sky,” Wallace added.
The men in the line all nodded, and that’s when Rey saw it. Each one of these unmarried men had thatlookin their eyes. Like they’d been dumbstruck. Some might call it lovestruck.
“Well, I’ll be. Sounds like an angel,” Rey said through gritted teeth.
“Oh, she’s an angel, all right,” Mr. Brunson chimed in. “Sang in the church choir yesterday, and I could have sworn the birds stopped singing outside to listen.”
“My heart may never recover,” Jeffrey said, clutching said heart. Jeffrey was a reed-thin man who could normally be found at the saloon this time of day. He looked the most sober Rey had ever seen him, wearing a clean button-down shirt.
Rey couldn’t deny that his curiosity was piqued, but he also knew any single, unmarried, half-pretty woman in Mayfair would get plenty of attention. He wasn’t a regular churchgoingman, so he’d just have to skip out on hearing angels sing. He just hoped that Beth Cannon was getting the rest she needed, because from Rey’s viewpoint, standing on the crowded boardwalk, the bakery was busier than ever.
He turned to Thatcher. “How long has this been going on?”
Thatcher paused a moment and counted on his stumpy fingers. “This is day five. The niece arrived one day, and by the second day, the lines were forming. Beth had to take me aside, and we set up some ground rules.”
Rey nodded at this. Made sense. But as he scanned the men in line, bouncing in their cowboy boots, mopping their foreheads and necks in the heat, cracking a few nervous jokes, Rey decided that the line was indecent. The bakery wasn’t a circus peep show. Beth Cannon was one of the most respectable women in town—not respectable in the churchgoing sense—but respectable because she was one of the original homesteaders and was, as far as he knew, the oldest citizen of Mayfair.
“I’m the end of the line,” he announced. “Thatcher, you go ahead and get yourself a cold drink.”
“Thank you, sir,” Thatcher said with an eager nod and hurried off, giving out a couple of glares at loitering men for good measure.
Might as well see what all the fuss was about, Rey decided, and whether he needed to put more measures into place to keep Beth Cannon’s niece away from so many prying eyes and gossiping men.
