Montana Wild: A Small Town Romance - Book 4 Page 7

  He was like watching a car crash; I couldn't look away. It was bad manners to stare, but he was asking for it. How often—if ever—did you see someone dressed up for the Civil War? It wasn't Halloween and he wasn't a middle school history teacher. Needless to say, it was hard to focus on filling my plate. I wasn't exactly sure what to think about his dress, or his sanity for that matter, so I remained quiet and glanced at him beneath my lashes.

  Uncle Bob handed the platter to Mr. O, Mike's dad, who didn't raise an eyebrow at his brother-in-law's wardrobe. It seemed I was the only one to find it strange. No doubt everyone else had seen it before. Mr. O's hair had been white for as long as I could remember, his skin tan from golfing his retirement away. He wore a white golf shirt and khakis, pressed and neat. If I remembered correctly, he was a complete neat-nick, everything having to be clean, organized and polished within an inch of its life.

  “Mmm, pickles,” Uncle Bob said as he put a spear on his plate.

  “Have you ever had caribou before, dear?” Mrs. O asked. Mr. O held the platter for her as she took a hot dog.

  “No, but it smells delicious,” I replied. I had no idea people ate Rudolph in hot dog form, but I was willing to try anything once.

  “What?” I shrugged. “I like to eat.”

  “They're Alex's favorite. For some reason, he likes them better than regular hot dogs,” Banks added. Mike's cousin was in his late thirties, nondescript and bland. I had been sitting across from Banks for ten minutes and I probably wouldn't be able to pick him out in a line-up. Although with General Lee sitting at the same table that was easy to believe. Banks wore a wrinkled, gray T-shirt with a cartoon bird of some kind on it that I assumed was a college mascot. His dark hair was uncombed and he looked as if he'd just rolled out of bed, clothes and all. Maybe he had. Whether he'd showered recently was definitely questionable.

  I plotted Mike's family tree in my head. Banks wasn't Uncle Bob's son—Mike had said he hadn't had kids—so I assumed one of Mrs. O's other siblings wasn't visiting. I didn't plan to ask after this mystery person because I had enough family at the table to handle.

  Mike handed me a bowl of coleslaw. I hadn't eaten since my turkey sandwich on the way to Wal-Mart so I was starved. I placed a big scoop on my plate. Next came the pickles and I took a spear. The way Uncle Bob was working through them it might be my only chance to get one.

  “No bun, Mommy,” Alex said. He appeared to be five or so, a little younger than my first graders. He looked like a miniature version of his dad, although he wore a striped shirt and a red cape. I wasn't sure which Superhero he was intending to be, but the look was cute.

  Trish placed the unwanted bun on her plate and put a hot dog on top. She was a living, breathing Malibu Barbie. It was the first thing that popped into my head when I met her and it stuck. She had long blonde hair, a round face perfectly made up, full-sized breasts with an unrealistically small waist. She was model worthy and I couldn't figure out why she married a slob like Banks. “What do you think of the great weather?” she asked me with a smile. Her voice was high and soft. “I thought Minnesota had a rough climate, but this is downright depressing.”

  The rain hadn't let up all day and the only word for outside was dreary. “I hear there are mountains out there. Somewhere. So far, I've seen from here to Ship Creek and back. Probably not the most scenic part of the state.” It was my turn for the platter. I forked a hot dog onto my bun and passed the platter to Mike. I grabbed the mustard.

  Uncle Bob's nephews sat across from me. They'd been talking in hushed voices to each other and darted glances at me once in a while. I couldn't hear what they said, but it was clear I was the topic. Leaning toward Mike, I whispered, “What are the twins talking about?” I wanted verification because I felt a little uncomfortable.

  Mike tilted his head toward mine conspiratorially. “I think, you. But I can't say for sure. They don't speak any English.” He didn't seem too keen about the way the brothers were looking at me.

  I looked back at the duo. If Goldie were here, she'd call them hot-stuff-times-two. They filled the tall, dark and handsome romance look to a T. They had black hair, long enough to curl over their identical brows, and blue eyes to make one think they were Dark Irish and not French. Identical five o'clock shadows made their jaws look square and very rugged. Knowing they were foreign only added to their mysteriousness. The fact they were twins only added to their magnetism.

  “No one speaks French?”

  Mike shook his head. Weird of Uncle Bob, having distant relatives visit but not being able to converse with them. Strangely, no one seemed fazed by it.

  “I heard you didn't catch anything today,” Mr. O said as he squirted ketchup onto his roll.

  “No luck. People all around us were reeling them in,” Mike replied. He took a swig of his beer.

  “Maybe it's the lure,” Uncle Bob said, waving his fork in the air in one hand. “The Flashtrap Spinner seems to work for me, although we only caught two Reds between the three of us. No Kings.” He took a bite from his second, or maybe third, pickle spear.

  “I used the French Blade Minnow,” I told him. “It's heavy and helps me cast farther. With Ship Creek being so fast moving, I needed all the time I could get.”

  Uncle Bob stopped chewing and smiled broadly. He pointed the pickle spear at me. “Mikey, whatever lure you used to catch this one, it's a keeper.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Anyone who knows their ass from their elbow about fishing shouldn't be tossed back.”

  I raised my eyebrows and nodded my head. So I knew my lures and tackle, could probably survive in the woods like a Boy Scout if required. I also always wore make-up when leaving the house. There was a compliment in there somewhere.

  “We must have just missed you at Ship Creek.” Uncle Bob licked the pickle juice from his fingers. “Jean-Luc, Marc and I were out there for about two hours.”

  At the sound of their names, both men looked at Uncle Bob. He pretended to cast a line with his hands and the twins nodded and replied in rapid French. They really were amazing to look at. And the accent. My mind veered to steamier thoughts and I couldn't decide which one I would pick. Goldie would be proud of my wayward thoughts. They really did look identical. That said quite a bit, being an identical twin myself.

  “Fishing,” Uncle Bob shouted at the twins, as if talking louder would make them understand. He smiled and nodded, too, as if they were slow-witted, not language impaired. I wasn't sure how Uncle Bob communicated with the men while they were visiting, but he clearly didn't speak French.

  After minoring in the language in college and spending a year abroad in Paris, I did. But I didn't want to let on that I understood the men and their talk about catching a fish but having to put it back. I had visions of being the family translator for the remainder of my trip.

  Moments later, my translation was confirmed when Uncle Bob added, “Marc snagged a Red, but he tossed it back.”

  A snagged—and illegal—fish is when the hook is caught anywhere but in the mouth. I had no doubt Fish and Game ticketed anyone who tried to keep one.

  “Listen, Violet. If you catch any fish, don't worry. I've got all the stuff to get them cleaned and into vacuum sealed packages. You can take a box of frozen fish home with you to remember the trip.”

  I smiled at Uncle Bob. His personality was a little over the top, which made me forget he was dressed up for the Battle of Bull Run. “That would be great. Thanks.”

  Fishing in Montana was often catch and release. But salmon, which I loved to eat, and since they were dying anyway as the final part of spawning, were worth catching and keeping. Besides, I'd love a freezer full of fish.

  “Did you bring me a present?” Alex asked me. He had ketchup on his cheeks.

  “A present?” I asked.

  “Everyone brings me presents in a suitcase.”

  I remembered back to when I was a kid and Alex did have a point. Usually people with suitcases also came bearing gifts. My grandparents u
sed to go to the beach in Mexico every January and they brought me and my sister something different every time. Looking back, they were silly trinkets, but we just loved them and always tried to guess what the present would be.

  I shook my head. “No, sweetie, I'm sorry. I didn't know there was going to be someone as cool as you here.”

  He smiled. “I'll check later to be sure.”

  I didn't know how to answer, so I decided to eat instead.

  “Not everyone brings you presents, champ,” Banks told his son, ruffling his hair.

  Alex pouted and crossed his arms over his chest but I could see the little wheels spinning. I had no doubt he'd follow through with his words and search my bags.

  “Speaking of presents—” Uncle Bob said over a forkful of slaw, “—I got this little treasure in the mail the other day and planned to keep it for myself. Sorry, slugger, it's not something you'd like,” he told Alex, then looked back at me. “But after hearing you're engaged and all to the big lug, I thought it should go to you. I'm mighty proud to see a woman who knows how to fish. And to land Mike.”

  We were all staring at Uncle Bob, some with food halfway to their mouth. I guess Uncle Bob didn't hand out gifts very often.

  Uncle Bob put down his fork, wiped his mouth with his napkin, then reached into his military coat pocket and pulled out a nondescript box about three inches square. He handed it to Mrs. O, who passed it to Mike, who passed it to me.

  I smiled at Uncle Bob.

  He winked at me, which was, I guess, a sign of reassurance. Or an eye tick.

  Opening the lid, everyone around the table leaned in to see. Inside was a large pewter cross on a thick silver chain. I lifted the chain from the box, the pendant dangling heavily. There were a few oohs and aahs around the table, but I was focused solely on the gift.

  It was the biggest cross necklace I'd seen outside of an inner-city gangster on TV or a nun from The Sound of Music.

  “Wow,” I said. “Uncle Bob. Thank you, but you shouldn't have.” Really, you shouldn't have. What was the deal with the men in the family and big, ugly jewelry?

  “See, I knew I liked her. Good manners.” He shoveled some coleslaw into his mouth.

  “Put it on, Violet,” Trish said from across the table.

  I didn't have much choice. I didn't want to be rude. I slid the heavy chain over my neck and pulled my hair out from under it. The cross hung so low that the bottom portion of it hit my belly button. I was going to need a back brace by the end of the day.

  “She looks like a rapper, Daddy!” Alex commented.

  “It's a piece from the Civil War. In fact, it's a wedding present from Jefferson Davis to his second wife, Varina Howell Davis.”

  One had to wonder how long that marriage lasted.

  “My, Bob, that must be a very special piece. Shouldn't it be in a museum?” Mrs. O asked.

  I looked to Mike to see his reaction. He reached over and picked up the cross to get a closer look, his knuckles brushing over my breast as he did so. “That's really heavy.”

  “You did that on purpose,” I hissed in Mike's ear, my skin tingling where he'd accidentally touched me.

  He winked at me, too.

  “Supposedly, it prevented a northern soldier from successfully stabbing Mrs. Davis when she and her husband were trying to flee the country when the war ended. But it's just a replica. Not the real deal.”

  If I was in danger, I could just throw it at my attacker like a ninja star. Maybe that's how Mrs. Davis had saved herself.

  “Thanks, Uncle Bob. This was really sweet of you.” It was sweet of him. My mother always said it was the thought that counted. He certainly didn't need to get me an engagement gift, but a fishing pole could have worked, too.

  I glanced at Mike who was very focused on the food on his plate. He’d trapped me into a fake engagement and I was the one stuck with the world's ugliest ring and a rapper necklace. Didn't Uncle Bob have a gift for him as well?

  “We were so excited to hear Mike was engaged. Have you set a date yet?” Trish asked, adding dressing to her salad. There was only so much we could talk about when it came to the necklace—without hurting Uncle Bob's feelings, at least.

  I'd just taken a huge bite of my caribou hot dog, which was delicious, and had to chew and chew while everyone's eyes were on me, waiting. I pivoted and gave Mike a look.

  “Oh, right. Well, we haven't decided yet. Maybe next summer when school's out,” Mike told everyone, idly moving his fork around on his cleaned plate.

  Mrs. O beamed, clearly liking the idea.

  “You teach second grade, right?” Banks asked.

  “First,” I replied.

  “Alex is going into Kindergarten in the fall. Did you always want to be a teacher? I'd say you almost need a calling from God to deal with little kids all day,” Banks said.

  I smiled and nodded, forked up some salad. “I decided on Early Education in college.” It hadn't been my first choice, but my dream of being a writer was short-lived.

  “We'll have plenty of time to go shopping for a wedding dress. I'll have to call your mother when we all get home.”

  I choked on a piece of cucumber. Mike patted me on the back. “My mo—”

  “So, Uncle Bob. Remind me where you're headed first,” Mike cut in. His arm rested across the back of my chair, the tips of his fingers brushing my shoulder. I didn't exactly know what the touch meant, if anything, but it felt good; comforting, and recognizing that we were in this mess together. Although, he was the one who'd gotten us into this ridiculous situation in the first place—and didn't have a cross to bear.

  I scrambled to figure out how to keep Mrs. O from calling my mother and planning a wedding dress excursion. After my mom recovered from her initial shock at learning her daughter was getting married, she'd soon remember that I was definitely not dating Mike, let alone engaged to him. I saw her several times a week, which meant there was only so much I could keep from the woman.

  I told her if I went on a date, and if I hadn't had the chance to tell her about it, she'd learn on her own from someone on the Bozeman gossip circuit. I always ran into someone I knew at dinner or a movie. When I called her with the plan to spend the week with Mike and his family in Alaska, I left out the dating ruse. I definitely hadn't had the time—or desire—to update her on the revised relationship status. She was thrilled just by the very idea of Mike inviting me.

  Uncle Bob's head popped up from his plate at Mike's redirect, his eyes bright with excitement. “First, there's a camp reenactment in Maryland before Gettysburg, then the big battle itself, and onto other events. The Campaign of 1863 kept Jubal busy.”

  “Who are you again?” Mrs. O asked Uncle Bob. “Jubilee something?”

  Uncle Bob waved his fork in the air and pointed to the epaulet on his shoulder. “Jubal Early. Confederate Brigadier General.”

  Now I knew why he wore the uniform, but that was it. We weren't anywhere near Maryland and the Civil War had ended a long time ago. I looked at Mike in confusion as I sipped some water.

  “Uncle Bob's into the Civil War. He's going back East to do reenactments.”

  I shifted my gaze to Uncle Bob and figured into was an understatement. Between the wardrobe and the huge necklace from the President of the South's wife around my neck, it was more than obvious he had a passion for the War Between The States. Possibly an obsession.

  “I've been a career military man my whole life. Civil War's my hobby. But being stationed in Alaska never let me go east, at least not long enough to have any fun. I've signed up to be Jubal Early as a reenactor all summer long. First stop is Frederick, Maryland.” Uncle Bob grinned, clearly thrilled with his retirement plans. “That's why I'm practicing now.”

  “Wow, that's great,” I replied, wiping my mouth with my napkin. I'd learned American History in school, but never knew they had battle reenactments. Never really thought about it. Montana wasn't exactly Civil War territory.

  “So instead of calling
me Uncle Bob, you, missy, can call me Jubal.”

  Alex knocked over his cup of milk. Trish hopped up to get a towel from the kitchen, Mrs. O scrambled to place napkins over the spill. I heard a small squeal from the kitchen. “Jefferson! Stop that,” Trish scolded the dog.

  My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. Not wanting to be rude and check my phone during dinner, I glanced around, but no one was paying attention to me. I pulled it out, read the text.

  U R engaged? Mrs. O FB'd the good news. What happened to dating? Call me. G

  Our engagement was on Facebook? Goldie knew? We were doomed. Combine social networking with the Bozeman gossip network and there was no chance of stopping the spread. It was like a plague. My stomach felt queasy from the caribou hot dog. I passed the phone to Mike. He read the display, and then pounded the rest of his beer.

  Chapter 8

  After dinner, Uncle Bob took off his Jubal Early outfit and moved to the den to watch baseball. The room was a total man cave. Four leather recliners faced an enormous flat screen TV. Floor to ceiling bookshelves flanked it, filled with books, mementos and electronic paraphernalia. The coffee table had three remotes on it. It looked like Uncle Bob could land an aircraft from his barcalounger.

  Banks and Mr. O settled in to join him, beers resting in cup holders built into the recliners' arm rests.

  Mrs. O and Trish were off helping Alex with his bath. The twins were doing the dishes. Mike and I were left to clear the dinner debris from the table.

  “Word is out,” I whispered, as I stacked several plates and carried them to the kitchen, using my shoulder to push through the swinging door between the two rooms.

  Marc, or Jean-Luc, I couldn't tell which, took the stack from me. He gave me the once-over a woman gets in a bar from a drunk man hoping to score. A little smile curved his full lip. Wow. Talk about steamy glances. I was a little flattered and a whole lot uncomfortable.