Chapter Twenty-Two

 

White-faced Herefords scattered as the dark green surrey rolled toward them at a good clip behind a matched pair of sorrels. A killdeer flew up from under the cows' trampling hooves, faking a broken wing to lure predators from her nest. The bird's plaintive cries did little to raise the spirits of the wagon's occupants.

From her seat between Bartholomew and his widowed brother, Calvin, Ariah inhaled the sweet fragrance of the lush grass, ignoring the more pungent odor of manure. Intermingled with the other scents were the ever-present tang of the sea and the earthy essence of an approaching storm. Overhead, the sky was a seamless curtain of grey, unmarred even by the flight of birds, for they had already sought out shelter.

A few drops of rain pelted the roof of the surrey as Calvin turned the buggy onto a narrow dirt track. In the distance, a red-roofed barn came into view over the crest of a low hill. A dog ran out to greet the wagon with sharp-bitten barks. Calvin slowed as they rounded the white barn. Beyond, stood a two-story house painted white with red trim to match the outbuildings. On the porch waited a portly woman garbed in black.

A crow, Ariah thought. But the minute Cal's housekeeper raced down the steps, she became a chickadee, chattering away in a cheerful, melodic voice as she fussed over each passenger alighting from the surrey.

"Bartholomew! Oh, Bartholomew, you poor dear man. Such an awful thing, losing a wife so young and so tragically. Do forgive me for not being at the funeral, but I didn't dare leave my stove for that long."

"Thank you, Goody," he said, using Cal's nickname for the woman. He bent down and kissed her soft, peach blossom cheek. "Don't think a thing about missing the funeral. It was kind of you to go to all this trouble fixing us a meal. Knowing you, I'm sure it's a feast."

"Now how could I have done anything else but provide you a meal on a day like this? Funeral or no funeral, you must eat and keep up your strength. I even baked you your favorite, apple pie. And I expect you to do it justice, too. No excuses about lack of appetite. The soul needs food every bit as much as the body, you know."

"If that's the case," Cal said, winking at Bartholomew, "you must have one of the healthiest souls around, Goody."

Mrs. Goodman smacked his hand away as he gently pinched her plump arm. "Enough of that, young man."

Cal laughed. "Young man! Hell, Goody, you talk like you're old enough to be my mother, instead of only five years my senior."

"Sometimes I feel like your mother," she said, blushing. "Lord knows, you need one."

As if she'd not noticed Ariah's presence before, Mrs. Goodman exclaimed, "The bride! Oh, our little bride is here. Hello, hello. I'm Amy Goodman, but you just call me Amy."

Ariah found herself enveloped in motherly warmth redolent of flour, lard and vanilla. Sensations she had not enjoyed since she was thirteen rushed over her, and she found herself blinking back sudden tears. Embarrassment flooded her cheeks, but Amy Goodman was too busy hurrying her charges up the steps and into the house to notice. Ariah dawdled in the parlor to surreptitiously wipe her eyes with the backs of her hands. She sniffled under the guise of sniffing a purple-blossomed African violet on a lamp table.

From the kitchen came the sound of chairs scraping on a wood floor as Mrs. Goodman seated the men and Cal's two teen-age sons at the table. The murmur of deep, masculine voices formed soothing background music, punctuated by the housekeeper's soprano chirping and the clatter of utensils as she dished up the meal.

Alone and seemingly forgotten in the front parlor, Ariah was overcome by a feeling of emptiness. In the other room a family was sitting down to an early supper, a family that did not include her. Not truly. For a moment she deeply regretted having let Pritchard go off to see his friends without her. She felt as though she belonged nowhere, not here at Bartholomew's family home, not with her own husband and his baseball buddies, not even at the lighthouse station which was now, for better or worse, her home.

Once more she wondered if she would be better off to search somewhere else for her place in life. For all she knew, it might even be in Greece. How could she be certain she would not love it there? But it took only the memory of her father, bleeding against the white sheets of his bed, to convince her that she could never be happy among a people who saw their women as bargaining instruments to better the family's position or wealth. A people who cared little for the love in a young woman's heart.

And if Uncle Xenos found her, nothing would ever matter again, because she would no longer be alive to know or care.

If Bartholomew knew everything—her real danger at Uncle Xenos's hands and how easily she could get an annulment—would he whisk her away, marry her and guard her with his life? Not as long as he was bent on punishing himself for not saving Hester. And for loving a woman not his wife.

Since yesterday, when Doctor Wills pronounced that Hester would not live through the night, Bartholomew had spoken only when necessary, and to Ariah, not at all. Alone, he sat by Hester's bed, holding her thin, worn hand until at last she had been freed of her mortal body, and her mortal pain. This morning, before the stench of her rotting body could worsen, Hester was buried in a casket Bartholomew insisted on building himself. On the lid, below her name, he had carved To Err is Human, to Forgive Divine.

Yet he would not forgive himself. Nor, Ariah feared, would he forgive her.

"Ariah?"

At the sound of the deep voice, coming so close on the heels of her thoughts, her heart somersaulted. She whirled to face him. But the man standing before her was not Bartholomew.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, Cal, thank you. I was merely admiring these lovely African violets."

"Goody grows them. You be sure and tell her you like them, she'll be thrilled. Since her husband passed away a couple of years ago, raising them flowers and fussing over my family has sort of become her life. Now, how about coming in for a bite to eat? We were wondering what had happened to you."

Her disappointment that it had not been Bartholomew who had missed her enough to come looking for her weighted her feet as she followed Calvin into the kitchen. She was directed to a chair between Mrs. Goodman and Cal who sat at the head of the table. Bartholomew sat at the foot, the boys ranged on either side of him. His gaze centered on his empty plate, making her fancy that he wished to avoid looking at her.

Amy Goodman passed her a bowl of steaming mashed potatoes. "Here, dear, fill up your plate. You're too thin by far. In fact, you look a bit peaked. Not breeding already, I hope? A newly married couple needs time to get used to each other before taking on the responsibility of children."

That brought Bartholomew's head up. Heat flooded Ariah's face.

"Where is that young devil you're married to, anyway?" Mrs. Goodman asked, oblivious to the girl's discomfort. "He should be here with Bartholomew and you on a day like this."

"He had something he needed to discuss with his friend, Stuffy, before we have to catch the tide for home."

"Stuffy Simms? Why, I saw his wife at the druggist's yesterday and thought sure she said they were going over to visit his folks in Bay City today." Mrs. Goodman shrugged. "Reckon they must have changed their minds."

Ariah murmured an answer, but her mind and her gaze remained on Bartholomew who was scowling like an eagle whose supper had just slipped through his talons.

♥ ♥ ♥

Pritchard rolled across the rumpled bed, taking Nettie with him. Coming to rest on his back, he lifted her with his hands under her arms until her breasts dangled above him like ripe peaches on a tree. His tongue snaked out to lave each rosy peak. Nettie moaned and wriggled against him where she straddled his hips.

"God, I've missed you," he whispered.

"Have ya truly?"

"You know it." He scooted her back until the tip of his erection nosed the moist warmth between her legs. His voice grew huskier. "Doesn't this feel like I missed you?"

Nettie giggled. "It sure do, Asa."

"Now, Nettie, you shouldn't call me that. I wish I was as good a hurler as old Asa Brainard, but I'm not, and you know it."

"But you pitched a flawless game last practice."

"That doesn't make me an Asa, honey."

Grinning, she lowered herself until her breasts brushed teasingly against his chest. "Well, you're an Asa to me. You got perfect aim, you never strike out—” in one smooth movement she impaled herself on his waiting shaft "—and your bat is the biggest and the best in any league."

Pritchard didn't bother arguing with her. He was too hot, too ready to show her how well he had learned his lessons at her private school of loving. His hands dug into her hips as she carried him to new heights, her body moving on his as fast as the fleetest pitch Asa Brainard ever hurled. When it was over and they lay curled together, too sated to move, Nettie ran her fingers over his nearly hairless chest. Tipping her head back where it rested on his shoulder, she kissed his jaw.

"Lordy, Pritchard, I wish you didn't have to leave."

"So do I, honey."

After a moment of silence, she said, "You sleepin' with her yet?"

He didn't have to ask who "her" was.

"I haven't touched her since I met you, Nettie. I haven't even wanted to."

"That's good." She nipped at his chin. "Cause I'd slug yer lights out, if'n you did."

Her voice went from threatening to weepy. "I ain't never cared 'bout no man the way I care 'bout you, Prit. I couldn't bear knowing you was going home to sleep with another woman."

He drew her tighter against him, his eyes shut, jaw clamped tight. "Ah, Nettie, it's you I love. Not her."

His words surprised him almost as much as they did Nettie.

Flushed with pleasure and excitement, she lifted herself onto her elbows, her upper body half-draped over his as she stared him in the eye. "Do you truly love me, Prit?"

"Yeah, I really do." He smiled, realizing it was true.

"You gotta ask her to let you go. I didn't want to say nothin' till I knew how you felt about me, but . . .well, I think maybe you're gonna be a daddy. It's too soon to be sure, but I was pregnant oncet afore. I lost that 'un, but I feel the same now as I did that time. Are you glad? Oh, please say you're glad. I couldn't bear it if'n you decided you didn't want us."

"God, Nettie, I . . . I didn't expect anything like this. I thought you'd know . . ." His voice trailed away as her face squeezed up as though getting ready to rain all over him.

"Aw, it doesn't matter. Of course I'm glad, honey. I told you I wanted my own baseball team, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean you want me to be their ma."

"Who else would I want to have my kids if not the woman I love most in the world?"

He kissed her and wiped away the moisture beading at the corners of her eyes. Good Lord, what do I do now? Would Ariah let him go if she knew? She was a good woman. He'd come to know her well enough these past weeks to believe that. She didn't act as though she was so enamored of him that she would try very hard to hang onto him. Still, she was his wife and he had been unfaithful to her. How would he ever find the courage to tell her?

For the first time since he realized that Aunt Hester was going to die, he was glad she wasn't here. She would have boxed his ears good for what he'd done. Aunt Hester had been the most pious woman he had ever known. She'd been harsh at times, but there wasn't a woman around more godlike than her. He thanked God he wouldn't have to face her when it came out that he'd fathered a bastard.

"Nettie, I have to ask you something."

"Go ahead, Prit, honey."

She had settled herself back down beside him, her hand rubbing lazy circles around his navel. Even though his mind was on other matters, his body was already reacting to her ministrations. Her hand drifted lower, barely brushing his sex. Desire bolted through him. Determined to get at least one problem straight between them before he allowed himself to succumb again to her allure, he clapped a hand over hers and said, "I have to know if you've been with any other men since the last time we were together."

"Aw, Prit, you know I promised I wouldn't. You been real good to me. I ain't needed no money or nothing. Besides, I don't want no other man touching me now I got you." She lifted her head and kissed him. "I love you, Prit. Don't you believe me?"

He kissed her back, lost in her special taste. A taste he craved more and more every day, almost as much as he craved her body.

"Yeah, I believe you."

He nudged her hand lower and groaned when she wrapped her fingers around his hot, turgid length. Tonight, when he went home, he would find a way to tell Ariah he wanted free. He would get an annulment, marry Nettie and move her to the lighthouse station. Then he could have her in his bed every night, all night, and know she was his alone.

♥ ♥ ♥

Ariah had barely climbed into bed that night when there was a knock on her door.

"Can I come in, Ariah? Please?" Pritchard called.

She squeezed her eyes shut as fear and pain fractured her fragile peace of mind. Was this the moment she had dreaded ever since the morning after her wedding? Had Pritchard tired of waiting to make her a true wife? She wanted to bar the door, to bury her head beneath her pillow and pretend she hadn't heard him. She wanted to tell him to leave her alone. But it would be unfair not to face him honestly and, in truth, she had done enough 'running' from her problems lately. "Come in."

The door opened and her husband stepped inside, wearing a long white nightshirt that made him appear like a little boy, lost and embarrassingly afraid of the dark. He halted just inside while Ariah fumbled to light the lamp.

As the wick caught, banishing the restless shadows to the far corners, Pritchard glanced about. The room was an echo of Ariah. Dainty. Feminine. Tidier than Nettie's place.

"You've fixed it up nice in here," he said. "Homey."

Ariah's gaze followed him to the dresser where he picked up the photograph of her parents. She sensed his reluctance to broach the matter he'd wanted to see her about, and hoped if she offered no encouragement, he would give up and return to his bed. Alone.

"Are you happy here?" he asked.

Here in Oregon or here in this bedroom? she considered asking. Yet she knew exactly what he meant. She hesitated, torn between honesty and prevarication. If she said she was happy, he might use that in his argument to get her to make a final commitment to their marriage. If she said no, would he suggest an annulment?

"I love the ocean, and the forest," she said evasively. "I've never seen a more beautiful country, and the people are kind. Calvin and his boys, Doctor Wills, Reverend Ketcham and his wife." She purposely left out Bartholomew, fearing he would detect the yearning in her voice. "Mrs. Goodman went out of her way to make me feel welcome today. Did you see the African violet she gave me? I put it in the living room window. The light should be perfect for it there."

Her prattling stumbled to a halt. Pritchard hadn't once looked at her since entering the room. He had buried his aunt today, his only blood kin in the entire west. Was it possible he was feeling lonely and a bit melancholy, while she thought only of herself? Hating her lack of sensitivity, she rose and padded to him across the icy floor.

"Pritchard, I'm sorry about Hester. I know you must have loved her and—"

"Not really."

He turned and gave her a smile that was shy and chagrined at the same time. "I used coming to stay with Aunt Hester as an excuse to get away from Kentucky." He leaned against the dresser, running his slender fingers over the soft bristles of her baby brush as he talked.

"See, every time Aunt Hester's name came up when I was a boy, I was sent from the room and everybody would start talking in whispers. I wanted to know what the big, awful secret was about her, so when a letter came from Oregon addressed to Ma and she threw it away without opening it, I stole it out of the trash and snuck it up to my room.

"Aunt Hester had written to let the family know she was married to Bartholomew. I think now that she was hoping her marrying so well would win her their forgiveness for whatever it was she'd done to rile them so. She wrote a lot in that letter about Oregon and how beautiful it was here. In Kentucky there were a lot of trees, but she made the trees here sound the biggest, thickest, tallest." Pritchard put down the tiny brush and waved his arms expressively, moving away from the dresser.

"The creeks were clearer, the mountains higher, the sky bluer. There were more deer, more bears, more of every critter imaginable. It sounded like the most wonderful, exciting place in the world."

He sat down on the foot of Ariah's bed. Caught up in his tale, Ariah sat down, too. She leaned back against the headboard and tucked her bare feet under the covers while Pritchard went on talking.

"And Uncle Bart, she was always writing about the things he did. How he was so strong. From doing all the farm work, I suppose, and having to lift his mother and father in and out of bed all the time. Aunt Hester thought him the kindest, most giving man she'd ever known." He shrugged. "At least, that was how she wanted the family to see him. She sure convinced me. Did you know that when he was younger, before his mother got bad, Bartholomew spent an entire summer timbering with his brother-in-law over in Bend?"

Ariah shook her head and leaned forward, eager to hear the story. Pritchard scooted across the bed until he was seated next to her. The air was chilly and she automatically pulled the covers over their legs.

"The lumbermen held contests to see who could cut down trees the fastest, scale a standing tree the quickest, throw a hatchet the farthest, things like that." Pritchard grinned. "Uncle Bart was only fourteen, but he put those full-grown men to shame. There they were, experienced lumbermen, and he tied their best man in half the events."

"Oh, Pritchard." Ariah laughed. "Are you sure Hester hadn't exaggerated a bit?"

"Maybe, but to me he sounded better than Paul Bunyan. I think I came mostly to meet Uncle Bart, hoping somehow I could get to be a little like him."

The wistfulness in his voice touched her. Without thinking she placed her hand on his arm. "You have your own good points, Pritchard. You don't need to be like Bartholomew."

"You mean that?" He took her hand in his while he gazed intently into her eyes, the yearning in them plain to see.

"Of course I mean it. Why, you're . . ." Desperately she searched for an honest compliment she could give him. "You've been very kind and understanding to me. You're strong, too, and well, I bet you play stickball better than he does."

"Baseball," he said sadly.

Seeing Pritchard's vulnerability heightened the guilt she felt for having denied him a true wife. He had married her in good faith and . . .

The awful realization came to her that she had, in her own perhaps gentler and more innocent way, done to Pritchard what Hester had done to Bartholomew. She had denied her husband her bed only one day after their marriage.

Shame shafted through her like lightning through clouds.

Pritchard squeezed her hand, reclaiming her attention. "What is it? Is something wrong?"

Very wrong. So very, very wrong. How could she have done this to him? His only real failing was not being Bartholomew. She had never given him a chance to show her who he truly was or could be. Staring at him, face to face, she found herself overwhelmed by guilt and sorrow and dread.

"Oh Pritchard, I . . ."

They were sitting close, their shoulders almost touching, and she was looking up at him, her pretty face full of concern and what he thought might be desire. Pritchard's body suddenly tautened, and grew hard. Her fragrance, sweet and clean, filled his nostrils. Shadows that were her nipples showed through the thin fabric of her gown. Nipples he had never gotten to see, to touch, to taste. His wife's nipples.

The fear and inexperience that had unmanned him on their wedding night was gone now. He knew how to put his lips to hers, how to move them with exactly the right amount of moisture and friction to heighten the sensation. He knew how to nudge her lips apart with his tongue, how to dip inside and mimic the action his body wanted to enact inside hers. Desperately wanted to enact. With Ariah. With his wife.

Lowering his head, Pritchard took her mouth. Stunned, both by his action and his gentleness, she made no move to rebuff him. He deepened the kiss, the tip of his tongue running lightly around her mouth, and tracing the indentation between her lips. The way Bartholomew had often done before. Ariah's eyes drifted shut, letting her sink into the lovely memories buried but not forgotten within her heart. Desire burst inside her. A tongue slipped into her mouth, the same moment a hand found her breast and he moaned.

The flavor was wrong. The sound of the masculine moan was wrong. The touch on her breast was wrong. Her eyes flew open, and she jerked back her head. For a long second they stared at each other, panting as their bodies clamored for more. Then Pritchard leaped from the bed and ran to the door.

Pausing with his back to her, he said, "I-I don't know what got into me, Ariah. Please . . .I didn't mean to break our bargain. Forgive me."

He vanished into the hall, leaving the door ajar behind him.

Alone in the bed, Ariah listened to the click of his door shutting, then silence. Her heart was still pounding. She knew she should go to him, tell him there was no need to feel guilty for what happened. She should climb right into his bed and show him that she meant to keep the bargain they had made with the vows exchanged on their wedding day. But she couldn't.

Collapsing onto the pillows, she buried her face beneath her arm and cursed her stubborn love for Bartholomew. If only Pritchard would decide he did not want her. If only he would ask for an annulment. Lord knew, she hadn't the heart to ask him for one, though she knew it would be more honest.

In his room, Pritchard leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window and stared out into the black night, wishing Nettie were there to ease the ache in his groin.

What had happened in Ariah's room? He had gone in there determined to ask for an annulment so he could marry Nettie and keep his son from becoming a bastard. Had he lost his mind?

It was Nettie he wanted, wasn't it?

Nettie with her sweet, giving body, and her childlike worship of him. Nettie, the first woman who had ever made him feel truly wanted, truly a man. Of course it was her he wanted.

But Ariah was his wife. Ariah was educated, cultured, a real catch for a man from the backwoods of Kentucky, a man who could do barely more than to read and cipher. A man who . . .

He hadn't been completely honest with Ariah tonight. The main reason he had fled Kentucky was because he was a coward. No other man in Kentucky would have turned his back on a simple challenge that required nothing more of him than to fight with his fists. In his home town, brawling was a way of life to other men. But the thought of being struck, of suffering a broken nose or losing his teeth, of being hurt, terrified Pritchard. It made no sense, he knew that. He could suffer the same injuries playing baseball, but that seemed different somehow.

The reason his cowardliness hadn't been found out yet here was because of the lack of communication between Aunt Hester and the rest of his family back home. What he had told Ariah about coming here with the hope of learning from Uncle Bart how to be a man was true.

It simply hadn't happened.

But Nettie loved him anyway. Since meeting her, Pritchard had convinced himself he felt no desire for Ariah. She made him feel clumsy, stupid, and inadequate. With Nettie, he felt at home. But he knew how to enjoy a woman's body now. And tonight, he'd nearly had a chance to enjoy Ariah's. He wouldn't have humiliated himself the way he had on their wedding night.

Nettie might be carrying his baby. But did that have to mean he couldn't have her and Ariah? All he had to do was convince Nettie that Ariah wouldn't give him an annulment. He could say that Ariah had insisted instead that they consummate the marriage, right then, and that he'd had little choice but to give in. He would promise to keep coming to see Nettie, and to support her and their child. What more could she want? Nettie had been a whore, after all; she couldn't expect a decent man like him to actually marry her, could she?

♥ ♥ ♥

Bartholomew was avoiding her the way a rabbit avoids a hawk. Ariah was certain of it. He had taken over the care of the domestic animals at the station, thereby ensuring that he would not run into her while she milked cows or fed chickens. She had to content herself with a glimpse of him going or coming from the outbuildings, while she weeded the garden or watched from the windows of the house.

He had spoken less than a dozen words to her since the day of the funeral. Obviously, he did not want her attention. He cooked for himself, did his own laundry, cleaned his own house. Even her invitation to Easter supper, extended through Pritchard, came back with a polite refusal. His rejection of their friendship hurt Ariah more than she could bear, but she hid her pain in her preparations for the holiday.

Her mother's precious iconostasis, with its gold-etched image of the Virgin, was brought out from its sanctuary in Ariah's trunk and hung in the eastern corner of her bedroom. This part of the Easter tradition she would share with no one; it was too personal and seeped too thoroughly in sorrow.

Ariah did not cross herself in front of the iconostasis each morning and evening as her mother had, but she carefully unwrapped each of the items her mother had kept inside the small, glass-fronted, triangular, wooden box, and placed them exactly as Demetria had left them. A red easter egg, died by Demetria's own hand lay before the Virgin, and a brittle, dried sprig of laurel from the last Palm Sunday mass Demetria had attended in Greece so many years before. The tiny bottle of water blessed by the priest on that long-ago Epiphany was empty now, its contents evaporated, but Ariah gave it its honored place anyway.

Pritchard and Seamus were badgered into digging a pit where the lamb would be roasted over hot coals. She insisted the pit be placed between the two houses. Bartholomew might not attend her special supper, but he would at least smell the food and hear their laughter.

Special ingredients were ordered from Portland and her old Cincinnati neighborhood: Ouzo, a Greek liqueur her father had never learned to like; feta cheese; grape leaves; a rice-shaped pasta called orzo; rich Greek coffee; walnuts, almonds, pistachios, olives, figs and dates. The cooking began several days before Holy Saturday and required all of Ariah's concentration to prepare properly.

An entire day was spent making the special pastry needed for Baklava, cream puffs, fruit tarts, and other delicacies. The phyllo dough had to be rolled paper-thin, a difficult project for anybody, let alone someone as incompetent in the kitchen as Ariah. Several batches had to be thrown away but she finally managed one that satisfied her.

"Who you invitin', the whole town?" Seamus asked one afternoon while she painstakingly wrapped dabs of spinach and cheese in layer after layer of the special dough and lined them up like tin soldiers on a baking sheet.

Her floured hands went still and she stared first at him, then at the mound of kourabiethes, her favorite butter cookies, cooling in the window, trays of baklava waiting to be baked, eggplant she would make into a tart dip, and a mountain of hard-boiled eggs dyed a brilliant red to represent the blood of Christ. There would be enough for an entire town.

Pritchard burst into the warm, fragrant kitchen. When he reached for one of the cookies, she quelled the impulse to slap his hand away, and smiled instead.

"Pritchard, are you going into town tonight?"

He hadn't planned to, having put off his confrontation with Nettie, but since he hadn't found the courage to invade Ariah's bed yet either, he was feeling randy. "The fellows wanted to practice again, but I reminded them I'm a newlywed yet and need to spend some time at home. Why?"

She began wrapping another spoonful of spinach and cheese.

"I wondered if you would have time to stop over to Calvin's to invite them to Easter supper. It's short notice, with Easter being only two days away now, but Mrs. Goodman will be spending the holiday with her son, so Cal and the boys might enjoy a special supper here." She glanced up and added, "I'm hoping Bartholomew will join us. He's punished himself long enough for not discovering Hester's condition sooner."

Seamus lit his pipe and said, "Good idee."

"It might cheer Uncle Bart up to have some of his family here, all right," Pritchard added.

"Good. Ask Doctor Wills, too, and what do you think of inviting Reverend Ketcham and his wife?"

Pritchard licked powdered sugar and cookie crumbs from his fingers, frowning. "I think having them around would only remind Uncle Bart of the funeral. How about Max Hennifee from the Pickled Eye? He and Uncle Bart have always been good friends, and Max won't have anywhere else to go on Easter."

Ariah grimaced. "The Pickled Eye?"

"Saloon . . . near the dock," Seamus explained in his typically abbreviated manner.

"Oh. Well, invite him then. Four healthy male appetites should make a good dent in all I'll have prepared. Anyone else you can suggest?"

Pritchard munched another cookie while he considered. He might have invited Stuffy Simms and his wife, but there was too much risk of Ariah learning the truth about certain non-existent practice games. "No. I reckon most folks will be tied up with their own family doings."

"All right. Do you want something to eat before you go? Besides cookies, I mean," Ariah called as he headed out.

Halfway up the stairs, he yelled back, "No, thanks. I'll eat with Stuffy."

Seamus snorted and opened the back door. "Eat with Stuffy. My Aunt Clara's hind end!" he muttered as he went out to see to his goats.