The Wedding
Part 5
By Kathleen T. Berney

Ben followed Roy Coffee into the tiny, already crowded office of Reverend Daniel Hildebrandt. The clergyman, his face nearly purple with rage, stood next to his massive roll top desk, arms folded tightly across his chest, glaring at the growing assembly.

Erma Wilson stood on one side of the small room, her body stance echoing that of the reverend, glaring daggers at Sally Tyler, standing directly opposite. Sally’s hazel eyes, riveted to Erma’s angry face, burned with an all-consuming rage. Had it not been for Sam’s firm, restraining hands on her forearms, Sally and Erma would be locked in furious hand-to-hand combat.

Clarissa had taken up position a little behind Sally and Sam. She kept her face averted to the floor, with her handkerchief held firmly over her mouth.

Adam and Hoss stood together beside to the indignant mother of the groom, propping up the now semi-conscious Matt between them. Blake Wilson stood quietly on the other side to his wife, his own face averted to the floor, with hands clasped tight in front of him.

Francis O’Hanlan entered the room his lips thin with white-hot anger. He escorted his moaning wife over to the only chair in the room and gently placed her in it. “Colleen will be here directly,” he informed the others tersely. “I’ve sent my son to fetch her.”

“You’ve sent your SON to fetch her?” Erma Wilson rounded furiously upon the father-of-the bride. “Your son can’t find his scrawny rump with both hands!”

“It’s too bad t’ same can’t be said of YOUR son and his belt buckle, Madam,” Francis growled. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if it were so.”

“My Matt would NEVER . . . . ” Erma sputtered. “Never!”

“ . . . and why NOT?!” Sally demanded. “He’s a typical red blooded American boy, ain’t he?”

Erma gasped, her face pale one minute and an odd shade of purple the next.

“Young Lady, you should never address your betters in such a disrespectful fashion,” Daniel Hildebrandt rebuked her imperiously.

“Then it’s a real good thing I AIN’T addressin’ my betters right now, ain’t it?!” Sally spat contemptuously.

“THAT does it!” Erma declared vehemently. She balled her fists, and moved across the room toward her antagonist with murderous fury in her eyes.

Hoss immediately thrust the entire weight of Matt Wilson’s still unconscious bulk over to Adam. Two quick strides brought him along side of Erma Wilson. “Ma’am,” he said touching her shoulder, “this ain’t gonna solve--- ”

Erma Wilson pivoted with astonishing swiftness given her ample bulk, and punched Hoss hard in the stomach.

“Lemme go, Sam,” Sally hissed.

“Sally, behave!” Sam admonished her with a stern glare.

“But, Sam . . . . ”

“All this senseless brawlin’ ain’t gonna solve nuthin’! Now either you behave y’rself, or so help me, I’ll dump Mrs. O’Hanlan right outta that chair and tie YOU up in it.”

Sally glared at Sam, but nodded curtly by way of agreement.

Ben Cartwright, his face grim, elbowed his way across the room toward his second son’s side. “Hoss? You alright?”

Hoss peered down into his father’s anxious face. “I . . . I can’t believe it, Pa,” his voice came in ragged gasps. “Mrs. Wilson danged near knocked the wind clear outta me. F’r such a li’l woman, she sure packs a wallop!”

“I want every last one o’ ya t’ simmer down right now!” Roy said sternly. “I’m givin’ t’ lot o’ ya TWO choices. Ya can discuss matters in a calm, civilized manner right here, or y’ c’n do it over in the Virginia City jail. Makes no never mind t’ me either way!”

“We demand satisfaction!” Sam said grimly. “Matt Wilson’s wronged Clarissa, an’ that’s the whole of it pure ‘n simple. He ought to be made to do the only honorable thing by her, today, right here and right NOW.”

“My son will marry that trollop when hell freezes over!” Erma Wilson declared in a loud booming voice. “He is engaged to Colleen O’Hanlan, he will MARRY Colleen O’Hanlan.”

“I wouldn’t let YOUR son come within a hundred yards o’ MY daughter let alone marry her even if hell DOES freeze over,” Francis O’Hanlan countered.

“Adam? What’s goin’ on?” Matt stirred with groan.

“It seems you’ve raised quite a furor,” Adam said, as he valiantly labored to steady Matt’s balance.

Matt glanced at Adam, with a blank, unknowing look on his face.

“Well, it seems Miss Clarissa Starling’s going to have a baby,” Adam cheerfully explained.

“She is?” Matt’s lower jaw tightened with anger. “That’s outrageous! Who’s the father?”

“YOU are,” Adam replied.

Matt moaned softly, and passed out again.

“Alright, Folks, we won’t solve anything by all this arguing amongst ourselves,” Daniel called for order, as Colleen and Apollo entered the office. “We’ll all say our piece one at a time--- ”

“As far as I’M concerned, there’s only one thing left to say at this point,” Francis O’Hanlan said, rudely cutting Daniel off mid-sentence. “The wedding is OFF.”

“I’m humiliated!” Myrna O’Hanlan bawled. “Absolutely humiliated!”

“I, however, am relieved,” Colleen declared imperiously. “Better I find out about Matt’s contribution to Miss Starling’s delicate condition NOW than after the ceremony.”

Myrna let out a loud, guttural wail and buried her face in her hands.

“Mister and Mrs. O’Hanlan, there’s no need for anyone to be humiliated today,” Apollo Nikolas said. “I’ve loved Colleen since . . . well, since we were fifteen years old. If she’ll have me, I would be honored to take Matt Wilson’s place as the groom right here and right now.”

“Yes, Apollo,” Colleen replied, as she threw her arms about his neck with a wild, passionate abandon. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!”

Francis started over at his eldest daughter and Apollo through eyes round with utter disbelief. “C-Colleen . . . are you sure---!?”

“I’m sure, Pa,” Colleen declared with a brilliant, dazzling smile, “as sure as I’ve ever been of anything in my entire life.”

Myrna, eyes round with shock and face many shades paler than normal, looked over at Colleen and Apollo, now embracing each other like the proverbial long lost lovers, then over at her husband standing just behind them. “Francis, shu-shu-shu . . . surely . . . y-you’re n-not . . . ”

“Oh, yes, I am,” Francis wearily surrendered to the inevitable. “I know this is all very sudden, but if Colleen wants to marry Apollo, we’re not goin’ t’ stand in their way.”

“Speak for yourself, Francis!” Myrna growled.

“Myrna, if they want t’ marry, there’s nothin’ that CAN stop ‘em, not even t’ likes of a stampede with all t’ cattle from every single last ranch around,” Francis said gently. “Colleen ‘n Apollo ARE of age, an’ besides . . . everything’s already paid for.”

Myrna moaned softly.

Ben immediately caught the knowing smile of pure contentment on his second son’s face. “Hoss?”

“ . . . uuuhh oohhhm I, ummm . . . I m-mean . . . y-yeah, Pa?” Hoss stammered. The contented smile immediate vanished into the same stricken wide-eyed, pale face Ben remembered seeing when, as a boy, this middle of his was caught red handed with his arm deep in the cookie jar.

“Son . . . what do YOU know about all this?” Ben asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“ . . . uhhh . . . uh-b-bout . . . what?” Hoss asked, as tiny beads of sweat began to dot his brow. With trembling hand, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and removed a clean handkerchief.

“What do you know about Miss Starling . . . and about your friends, Colleen and Apollo?” Ben rephrased his question.

“I, uhhh . . . Pa, I got no idea . . . n-none in t’ whole wide world . . . WHAT you’re talking about.” Hoss very quickly and very pointedly averted his face and eyes toward the floor.

“Hoss . . . . ” Ben growled in a low, almost menacing tone, his scowl deepening.

Hoss sighed. Two irregularly shaped patches of bright scarlet, appeared on his cheeks, standing out in startling contrast against his sickly, ashen gray complexion. “C-Can we, ummm . . . talk about this later?” he asked, finally accepting the inevitable.

“You can count on it,” Ben promised.

Clarissa, meanwhile, moved out from behind Sam and Sally. She crossed the room, pausing briefly to cast a withering glare at Erma, and took up position before Matt, once again regaining consciousness. “I must confess . . . in spite of all the times he’s broken up with me and gone back to Colleen, I . . . well, I still love Matt . . . with all my heart,” she said, her own smile every bit as dazzling as Colleen’s. “Matt Darling, will you marry me?”

“C-Clarissa?” Matt groaned.

“Yes, Matt, it’s me,” she said softly, cupping his face gently in her hands. “Seeing as how Colleen’s going to marry Apollo Nikolas . . . will you marry ME? We can make this a double wedding.”

“Yes,” Matt sighed, gazing up at her through adoring, calf-like eyes.

“Oh NO!” Erma protested. “No, no, no, no, NO! I will not permit MY son to--- ”

“Save your breath, Erma. The boy’s of age . . . HAS been for quite a while now,” Blake hastened to point out. “He’s free t’ marry whom ever he dang well likes, whether YOU permit it or not.”

“Blaaaaa-aaake . . . . ” Erma wailed, her eye round with horror.

Blake Wilson silenced his wife with a curt gesture. “Reverend Hildebrandt . . . if Matt ‘n Miss Starling truly want to make this a double wedding, his ma ‘n I won’t stand in the way, either.” He looked over at his wife with the most ferocious glare he could muster. “Will we, Dear?”

For perhaps the first time in her life, Erma Wilson found herself at a complete loss for words. She sighed and shook her head.

“ . . . and if Clarissa wants to marry Matt, all of us at the Silver Dollar stand behind her,” Sam said smiling.

“Looks to me like everything’s settled,” Ben said, feeling dazed and disoriented, like he had just awoken from a very vivid, surreal dream.

“Yes, it would . . . s-seem so,” Daniel agreed, looking equally perplexed and uncertain.

“Hoss, will you be my best man?” Apollo asked, as the assembly slowly moved toward the fast closed door.

“I’d be proud to,” Hoss agreed with a smug, self-satisfied grin.

“They’re coming!” Joe whispered. “Away from the door, Kid, and act casual.”

Stacy and Joe Cartwright moved away from the door, a split second before it opened, and everyone inside began to file out, shaking their heads and muttering amongst themselves. Ben Cartwright’s two youngest children stood side by side, with Joe gazing up at the ceiling and Stacy fixing her gaze on the floor. Both had their arms folded across their chests, and their backs pointedly toward the door to the reverend’s office.

“I’d tell the two of you the Wedding of the Century’s just turned into the DOUBLE Wedding of the Century, if you didn’t already know,” Ben said, placing his arms affectionately about their shoulders.

“Well . . . Stacy and I . . . we, ummm . . . couldn’t help but overhear a few things . . . here and there,” Joe said, his tone a bit too nonchalant.

“Of course not, Son,” Ben said casually, “especially when you and your sister have your ears plastered to the door.”

“Pa, how did you---!?” Stacy began. Her words ended abruptly with a startled gasp, upon catching sight of the dark, murderous scowl Joe leveled in her direction.

“I know the pair of YOU,” Ben said firmly. “Now let’s go. We have a wedding, no! Make that TWO weddings! . . . to attend.”

“Dearly . . . Beloved. We are gathered here in the sight of God to see this man . . . uhhh MEN! To see these MEN Apollo Nikolas and Matthew Wilson, respectively joined in holy matrimony to this . . . THESE. Women. Colleen O’Hanlan and Clarissa Starling,” Reverend Daniel Hildebrandt continued with the words of the traditional wedding ceremony, still stunned and shaken by the recent chain of events.

The two couples stood side by side facing the altar, all four of their faces beaming with sublime happiness.

“Who gives this woman, Colleen Bridget O’Hanlan, to be married?”

“H-her mother and I do,” Francis O’Hanlan said. Myrna moaned softly, as her eyes rolled up under her eyelids. She wavered, then collapsed once more into the arms of her astonished son.

“ . . . and who gives THIS woman, Clarissa Margaret Starling, to be married?”

“I do,” Sam immediately spoke up, proudly grinning from ear to ear, “ . . . an’ . . . an’ so does the rest o’ her family at the Silver Dollar.”

Francis O’Hanlan carefully lifted the veil covering his eldest daughter’s face. “I love you, Colleen,” he whispered, then tenderly kissed her forehead. He then, took her hand and gently placed it in Apollo’s. “You better take real good care o’ her, Son, or y’ll answer to me.”

“I will, Sir,” Apollo whispered back, his eyes blinking excessively.

While Francis O’Hanlan returned to his place beside his insensate wife and stricken son, Sam took Clarissa’s hand and placed it in Matthew’s. “All the best, Clarissa, I’m really happy for you,” his voice caught on the last word. “I only wish your pa could’ve been here.”

“They’re BOTH here, Sam,” Clarissa whispered back. “I sense the presence of my first pa and my second . . . YOU . . . happens to be standing right in front of me.” She turned, and gently kissed his cheek. “Thank YOU, Sam . . . thank you for everything.”

Sam hugged Clarissa, then kissed her forehead, before placing her hand in Matt’s.

Adam Cartwright and Sally Tyler, best man and matron of honor for Matthew Wilson and Clarissa Starling moved from their places behind the couple, as Sam returned to his place next to Sally Tyler. Molly O’Hanlan, serving as maid of honor for her sister Colleen, and Hoss Cartwright, also moved into place.

Daniel Hildebrandt closed his eyes and took a deep, ragged breath in a desperate attempt to begin composing himself. “Do you . . . Colleen O’Hanlan . . . do you . . . do you, umm do you . . . . ”

The minister’s eyes dropped to the open book lying cradled in his hands as the words of the wedding ceremony, words he had long ago committed to memory, suddenly deserted him. For a long moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, he frantically searched for his place amid the printed words through eyes round with horror and dread.

“ . . . ummm yes. Do you, Colleen O’Hanlan take this man Apollo Nikolas to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold . . . . ”

The good reverend entered into the slow process of recovering a measure of the composure and dignity, lost amid the debacle in his office just a short while ago. Solemn words long ago remembered, also returned. As he sat, bearing silent witness to the vows exchanged between the two couples standing at the front of the church, Ben found his thoughts drifting to the moments he, himself made those same vows and promises to Elizabeth Stoddard, Inger Borgstrom, and Marie di Marigny. He also remembered Paris McKenna, the fourth woman to whom he would have spoken those words, had fate been kinder. Joe and Stacy, seated on either side, saw that their father’s eyes blinked to excess. Ben smiled amid the tears stinging his eyes upon feeling Joe’s fingers gently wrapping around one hand, and both of Stacy’s hands sandwiching his other between them.

“Apollo and Colleen . . . Matthew and Clarissa . . . I now pronounce you respectively husband and wife,” the minister finally declared with a weary smile. “Gentlemen, you may now kiss your brides.”

Apollo and Matthew both caught their new wives up in their arms and kissed them soundly.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the minister said, “it is my pleasure to introduce for the first time Mister and Mrs. Apollo Nikolas and Mister and Mrs. Matthew Wilson.”

Clara Mudgely immediately began to play a triumphant recessional. Colleen and Apollo, hand in hand, led the way, with Matthew and Clarissa following close at their heels. Hoss and Molly followed next, with Adam and Sally Tyler bringing up the rear.

The congregation rose, after both newly wed couples had recessed back up the aisle, with their attendants following. Joe Cartwright turned to his sister, smiling broadly. “Well whaddya know? You called it, Little Sister! You actually called it!” he proclaimed proudly, in complete oblivion to the look of wild panic on Stacy’s face and her frantic gestures for him to button his lips.

“Called WHAT, Joseph?” Ben demanded, eyeing his younger children with increasing suspicion and dread.

“The double wedding, Pa,” Joe cheerfully rambled on. “I’ll bet she’s the only one in town who bet money that the Wedding of the Century would--- ” His steady stream of chatter came to an abrupt halt upon catching a good close look at the indignant scowl in his father’s face and the fatalistic resignation on his sister’s. “Oops!”

“Nice goin’, Grandpa,” Stacy hissed between clenched teeth.

“Sorry,” Joe whispered back.

“You WILL be,” Stacy assured him.

Joe looked from Stacy, to his father, and back once again to his sister. “Am I, ummm . . . right in assuming that Stacy and I . . . that we’re in trouble . . . again?” he asked.

“Right on all counts, Son,” Ben said sternly. “However, I MAY be inclined toward leniency on ONE condition.”

“W-what’s that, Pa?” Stacy asked.

“That the pair of you tell me the truth,” Ben said firmly, “and by that I mean the whole, complete, unvarnished truth, with none of your usual creative liberties. Do I make myself clear?”

“Y-Yes, Pa,” Stacy gulped.

“Perfectly clear,” Joe murmured, while vigorously nodding his head.

Ben glared at both of them for emphatic good measure. “First question. Are there any more surprises?”

“No,” Stacy immediately replied.

“Leastwise none, that WE know of,” Joe added.

“Congratulations, Apollo, an’ welcome to the ranks o’ us landlubbers,” Hoss, grinning from ear to ear, turned and shook hands with the once and former seaman, the instant the two newly wed couples and their attendants stepped into the church narthex.

“Thanks, Hoss,” Apollo said, his facial expression a curious mixture of shock, relief, bewilderment, and a sublime happiness, that seemed to permeate his entire being. “ . . . and thank you, thank you, thank you, Old Friend, for standing up with me at the last minute.”

“Proud t’ do it, Apollo.”

Sally and Clarissa, both weeping tears of happiness, hugged and held on to one another.

“Oh, S-Sally,” Clarissa said, her voice breaking, “I . . . I can’t even begin to thank you for . . . for everything you’ve done, since I started work at the Silver Dollar.”

“Seein’ you ‘n Matt together, and the happiness on your face right now . . . that’s thanks a plenty for ME!” Sally said, with a warm, if tremulous smile, and tears cascading freely down her cheeks.

“Congratulations, Matt,” Adam, smiling broadly, took Matt’s hand and shook it heartily. “You certainly made a rapid recovery from those wedding day jitters after Clarissa asked you to marry her.”

“Y-yeah, I guess I did, didn’t I?” Matt stammered, his face still pale, his eyes round with shock and happy disbelief. “Adam . . . d-do me a favor?”

“Sure, Matt.”

“Please . . . whatever you do . . . DON’T pinch me. If I’m dreaming all this, I sure as shootin’ don’t wanna wake up.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Adam said, with a smile that lit up his entire face. “I can see by the look on BOTH your faces, that you and Clarissa are going to be every bit as happy as Teresa and I are.”

“Thanks, Adam,” Matt said smiling.

“Oh, Colleen, I wish you and Apollo the best,” Molly declared, as she threw her arms around her older sister with wild, joyous abandon.

“Honest, Pa! I had no idea the Wedding of the Century was going to be a double wedding,” Stacy passionately declared, “not until I overheard you say so while I, umm . . . h-had my ear plastered to the, ummm . . . door to the reverend’s office?!”

“Then how did you know to place a bet on it?” Ben demanded.

“It . . . just . . . seemed to be the right thing to do at the time, I guess,” Stacy replied, with a helpless shrug of her shoulders. “But, I SWEAR . . . I’ll swear on a whole stack of Bibles if you want me to . . . I had absolutely no idea that what just happened was really going to happen.”

Ben shook his head. “That won’t be necessary,” he sighed.

“Then . . . you believe me?” Stacy squeaked as wave upon wave upon wave of relief swept over her, leaving her feeling a bit light headed.

“Yes, I do,” Ben said earnestly. “Stacy, I’m sorry I--- ”

“You don’t have to apologize for thinking I might’ve arranged this, Pa,” Stacy said, as she grabbed hold of the back of the pew in front of her, in order to steady herself. “I’m thinking I oughtta take it as a compliment.”

“A compliment?!” Ben looked over at his daughter as if she had suddenly turned into a prime candidate for a butterfly net and straight jacket.

“Think about it, Pa . . . if someone DID mastermind all this . . . it was a stroke of pure genius,” Stacy said with a big smile. “It gives me a nice warm feeling right here . . . . ” she gently touched the place right over her heart, “that you’d actually think I was smart enough to pull something like that off.”

“Stacy, I knew early on that you’re capable of doing anything you set your mind to doing,” Ben said as he placed his arm around her shoulder and gently squeezed.

“Hey, Pa, you comin’ to the reception?” It was Hoss.

“Yes, Son, we’re coming,” Ben said.

“I dunno what all you were talkin’ about just now, but whatever it was . . . it couldn’t have been anything good, goin’ by the look on your faces a minute ago,” Hoss remarked, as Ben rose from the pew on which he, Joe, and Stacy were sitting.

“I was just trying to tie up a few dangling loose ends,” Ben said, with a meaningful glance at his two younger children.

“Stacy Cartwright, there you are!” It was Mick O’Flynn, grinning from ear to ear. “I must say you pulled it off magnificently! Genius! Nothing less than pure, unbridled genius!”

“I didn’t have a blamed thing to do with this . . . except for placing that bet!” Stacy zealously maintained, afraid now to look over at her father. “It was a lucky guess, Mister O’Flynn, nothing more!”

“You’re too modest, Lass,” Mick said.

“My daughter’s absolutely right when she says she made a lucky guess,” Ben said quietly. “She had nothing at all to do with making it happen.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say THAT, Pa,” Hoss said blithely.

“Oh, no! I’m doomed!” Stacy groaned. “Thanks a lot, Big Brother!”

“All right, Hoss, let’s have it,” Ben turned his attention on his middle son. “What did Stacy have to do with . . . with whatever plot was afoot to bring about this double wedding?”

“She didn’t have anything to do with it, Pa,” Hoss said flinching against the intensity of his father’s glare, now turned upon him full force. “Leastwise not directly . . . . ”

“What do you mean by not directly?” Ben demanded.

“I m-mean Stacy . . . aww, Pa . . . she just gave me the idea ‘s all . . . . ”

“I was wrong! I’m not doomed . . . I’m DEAD!” Stacy sighed, resigning herself with a fatalistic aplomb to the prospect of having no allowance and being restricted to house and yard for the rest of her entire, natural life.

“Pa, Stacy didn’t give me the idea by tellin’ me,” Hoss continued, his eyes nervously darting back and forth between the faces of his sister and father. “I just happened to see a page in Mister O’Flynn’s accountin’ book when he dropped it at the Silver Dollar night ‘fore last. Stacy’s bet was there, right under Joe’s. THAT’S where I got the idea.”

“ . . .and that’s where . . . YOU . . . got the idea to . . . to s-set in motion the plot to . . . to make this a double wedding?!” Ben queried, his voice filled with an odd mixture of bewilderment and a new, grudging respect for his middle son.

“Maybe I oughtta start at the beginning?” Hoss offered.

“That would be an excellent idea, Son,” Ben agreed.

Hoss took a deep breath, and nervously related all that had transpired since his meeting with Apollo Nikolas at Doctor Martin’s office and the former seaman’s ardent declaration of love for the former Colleen O’Hanlan. “That’s all of it, Pa,” he concluded, looking mildly ill.

“What a beautiful, beautiful story,” Mick O’Flynn murmured, his voice unsteady. He removed a wrinkled white cotton handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes. “The path of true love never runs smooth, but y’ did your part to make it run true for the two couples that got married just now. Someday, Mister Cartwright, you just mark my words now, but someday . . . long after you’re dead of course, T’ Pope’s gonna canonize y’ SAINT Hoss . . . patron o’ hopeless romantics every where.”

“Well now, I, ummm . . . dunno ‘bout THAT,” Hoss said, as a big red splotch blossomed on each cheek.

“ . . . an’ Stacy, m’ girl, YOU are still t’ proud winner of five thousand dollars,” Mick O’Flynn said, handing her a large envelope, stuffed full.

“That much?!” Stacy’s face paled noticeably. She stared down at the envelope in her hands through eyes round with shocked amazement.

“Aren’t y’ goin’ to count it?” Mick asked.

“Maybe, Mister O’Flynn, right after I . . . I faint,” Stacy said, reaching for the edge of the nearest pew for support.

“We don’t need to count it, Mister O’Flynn,” Ben said, easing his daughter into the seat of the pew behind her. “I think we can trust you.”

“Trust ME? Now THAT’S peculiar turn uva phrase I’ve not heard applied t’ m’self in a long time,” Mick murmured with a nostalgic smile. “I’ll see you at the reception.”

“You can count on it, Mister O’Flynn,” Joe called after him.

“Do I, uuhh . . . get to keep the money?” Stacy asked, after Mick O’Flynn left.

“You won the money fair and square,” Ben said thoughtfully, “and the single dollar you bet WAS certainly well within your means. However . . . . ”

“However . . . what, Pa?”

“It goes into a trust account that you and I are going to set up in your name at the bank first thing Monday morning,” Ben said firmly.

“I can live with that,” Stacy agreed. “Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“Would you mind holding on to this envelope for safe keeping while we’re at the reception? I didn’t even think to ask Madame Darnier about pockets.”

“I would be more than happy to hold on to your money for safe keeping,” Ben agreed, accepting the envelope. He tucked the envelope securely into the inside pocket of his jacket, then turned his attention back to Hoss, Joe, and Stacy. “Shall we go downstairs to the reception?”

“I’m ready,” Hoss replied, eagerly anticipating a taste of the wedding cake.

“There y’ are!” Francis O’Hanlan greeted the arriving Cartwright clan with a big smile. “An’ here I was thinkin’ t’ whole lot o’ ya’d skipped out on comin’ to t’ party!”

“Us? Skip out on a party?!” Joe echoed incredulously. “Not on your life, Mister O’Hanlan!”

“Joe’s absolutely right! We wouldn’t have missed this for the world!” Ben declared, returning Francis’ smile and extending his hand. “Congratulations on your daughter’s marriage, Francis.”

“Thank you most kindly, Ben,” Francis replied, as they two men shook hands. “It was a wee bit of a surprise as to t’ way things worked out, but in retrospect, I think it all worked out f’r t’ best.”

“I can’t agree with ya more, Mister O’Hanlan,” Hoss declared with a broad grin. “As a man of our acquaintance just said, the path o’ true love never runs smooth, but it sure as shootin’ ran true f’r Colleen ‘n Apollo, an’ Clarissa ‘n Matt.”

“Aye, indeed, it did, Hoss, indeed it did,” Francis agreed.

“Stacy, you look gorgeous in that dress!” Molly declared, as she and the Cartwright daughter linked arms and moved off toward the punch table together.

“So do you!” Stacy declared smiling.

“It’s all attitude,” Molly declared proudly.

“On you, Molly O’Hanlan, attitude looks good.”

“ . . . and on YOU a dress looks good,” Molly observed with a smile. “You ought to try wearing one more often.”

Stacy paused mid-stride, and cast a quick, furtive glance over her shoulder. “Don’t you DARE say that where Pa can hear you,” she said sotto voce. “I don’t want him to start getting ideas.”

“About what, Little Sister?” It was Joe, clad in the much-maligned blue suit, a freshly laundered and starched pristine white shirt, and tie. He had a full punch cup in one hand and a hand full of nuts and mints in the other.

“About Stacy wearing a dress more often,” Molly said, before Stacy could make a move to shush her.

“Molly, I think that’s a WONDERFUL idea,” Joe declared with an impish grin.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Molly said, favoring him with a bright, dazzling smile.

Stacy looked from Molly over to her brother, then back again to Molly, wondering if this was how an animal, ANY animal, felt just after the trap door banged shut.

“ . . . and you can rest assured that I’m gonna pass your suggestion on to Pa at the earliest opportunity.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any way I can talk you out of it . . . is there, Grandpa?”

“Not a chance, Kiddo!” Joe resolutely shook his head, taking positive delight in his sister’s discomfiture.

“Then we’d best fetch down the organ grinder from the attic,” Stacy sighed.

“Organ grinder?!” Joe echoed. “Why in the world should we fetch that dusty ol’ thing down?”

“You heard what Hop Sing said yesterday when we were all at Madame Darnier’s,” Stacy said with a sly grin.

“What did he say? Refresh my memory!”

“ ‘Refresh my memory . . . . ’ WHAT?!”

“Alright!” Joe growled through clenched teeth. “Refresh my memory PLEASE!”

Molly, seized by an overwhelming urge to giggle, clapped her hand over her mouth and turned her back on the younger Cartwright offspring.

“Hop Sing said that if I can look this pretty, the least YOU could do is wear that MONKEY suit of yours,” Stacy cheerfully filled in her brother’s memory lapse, “WITH TIE!.”

“Hmpf! Ten’ll getcha one Hop Sing’s forgotten he ever said that!”

“I’LL remind him.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“If STACY doesn’t, I sure will,” Molly said, turning once again to face her friends.

“Now just a cotton pickin’ minute here!” Joe immediately turned and glared down at Molly. “I thought you were on MY side.”

“Nope,” Molly resolutely shook her head, “I’m on MY side.” She looked from one to the other smiling. “Stacy, I think YOU look very lovely in that dress . . . and Joe, YOU look positively handsome in that suit. Now, if you’ll BOTH excuse me, I think I’ll go have a nice friendly chat with your pa AND with Hop Sing.” With that, she flounced off with a skip in her step and a triumphant smile on her face.

“We’re dead!” Stacy sighed with melodramatic despair.

“Yep! Hoist by your own petard, Kid!”

Stacy turned and glared at her brother. “Now what’s THAT supposed to mean?” she demanded.

“It means this is all YOUR fault!”

“MY fault?!”

“You’re the one who taught Molly all about attitude, aren’t you?”

Adam listened to the exchange between his youngest brother and sister with an amused, self-satisfied smile.

“ . . . and what, may I ask are YOU so happy about, O Love of My Life?” Teresa asked. demurely, as she sidled up beside him and took his arm.

“Seeing Little Joe over there FINALLY getting his comeuppance for all the merciless teasing he heaped on Hoss and me while we were all growing up,” Adam replied. “That sister of mine can not only take it and still come up smiling, but she can sling it right back at him quicker than the fastest gun west of the Mississippi.” There was a distinct note of smug satisfaction in his voice.

“Quicker than the fastest gun EAST of the Mississippi, too, I’m sure,” Teresa said smiling, “and those two LOVE every minute of it.” She fell silent for a moment to cast a critical once over glance at the foundation cream and powder, she had so carefully applied to her husband’s cheeks and eyes. It held up well enough through the wedding, but was now dry, cracked, and flaking. “Adam, I think you need a little retouching.”

“Don’t bother,” Adam wearily shook his head. “I looked presentable enough for the wedding, at least from a distance anyway. THAT was the important thing.”

“True enough.”

“So what happened to the lot of you? It sure took you long enough to get down here.”

“Well, it, uummm, seems Joe, Stacy . . . AND Hoss had a bit of explaining to do.”

“Oh?”

Teresa nodded.

“I’m beginning to get the distinct feeling that Joe and Stacy, at least, spend a lot of time explaining their way out of one scrape or another . . . . ” Adam mused, with an amused half smile.

“NOT unlike their oldest brother at their age, I’m sure.”

“Pa been telling you more tall tales about my childhood?” Adam queried archly, as they strolled arm-in-arm over to the food table.

“No, I’m remembering all the ALLEGED tall tales he told me back when we all first met about a week before OUR wedding.”

“So . . . what did my younger brothers and sister do NOW?”

“For openers, Stacy just won five thousand dollars betting that the wedding today would turn out to be a double wedding, with Colleen marrying Apollo and Matt marrying Clarissa,” Teresa began.

“Don’t tell me that kid actually orchestrated this comedy or errors!”

“No, Adam, all she did was make a very lucky guess and place a bet on it.”

Adam looked over at his wife, openly skeptical.

“Honest!” Teresa insisted.

“Surely you don’t mean to tell me that what happened today was mere happenstance,” Adam immediately protested.

“Not at all,” Teresa replied. “I’m just saying that Stacy wasn’t the mastermind behind it.”

“You mean Joe . . . ?!”

“You’re half right, Adam. Your brother WAS the genius responsible for arranging everything that happened upstairs, but it wasn’t your YOUNGEST brother!”

“NOW you’re pulling my leg!” Adam chuckled.

“Nope!”

“Come ON, Teresa!” Adam argued. “You surely don’t mean to suggest that HOSS was the guilty party responsible for orchestrating this burlesque?”

“I wasn’t about to SUGGEST anything of the sort,” Teresa retorted primly. “I was getting ready to just say it straight out!”

“You’re NOT serious!”

“I’m DEAD serious.”

For one brief, horrifying, heart-stopping moment, Adam teetered on the edge of fainting right there on the spot.

“Adam?” Teresa gazed up into his suddenly pale complexion with concern. “Adam . . . are you alright?”

Adam slipped an arm about his wife’s shoulders and leaned against her just long enough to regain his equilibrium. “Let me m-make sure I’ve got this straight! You’re actually telling me . . . that . . . that H-Hoss . . . . ?”

“Um hmmm!” Teresa nodded.

Adam looked over at his biggest brother, who stood chatting animatedly with Sheriff Coffee and Brunhilda Odinsdottir in the line at the food table, with a newfound respect. “When we were growing up, Joe and I used to leave poor Hoss high and dry, holding the bag lots of times, because the poor guy couldn’t even tell the truth with a straight face,” he said, his voice filled with awe. “To think HE’S the genius who orchestrated this . . . this FARCE of a double wedding without anyone catching wise before hand . . . . Well, it just boggles the mind.”

“Ben, t’ boys in t’ band’ll be tunin’ up t’ play some right fine dancin’ music in a little while,” Francis said. “In t’ meantime, y’d better step up an’ help y’rself to some o’ this good food t’ Ladies’ Guild went t’ all t’ trouble o’ fixin’.”

“Now that you mention, Francis, I AM hungry as a bear,” Ben admitted.

“I DO hope you’ll save the first dance for me, Mister Cartwright,” Myra Danvers sidled up to the clan patriarch with a coy smile.

Ben blanched, and involuntarily took a step backward.

“Sorry, Mrs. Danvers,” Stacy appeared on the other side of her father, as if by magic. She casually, yet with a definite proprietary manner, slipped her arm through his. “Pa’s already promised ALL of his dances to ME, with maybe one or two to spare for Teresa.”

“Yes, that’s absolutely right, Mrs. Danvers!” Ben said, greatly relieved by Stacy’s timely rescue. “Between my daughter AND my daughter-in-law, I’m stretched pretty thin.”

“I see.” Myra’s coy smile froze, and turned brittle.

“Maybe another time,” Ben suggested, with the same unbounded enthusiasm he might feel at the prospect of spending the night in the den of a hundred rattlesnakes.

“ . . . like when a certain place famous for hot temperatures experiences a sudden freeze,” Stacy added with a smile.

“Yes,” Myra said through clenched teeth, glaring daggers, dripping with the deadliest of poisons, at the audacious Cartwright daughter, “ANOTHER time.” She abruptly turned heel and stomped off.

“You’d have thought she would have taken a hint after the way you bawled her out at the courthouse a couple o’ weeks ago,” Stacy murmured softly, shaking her head.

“When that woman gets an idea in her head . . . there’s no changing it,” Ben grumbled, as he and Stacy picked up plates and made their way through the food line.

“You don’t have to worry about a thing, Pa,” Stacy agreed earnestly, directing a ferocious glare at Myra Danvers’ retreating back. “I’ll protect you from her evil clutches.”

Ben smiled. “I feel safer already, knowing I’m under the protection of Lady Stacy, Fighting Irish Knight Errant,” he said partly in jest, mostly in earnest. “Just promise me you won’t skewer the dastardly Mrs. Danvers with the business end of your sword or lance.”

“I promise.” Stacy smiled, then sobered. “Unless I have to in self defense.”

“Oh, Pruella, that pearl necklace is gorgeous!” Grace Hansen sighed enviously. “Absolutely gorgeous!”

“Isn’t it, though?” Pruella agreed with a smug, self-satisfied smile. “See? Each and every one is perfectly matched, all the same roundness, the same color and luminescence . . . . ”

“It must have cost a fortune!” Grace exclaimed, her initial envy mixing now with a healthy dose of awe.

“It did!” Pruella boasted. “I saw another one just like it at the jeweler’s myself not two weeks ago, and inquired as to the price . . . a simple matter of intellectual curiosity, of course.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Guess how much?”

“Oh, I couldn’t even begin!”

Pruella leaned over and whispered in Grace’s ear.

Grace Hansen’s eyes went round with shock and astonishment. “Wow! THAT much?” she gasped. “And you say it’s the gift of an ADMIRER?!”

“Yep!”

“I wish I had so ardent an admirer,” Grace sighed, suddenly feeling very much the Plain-Jane next to Pruella’s fashionable flamboyance. “Those earrings you’re wearing are lovely, too. Are they ALSO a gift from your admirer?”

Pruella nodded, with a dazzling, triumphant smile. “Diamonds, Grace! Crystal clear, flawless, and all of FIFTEEN karats.”

Myra Danvers stormed into the kitchen, her face pale and lips thinned to a poker straight, hard, nearly lipless line. “Disgraceful!” she growled. “Absolutely dis-GRACE-ful!”

Florence Hansen, hard at work filling the half dozen nut and mint bowls, all lined up before her on the counter, flinched and quickly averted her eyes away from the intense glare on Myra Danvers’ cadaverously white face.

“Well, don’t YOU think so?” Myra snapped.

“I-if you say so,” Florence replied in a very small, very quiet voice. She kept her eyes firmly riveted to the bowl of nuts she was filling.

“That . . . that child is an absolute hoyden!” Myra ranted. “If Ben Cartwright doesn’t take her firmly in hand and SOON . . . . ”

Florence glanced up sharply, her beet red face an almost caricatured mask of horrified shock. “Ssshh, Myra, they’ll hear you!”

“It would be best for all concerned if they DID hear me!” Myra made a point of raising her voice. “You know as well as I do, that young lady has no idea in the world how to behave properly! None at all! What she desperately needs is two, maybe even THREE years in a good, solid girls’ boarding school to learn at least a modicum of the proper social graces, followed by another year at finishing school . . . . ”

Florence Hansen turned a deaf ear to Myra Danvers’ angry ranting and returned to the task of filling the nut bowls. “Odd,” she mused in silence. The Stacy Cartwright SHE had come to know over the years was a very polite, well mannered young woman, gifted with a poise and self-confidence rarely seen in girls her age. Granted, the girl preferred working with the Ponderosa horses to giving tea parties, but that was the way of things in this part of the country. Although her eldest daughter, Grace, was more than content to help with the household chores, the other four roped cattle and branded calves right alongside their father.

“Did you know that mouthy young upstart actually had the temerity to SWEAR at me!?” Myra fumed. Two bright splotched or red dotted he cheeks, and her scowl deepened. “The IDEA! The VERY idea!”

“Ummm humm,” Florence murmured politely.

“ . . . and HE didn’t say a word! Not one single, solitary word!” Myra seethed. “If that child had been MY daughter, I would have marched her right out to the wood shed, you can bet on that!” She exhaled a curt sigh of angry exasperation, then shook her head. “Honestly! The sooner I can take that family in hand . . . . ”

“Oh! Ma! M-Mrs. Danvers?!”

The two women glanced up sharply at the door. Grace Hansen stood in the open doorway, cradling one of the enormous cut glass punch bowls, nearly empty of its contents, in her arms.

“Oh dear, please, excuse me, I . . . I didn’t mean to interrupt, I’m sorry.” Grace’s words of apology tumbled from her lips, one after the other in a nervous rush. “I happened to notice that this bowl was empty . . . . ”

“It’s alright, Grace,” Florence said quickly, inwardly grateful for the interruption. “Bring the bowl on in and set it there on the kitchen table. I’ll whip up more punch in a jiffy.”

Grace meekly ventured into the kitchen, taking great care to avoid making even the slightest eye contact with the still enraged Mrs. Danvers. She carefully placed the bowl on the table as her mother had asked.

“ . . . and how are the OTHER three punch bowls?” Myra snapped, venting the ever-increasing anger and exasperation that Stacy Cartwright had aroused, on a handier target.

“The one next to the door is also nearly empty,” Grace answered immediately, snapping out her answers with the crisp clearness of a young U. S. Army private in his first days of basic training. “I’m going to go right back and fetch that one, too . . . if you’d like.”

“How much punch is in the other two bowls?”

Grace flinched. “They’re both half full, Mrs. Danvers. I’ve been keeping a close eye on them.”

A smile, brittle and cold, spread across Myra Danvers’ lips. “Grace, you’ve really worked very hard over the last few days, what with cleaning up this room, fixing all the food, decorating the church, not to mention everything you’re doing now,” she said stiffly. “I just want you to know that your efforts have been noticed and are very much appreciated.”

“Why . . . th-thank you, Mrs. Danvers,” Grace said softly. She involuntarily stepped backward, her hands trembling. She couldn’t be certain which terrified her more: the overtly enraged Mrs. Danvers, or the Mrs. Danvers whose frightening parody of a smile was at such total and complete odds with the deep rooted, bitter anger smoldering in her eyes. “I . . . I’m going to g-go back and . . . and get that bowl now . . . . ”

Myra nodded, dismissing her.

Without a word, Grace turned heel and scurried from the kitchen like a squirrel, suddenly startled by the appearance of a predator.

“Oops! Mister Wilson! Sorry, please excuse me . . . ”

Blake Wilson eyed the young man standing before him for a long moment. “Harlan Hurley . . . . ”

“No, Sir,” he said very quickly. “I’m David!”

“David, then. Well, you’d better watch your step, Young Fella,” Blake admonished the contrite young man standing in front of him. “I must be at least the third person you’ve just up ‘n run into.”

“Sorry, Sir . . . I seem to have woken up this morning with two left feet.”

The boy’s stricken face and hazel eyes, round with horrified regret, effectively dissolved all remaining traces of Blake Wilson’s stern demeanor. “Well, your ma says you’ve been workin’ pretty hard at home over the last few months,” he said with a touch of pseudo-gruffness. “It’s a fine thing to be a good, hard worker, but a man’s gotta relax once in a while, ‘specially a young man like yourself.”

“Y-yes, Sir.”

Blake slipped a paternal arm around the young man’s shoulders. “Why don’t you come with me to the food table, ‘n grab yourself a plate . . . . ”

“Thank you, Mister Wilson, but I’ve already eaten a plateful . . . ”

“Then grab another! A young man like you can’t eat too much, y’ know.” He paused momentarily, his eyes scanning the faces in the crowd for his wife and the minister. He found both in conversation with Adam and Teresa Cartwright. “Git that plate filled, an’ maybe you ‘n me can step outside for a quick nip.” He opened the jacket of his suit just enough to let his young companion see the flask, brimming full of amber liquid, tucked away in the inside pocket.

“Thank you, Sir, but I don’t think I’d better!” he declined in hushed tones. “If my ma smells THAT on my breath, she’ll kill me.”

Blake grinned. “Yeah, she probably would at that,” he said. “Truth t’ tell, my ma wouldda killed me, too, when I was your age.”

“I . . . I guess I’d better go, M-Mister Wilson, Sir.”

“Good chattin’ with ya, Son.” Glancing around, he spotted Ben Cartwright, Roy Coffee, Clay Hansen, and a half dozen other friends and neighbors clustered in a tightly knit circle. Their lively conversation was liberally sprinkled with healthy doses of boisterous laughter. Blake paused just long enough to slip his flask out of his jacket pocket and take a quick swallow, before going over to join his friends.

“Harlan! Harlan Hurley!”

The young man froze mid-strode and glanced over in the direction of the kitchen, from whence the voice issued. He saw Myra Danvers standing framed in the open door, standing akimbo, with one hand stolidly placed on hips, the other grasping the handle of an empty, wooden water bucket.

“Harlan, we need more water!”

“I’m not Harlan, I’m, uuhh . . . DAVID! Yes, that’s right! I’m David!”

“Whoever!” Myra said in a dismissive tone of voice, as she thrust the bucket in his face. “We need water, and we need it right now.”

“So?” he retorted with a touch of insolence.

Myra bristled. “So go to the well and fill this bucket,” she ordered, with arm still extended and hand clasping the handle of the bucket.

“Harlan, would you please do as Mrs. Danvers asks.”

He glanced over his shoulder and saw Uncle Apollo towering over him with arms folded across his massive chest. He opened his mouth to argue, only to snap it shut in the next instant, put off by the threatening glare in his uncle’s face. “Y-yes, Sir,” he mumbled, taking the bucket from Mrs. Danvers.

He took a deliberately circuitous route from the kitchen to the open portal, beyond which the stairs, leading up out of the church basement, were located.

“Well, of COURSE they’re diamond!”

He slowed, smiling at the sound of his beloved Pruella Danvers’ voice.

“They’re perfect! Pure, crystal clear, flawless . . . . PERFECT!!” Pruella continued waspishly.

“GLASS is also pure, crystal clear, and flawlessly perfect!”

“Stacy LOUISE Cartwright . . . . ”

Stacy bristled and glared over at Pruella, despite her own intention to keep her cool. “That’s Stacy ROSE Cartwright,” she growled at her antagonist of long standing. “The name change was official a few days ago.”

“Whatever!” Pruella responded in that same dismissive, bored tone that had become her mother’s trademark.

Harlan smiled, gratified that the love of his life had managed for once to come out ahead in a verbal sparring match with Stacy Cartwright. Though his parents and the Cartwrights, particularly Adam and Hoss, had been friends for more years now that any of them cared to admit at times, lately, that family seemed to be getting on his nerves.

“Still ‘n all, these earrings are NOT glass, Miss Know-It-All-Cartwright!” Pruella continued in a haughty, condescending tone. “They’re DIAMOND! The largest ones are fifteen karats EACH.”

“Really.” Stacy rebounded from her momentary lapse of temper, and managed to reply in a bemused tone of voice, spiked with just enough boredom as to be grievously insulting.

Pruella angrily stamped her foot. “I’ll have you know these earrings come from my secret admirer,” she snapped, “and they set him back a real pretty penny, too, I can tell you THAT!”

“Oh. Am I supposed to be impressed?”

A guttural, choking sound, somewhere between a cough and an infuriated sputter, issued from Pruella’s throat. Without further word she tossed her head, and flounced off, in search of someone who had enough intelligence to appreciate the truly finer things in life.

“Uh oh! She’s mad at you now, Kid,” Joe observed wryly, his eyes lingering appreciatively on Pruella Danvers’ retreating form.

“Grandpa, that no good little--- ”

“Watch the language, Kid!” Joe warned.

“ . . . at any rate, she’s BEEN mad at ME ever since I beat her up in the school yard for making fun of Molly,” Stacy said, directing a vicious scowl in the direction of Pruella Danvers’ retreating back.

“You talkin’ about the first day you started school here in Virginia City?”

“Yep!”

Joe shook his head. “That was FIVE YEARS ago!”

“Almost SIX, Grandpa!”

“Long time to hold a grudge!”

“There’s other factors at work, too, y’ know.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Pruella Danvers and I just plain can’t stand the sight of one another for one thing . . . . ”

“I agree she’s not a very nice individual,” Joe said, smiling once again at the memory of how well Pruella Danvers’ dress fit her wondrous well rounded figure. “But I adore the sight of her.”

“Hey, Young Fella, watch where yer goin’!” Macon Fitzhugh glared down at the young man, attired in a pair of slate gray flannel pants, white shirt, and tie.

“Sorry, Mister Fitzhugh.”

Macon peered at the younger man, squinting through rheumy, bloodshot eyes. “Say, that YOU, Hurlin’ Harley?”

The young man shifted his blue jacket over to the arm with hand holding the still empty bucket. “Hurlin’ Harley? Dontcha mean Harlan Hurley?”

“Whom ever.”

“Well, I’m not him. I’m my brother David.”

“Well, whom ever y’ are, watch where yer goin’!” Macon snapped. He pivoted abruptly, nearly losing his balance. After a brief, heart-stopping moment of wavering and wildly flailing his arms, Macon finally regained a measure of equilibrium. “Daggum smart assed young whippersnapper!”

A dozen more steps brought the young man face to face with “Matilda,” the still, presently masquerading as the new wood stove for the church. He glanced down, smiling at the sight of another wood bucket, roughly the same dimensions as the empty one in hand, sitting beside the alleged wood stove, filled to the brim with a crystal clear liquid. He set his own bucket on the floor and cautiously dipped a finger into the full one.

“Ooooowheee!” he murmured softly, his eyes round as saucers. An evil smile slowly oozed its way across the lower portion of his face.

“It’s about time you got back here with that water, David Hurley!” Myra Danvers admonished him severely, upon his return to the kitchen, with brimming full bucket in hand. “Whatever did you DO? Go all the way to China to fetch it?”

“No, Ma’am,” the young man murmured. “Sorry, Ma’am.” He backed out of the kitchen, and immediately melted away into the crowd.

“Harlan, I’m bored!” Pruella whined, as she sidled up alongside him. “Why don’t you and I go somewhere, and . . . . ”

He smiled down at her marveling at how beautiful she was, even in so petulant a mood, with her lower lip protruding so far out from under its upper twin. “Be patient, Pruella Darling,” he said in a smooth, oily tone. “I promise, you won’t be bored for very long.” He squeezed her hand, then moved off in the direction of the kitchen.

“It’s high time you got some more punch out here!” Myrna O’Hanlan growled, while Grace Hansen carefully centered the immense bowl square in the middle of the matching cut glass tray. “It’s turned out to be such a dreadfully hot afternoon, and folks’re thirsty! Very thirsty!”

Grace noted how vigorously Mrs. O’Hanlan fanned herself with a copy of the programs initially printed for the wedding of Colleen and Matt. “I’m terribly sorry about that, Mrs. O’Hanlan,” she contritely murmured an apology. “Harlan . . . . ” she paused briefly, frowning. “Or was that David? Whichever of the Hurley twins it was, he was so dreadfully long about getting the water so my ma could make up some more punch.”

Myrna snorted derisively.

Grace picked up a clean cup and quickly scooped up a ladle full of the inviting pink liquid from the bowl and poured it into the cup. “Here you are, Mrs. O’Hanlan,” she said, offered the full cup.

“Thank you.” Myrna accepted the filled cup from Grace, and gingerly sipped the contents. Her eyes widened with surprise. “Ooh! This is WONDERFUL punch!” She raised her glass once more to her lips and this time swallowed down a large gulp. “Umm ummmm! This is, without a doubt, the very best your mother has ever made.”

“Why, thank you, Mrs. O’Hanlan,” Grace said, beaming. “It’s Ma’s very special recipe.”

“Delicious!”

“May I get you another cup, Mrs. Hansen?”

“Y-yes . . . thank you. Thank you . . . thank you shhh . . . ummm, SO! Thank you SO very mush, I mean MUCH. Thank . . . you . . . very, uuhhh . . . much.”

“Oh dear! Mrs. O’Hanlan . . . are you alright?” Grace queried, unnerved by the older woman’s glassy stare and unsteady stance.

“I-I feel . . . all uva sudden, I . . . I’m feeling a little dizzy . . . . ” She placed her hand firmly on the table in an effort to steady herself.

“It MUST be the heat!” Grace murmured sympathetically. She refilled Myrna’s glass and carefully placed it in her free hand, the one not clutching the edge of the table. “Here, Mrs. O’Hanlan, perhaps some more of this will take care of that dizziness.”

Myrna lifted the cup to her lips and drained the contents in a single gulp.

“Miz O’Hanlan . . . . ” It was Clara Mudgely. “I ain’t had t’ chance t’ say congratulations to ya on Colleen getting herself hitched . . . . ”

Myrna O’Hanlan, still clutching hold of the punch table’s edge for balance and support beamed at the church organist with a wavering, lopsided smile. “Thank ya, thank ya mos’ kin’ly, Mish Midglyn . . . . ” A puzzled frown knotted her brow. “No! That’s not right! Hell, oops! Ah mean heck! Heck, I don’ even KNOW anybody name o’ Midgetlin!”

Clara favored Myrna O’Hanlan with a glare that clearly raised questions regarding the mother of the bride’s very sanity. “Mrs. O’Hanlan . . . are you ILL?” she queried bluntly.

“Ah’m fiiiiiinne! Jes’ fiiiine!” Myrna shrilled.

“I’m afraid it’s this dreadful heat, Miss Mudgely,” Grace moaned. She quickly ladled another glass of punch for Myrna O’Hanlan and pressed it into her free hand.

Clara continued to eye Myrna O’Hanlan, warily.

Myrna, blissfully unaware of Clara’s intense scrutiny, started to hum the tune SHE knew as “The Irish Rake,” a half step off key. In later years, many of the folks attending the Wedding Reception of the Century would come to know that particular tune as “The Streets of Laredo.”

“You say she’s sufferin’ HEATSTROKE?!”

“I’m afraid so, Miss Mudgely,” Grace mournfully shook her head.

“Poor woman! Probably nursin’ a healthy fit o’ the vapours, too, underneath all that heatstroke, whut with ever’thing that happened at the weddin’ upstairs,” Clara shook her head.

“I’m going to see if I can get her to sit down awhile,” Grace said, lowering her voice. “But, before I do . . . may I get YOU a glass of punch? Ma just finished making it up . . . . ”

Clara smiled. “That’s right nice o’ ya, Girl, thank ya kindly,” the organist said gratefully. “Powerful warm up there next to that organ. Powerful warm!”

Grace immediately picked up a clean cup and filled it to the brim. “Here you are, Miss Mudgely.”

After everyone had eaten his or her initial fill of wedding feast, the five musicians hired to provide music for dancing, quietly took their places and began the process of tuning their instruments. They were five brothers, aptly billing themselves as The McGuire Brothers. Their father, a late acquaintance and business client of Francis Sean O’Hanlan, Sr., had named all five of his sons for Ivy League universities in the hope that they would eventually pursue academia and the lucrative potential that offered. Their father’s hopes were in vain.

“ ‘ey, Corney!”

Cornell McGuire, fiddle player, as well as the eldest and most taciturn of his siblings, turned and looked over expectantly at his younger brother, Harvard.

Harvard McGuire, third in the birth order line-up, and known simply as Harv to family and friends, inclined his head toward the table, where the mother of the bride downed her third, fourth, fifth, and sixth glasses of punch in rapid succession. He was short of stature, standing a few inches shorter than Joe Cartwright, but very muscular and compact with thick, wavy red hair, sparkling green eyes, a broad, square jaw line and cleft chin. Men and women alike looked upon Harv as “the handsome one” among his brothers. “I thought t’ quaffin’ o alcoholic beverages was forbidden here.”

“Aye, that’s what Mister O’Hanlan said, Laddy Buck,” Corney affirmed with a nod, as he tuned the last string of his fiddle.

“Did t’ man ever get ‘round t’ tellin’ his wife?”

Princeton McGuire, the second son and lead musician, glanced over at each of his brothers, his eyes moving slowly from face to face briefly making eye contact with each. He was a tall, lanky man, age indeterminate, with a full thick head of carrot colored hair and beard. “Are y’ ready, Lads?” he asked, sotto voice.

One by one, his brothers curtly nodded their heads. Satisfied, Princeton ably stepped to the forefront and loudly cleared his throat. “Ladies ‘n Gents, b’fore we start in wi’ t’ reels ‘n jigs ‘n such like that, we’d like t’ play a waltz,” he addressed the wedding guests in a pronounced, lilting Irish brogue. A roguish grin slowly spread across his lips. “T’ boys ‘n meself hear there’s a couple o’ gents among ye that’s dancing wi’ their lovely wives f’r t’ very first time.”

There was a smattering of amused laughter from the gathered assembly, followed by a round of polite applause.

“R-reels and jigs?” Ben paled, as the newly wed couples moved out onto the dance floor. “Stacy, I hope you know how . . . . ”

“Not to worry,” she hastened to assure him. “Mister O’Hanlan and Molly have been teaching me how to dance Irish jigs and reels since they found out my mother, Miss Paris, was an Irishwoman. Mister O’Hanlan said I should know these things because they’re part of my heritage.”

“Thank God!” Ben murmured softly.

The profound, almost comical look of relief on Ben’s face, brought a bemused smile to Stacy’s. “You’re not getting out of dancing with me that easily, Pa.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Ben declared, casting a quick furtive glance at Myra Danvers, standing alongside Florence Hansen.

“One . . . two . . . three,” Princeton McGuire counted softly, nodding emphatically on three.

The musicians struck up a waltz tune with a decided Irish air. Both grooms, their faces beaming with pure, unadulterated joy, only had eyes for their respective brides. Matt’s eyes shone brightly with unshed tears of happiness, as he lead Clarissa past the smiling eyes of all the well-wishers present. Apollo hugged Colleen closer as their bodies moved in rhythm with the music, and whispered, “I love you,” in her ear. Colleen, smiling warmly, silently mouthed back the words, “I love you, too, Apollo.”

Mick O’Flynn stood at the back edge of the gathered crowd, watching the two newly wed couples, with an almost smug, self-satisfied grin. “Yessir, Hoss Cartwright, y’ done good!” he murmured to the biggest of Ben’s son’s standing along side him. “Y’ done real, real, real, real GOOD!”

“Mister O’Flynn, I keep tellin’ ya it was a GROUP effort,” Hoss hastened to point out. “T’ be perfectly honest, it was Colleen ‘n Clarissa that hatched the whole thing.”

“Which they wouldn’t have if YOU hadn’t given t’ pair of ‘em the idea.”

“ . . . an’ I wouldna had the idea in the first place if I hadn’t seen the bet my sister placed in YOUR li’l black accountin’ book. So you ‘n Stacy had as much part in the whole thing as I did.”

“Y-you’re too kind, Lad,” Mick sniffled, his eyes shining bright with his own unshed tears.

“ . . . ‘n YOU’RE every bit the hopeless romantic I am, Mister O’Flynn,” Hoss declared with a grin, as he handed the elderly man a fresh handkerchief.

“Mick! Mick!” It was Barney, elbowing his way through the tightly packed crowd of guests watching the newly wed couples dance. “Mick, we gotta problem!”

“What’s t’ problem, Barney?”

“Boris t’ Russian’s er, uuhh . . . VODKA is missin’!” Barney reported, his face pale, and eyes round with sheer terror.

“Vodka?” Hoss looked over at Mick and Barney with a bemused expression. “You fellas make vodka?!”

“No, Mister Cartwright, we DON’T actually make vodka,” Barney blithely answered Hoss’ question. “It’s really poteen, but we let HIM think it’s vodka.”

“What’s poteen?” Hoss asked.

“It’s a lot like t’ stuff y’ call moonshine, ‘cept it’s made from potatoes instead o’ corn, Mister Cartwright,” Barney said with a touch of pride. “T’ stuff’s clear as water ‘n stronger ‘n you AND Boris t’ Russian put together, and THAT if t’ pair of y’ve not bathed in a month o’ Sundays.”

Hoss frowned. “Mister O’Flynn, ain’t that kinda, well . . . dishonest?”

“Not at all at all, Laddie, not at all at all,” Mick replied, “seein’ as how Boris never quite asked, ‘n WE never told.”

“Well, I guess if this Boris the Russian ain’t got the good sense t’ ask questions, I s’pose y’ ain’t completely cheatin’ ‘im,” Hoss allowed.

“You’re thinkin’ more ‘n more like me all t’ time, Mister Cartwright,” Mick said smugly.

“Now ya got me worried!”

“It’s been grand chattin’ with ye, Mister Cartwright, but you’ll have t’ excuse us,” Mick said, quickly, as he doffed his hat. “I need t’ go help Barney here find that ‘vodka’ b’fore Boris shows up. Unfortunately, he’s not as . . . shall we say as even tempered as yourself?”

Florence Hansen and Myra Danvers, meanwhile, stood side by side at the outer fringes of the circle gathered to watch the two newlywed couples enjoy their very first dance together. The powerful hypnotic quality of the music combined with the slow easy movements of the dancers, propelled her back in time to another wedding and another bride and groom enjoying their first dance together.

“ . . . and what are YOU so happy about?” Myra Danvers’ strident voice rudely wrenched Florence from her nostalgic reverie back to present time and place.

“Just remembering the first time Clay and I danced together . . . as husband and wife,” Florence replied with a nostalgic smile on her face and a dreamy, far away look in her eyes.

A short, curt sigh of exasperation and frustration escaped from Myra’s lips. She stood with posture rigidly straight and arms folded tightly across her chest, glaring indignantly at waltzing newly weds and at Ben and Stacy Cartwright, standing near the front of the gathered crowd of onlookers, to her right.

“We didn’t dance the waltz, of course,” Florence continued. “When Clay and I got married, ‘most everyone, especially my mother and Clay’s, thought it to be wicked and scandalous. But, our faces were all aglow, every bit as much as theirs’.”

“Doggerel!” Myra muttered contemptuously under her breath. “Nothing but a lot of nonsensical, romantic doggerel!”

Florence bristled for a moment, then sighed. She had a sneaking suspicion, somewhere deep inside, that Myra Danvers might be more deserving of her pity, rather than her anger. She had never, not in all the years she had lived in Virginia City, ever so much as breathed a word about Mister Danvers. To anyone! This Florence knew for absolute fact. On the rare occasions anyone had the temerity to ask, Myra became evasive and changed the subject, as quick as she could. “Odd thing that . . . . ” she ruminated in silence. While it was true that Myra had been widowed a number of years, ever since her daughter, Pruella, was a baby, according to Clara Mudgely . . . Georgianna Wilkens, Virginia City’s chief librarian and president of the Virginia City Literacy Guild, had been widowed for nearly TWICE the number of years. Yet SHE spoke often and very well of her late husband. “Myra’s marriage to Mister Danvers mustn’t have been a happy one,” she silently mused.

“Dance!” Myra continued her rant, blissfully ignorant of the fact that her long-suffering audience of one had effectively tuned her out. “Dance indeed! It’s just an excuse for groping in public, and I for one am NOT going to stand for it. First thing Monday morning, I’m going to give Reverend Hildebrandt a fair piece of my mind for . . . for allowing such an outrage within the hallowed basement of this church.”

“Um hm,” Florence automatically responded when Myra paused for an instant to inhale.

“I’VE heard that . . . that indecent dance is banned in Boston!” Myra declared, with an emphatic nod of her head.

“Really? Then you must’ve heard WRONG, Ma’am.”

Myra turned and brought the full force of her near homicidal fury of her homicidal to bear on Adam Cartwright, who with Teresa, stood on the other side of Florence Hansen.

“You DARE to contradict your elders, Young Man?” Myra demanded imperiously.

“Ma’am, I am not CONTRADICTING you,” Adam’s tone held a faint, condescending note. “I am merely correcting a, shall we say misunderstanding?” His lips curved upward in a tight, mirthless grin. “I have a couple of friends living in Boston, with whom I correspond on a regular basis. In many of their letters, they write often of attending parties AND dancing the waltz.”

Myra Danvers, her face nearly the deep crimson hue of port wine, abruptly turned away from Adam and Teresa. “Ill mannered lout! I don’t know who he thinks he is . . . . ” she muttered aloud.

Adam’s sharp ears picked up every word. “Please, forgive my appalling lack of manners, Ma’am,” he said smoothly, without missing a beat. “I’m Adam Cartwright, Ben Cartwright’s eldest son. This is my wife, Teresa.”

Myra’s face paled. A strangled cry wrenched itself from her open, gaping mouth.

“I’m charmed to make your acquaintance, too, Ma’am,” Teresa acknowledged the introduction with a wry smile and voice laced with sarcasm. “I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t catch YOUR name?”

“Adam . . . Teresa, this is Myra Danvers,” smiling, Florence Hansen blithely made introductions. “I’m sure Ben’s told you all about her, seeing as how close they are to, uummm, shall we say an--- ” The remainder of her words died a quick, merciful death under the fierce, murderous scowl on Myra’s face.

“Ah! Then, you must be THE Mrs. Danvers.” Adam said, remembering the “kind” words his sister had to say about this woman the night of the waltz lesson.

Myra eyed Adam suspiciously. “I suppose I AM . . . given that I’m the ONLY Mrs. Danvers living in Virginia City,” she snapped. “What of it?”

“Why nothing, Ma’am, nothing at all,” Adam said blandly. “It’s just that my wife and I have heard so much about you, we feel as if we already know you . . . quite intimately.”

Suspicion immediately gave way to a coy smile. “Ooohhh?” she trilled.

“Yes, Mrs. Danvers, much to our great REGRET it would seem.”

Myra Danvers’ smile froze.

“Now if you ladies would be so kind as to excuse us, my wife and I had best go join my father,” Adam rambled on blithely, very much aware of the insult given.

“Yes, of course,” Florence responded, wholly ignorant of the significance of Adam’s “bon mot.” “It’s so wonderful seeing you again, Adam, and Teresa, I’m so glad to have finally met YOU. Ben’s told us so much . . . . ”

“All good, I hope?” Teresa quipped with a saucy grin.

“All VERY good,” Florence hastened to assure her.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hansen,” Adam said, this time with genuine warmth. “My family and I will be visiting for the entire summer, so I’ve no doubt we’ll see more of each other.”

“I hope so, Adam . . . . ”

“Now we’d like t’ invite the parents . . . and those representing the parents . . . of our happy newly wed couples t’ come on out ‘n dance,” Princeton issued the invitation with a warm smile.

“Come on, Erma! That’s US!”

Erma Wilson favored her husband with a dark, venomous glare. “I most certainly and assuredly will NOT!” she declared, giving full vent to her outrage.

“Aww, come on, Erma . . . please?”

“NO!” She stubbornly folded her plump arms across her chest. “It’s bad enough our son actually . . . somehow . . . ended up MARRYING that . . . that . . . saloon girl.” She grimaced. “It’s even worse that WE can’t have it annulled! But, if you expect me to get out there on the same dance floor with THAT . . . with that WOMAN--- ”

“Oh, Erma . . . for heaven’s sake!” Blake seized her by the hand, and with a strength surprising in a man of his small stature and wiry frame, hauled her toward the area set aside for dancing, turning a deaf ear to her loud protestations and angry threats.

“Sally, I guess you ‘n me are the closest thing Clarissa has to a ma ‘n pa here today,” Sam observed casually.

“I think you’re right about that, Sam.”

Sam gallantly offered Sally his arm. “Shall we?”

“I was hopin’ y’d ask, Sam.”

Together, arm in arm, they made their way toward the dance floor. Harlan Hurley stepped backwards, bumping against Sam with enough force to send the Silver Dollar bar tender sprawling ignobly onto the floor. Fortunately for Sally, he had involuntarily let go of her arm in the same instant he and Harlan collided, else she would have crashed down on the floor along with him.

“Oops! Oh dear! Puh-please . . . please excuse me!” The Hurley boy immediately ran around behind the fallen bartender and, slipping his own strong arms under Sam’s, hoisted him back to his feet.

“You ok, Sam?” Sally queried, peering into his face anxiously.

“Yeah, I’m fine. No damage done!”

“David Hurley, you’ve GOT to look out where you’re going!” Sally immediately rounded on the young man furiously. “You’ve done nothin’ but crash into folks ever since this shin dig got started!”

“Y-yes, Ma’am . . . I-I’ really very sorry, Ma’am,” Harlan murmured as he eased his way into the crowd of people surging toward the front of the room.

Myrna O’Hanlan gulped down her umpteenth glass of punch and set the empty cup back down on the table beside the punch bowl. “C’mon, Francis, ‘s OUR turn . . . . ”

Francis noted his wife’s glazed eyes, lopsided smile, and increased difficulty maintaining equilibrium with growing concern. “Myrna, are you SURE you’re feelin’ alright? Miss Hansen said somethin’ about heatstroke a while ago.”

“Francis, m’ love, ah n’er felt better,” Myrna replied, seizing her husband by the wrist. The sudden movement sent her reeling.

Francis quickly grabbed his wife by the waist. Myrna lurched forward, collapsing heavily against her husband, causing him to loose his own footing.

“Steady there, Mister O’Hanlan,” Hoss neatly stepped in and easily steadied the flailing couple.

“Thanks, Hoss, much obliged,” Francis said gratefully.

“Aaww, Frannie-wannie, y’ hug real good,” Myrna declared, as she tightened her arms about his shoulders and pressed her body closer.

“Myrna . . . . ”

“Kisshh me, Frannie!” Myrna puckered her lips, as Hoss very pointedly looked the other way.

“Now I KNOW there’s something wrong with ya,” Francis said in a wry tone. “Y’ never, ever get this chummy with me out in public.”

“Does ‘at mean yer not gonna kiss me?” Myrna pouted.

“Hoss, can y’ help me get her over to a chair?” Francis turned desperate eyes to the gentle giant still standing behind him.

“Sure thing, Mister O’Hanlan.” Hoss took one arm and the woman’s husband took the other. “I thought whiskey wasn’t gonna be allowed at this party,” he said, taking care to keep his voice low.

“ ‘Tis so,” he sighed dolefully.

“You ‘n Mrs. O’Hanlan ain’t . . . ummm, sneakin’ a nip here ‘n there on the sly . . . are ya?”

“Absolutely NOT!” Francis declared stoutly. “Hoss, m’ lad, I swear t’ y’ by t’ cross o’ Christ himself, I’ve not had so much as a single drop. As for Mrs. O’Hanlan . . . she NEVER touches t’ stuff, except f’r medicinal purposes.”

Hoss nodded, accepting Francis O’Hanlan’s declarations of innocence on behalf of himself and his wife. “Mrs. O’Hanlan DID have a pretty rough time o’ things in the minister’s office a li’l while ago. It could be it’s all catchin’ up with ‘er, now that the wedding’s over ‘n Colleen’s safely married.”

“Don’tcha be goin’ ‘round talkin’ ‘bout me like I’m not here, Hosshh Car’wright!” Myrna admonished Hoss severely. “Where ‘r we goin’? The dancin’ s back up that away!” She inclined her head in the direction of the dance floor, nearly falling once again.

“Myrna, please! No more sudden moves!” her husband admonished her wearily.

“But where ‘r we goin?”

“We thought maybe we’d take ya over here so ‘s ya can sit down ‘n rest a spell, Mrs. O’Hanlan,” Hoss said.

“But, I don’ WANNA sshhh . . . uuhh, SIT. . . down . . . . ”

Hoss smiled at the close call.

“ . . . . Ah wanna dance.”

“Ma’am, I’m not so sure ya oughtta . . . . ?”

“Maybe YUR no’ sure, but I’M sure,” Myrna said firmly. “ ‘S m’ daughter’s weddin’, an’ I’m gonna dansshh . . . . ” She grabbed her husband’s wrist once again and led him back toward the dance floor, weaving a path in keeping with the ‘straight’ lines of a shillelagh stick. Not quite knowing what else to do, Hoss reluctantly followed.

Francis O’Hanlan Junior watched in outright disbelief as his mother valiantly attempted to waltz with his father. With nearly every step, she tripped over something, be it a loose floorboard, the hem of her dress, and fell into someone, laughing uproariously.

“F-Frankie?”

“Yeah, Molly, what is it?”

“What’s wrong with Ma?”

Frankie his eyes round with a mixture of shocked horror, apprehension, and embarrassment. “If I didn’t know better? I’d say she was drunker ‘n skunk.”

Athena and Jack Hurley, representing the late Dmetri and Hellene Nikolas, eased their way among the two newly wed couples, Sam Tucker and Sally Tyler, who stood in for Clarissa Starling Wilson’s parents, the O’Hanlans, and the Wilsons, .

“Jack, we gotta get that re-sippee, uuh . . . resh-ship-pe . . . re-ci-pe!” Athena said, as she labored valiantly to stifle a growing urge to giggle. “We. Gotta. Get that . . . re-ci-pe . . . from Miz Hanshen!” She punctuated her words with a loud hiccup. “There! Ah said it!”

“A-Athena, are . . . are you alright?” Jack queried as he made due note of his wife’s flushed cheeks, her lopsided smile, and half closed eyes.

“Ahm fine . . . jus’ fine,” Athena drawled. “Can’t remmemer d’ lash . . . . D’. Lasssst. Time uh felt bedder! Jack, we jus’ GODDA get dat re-ship-pee from M--- ”

“I know,” Jack sighed, flinching from the odd way people seemed to be staring at Athena and himself all of a sudden. “We’ve gotta get Mrs. Hansen’s recipe for her pink punch. This is the third time you’ve said so.”

Athena hiccupped again, then dissolved into a gale of uproarious laughter.

“Athena Nikolas Hurley, have you been nippin’ from a flask you got hidden somewhere?” Jack demanded, lowering his voice to the volume of a stage whisper.

Athena’s jaw dropped. Her indignant gasp quickly choked off her mirth with a very loud snort. “Are you implyin’ that I’m . . . that I’m DRUNK?!” she demanded, righteously indignant.

“ARE you?”

“I mosshht sshher-tin-lee am NOT!”

Jack’s return glare openly questioned her staunch declaration.

“Oh, Jack . . . Jack . . . y’ oughtta shee . . . see. Yer face . . . . ” Athena’s outrage quickly evaporated as she succumbed to yet another round of boisterous mirth, laughing when she exhaled and snorting loudly each time she took air in.

“Can’t be all THAT funny,” Jack growled, as he wrapped his arm about her waist, and draped her arm across his shoulders. “Come on, Athena.”

“HEY! WHUCHA THINK YER DOIN’?!” Athena protested at the top of her voice, as Jack dragged her off the dance floor. “WHERE Y’ TAKIN’ ME?”

“I’m taking you someplace where you can SIT down before you end up FALLING down,” Jack replied in a firm, no-nonsense tone of voice, as he searched the sidelines for their children. He spotted their young daughter, Cassandra, chatting with a group of her friends. After making eye contact, he waved her over with a nod of his head.

“Pa?!” the girl queried softly, as she gazed over at her mother through eyes round with apprehension. “What’s wrong with MA? She sick or something?”

“I dunno, Girl,” Jack sighed, completely at al loss. “I overheard folks talkin’ ‘bout heatstroke . . . . ”

“It IS awful hot in here,” Cassandra agreed.

“Yeah. That’s gotta be what’s ailin’ poor Mrs. O’Hanlan, bless her heart . . . an’ it could very well be what’s ailin’ your ma. Wouldja please run over to that table there an’ fetch her a nice cup of punch, Sweetheart?” He inclined his head toward the nearest punch table, the one containing Florence Hansen’s pink recipe,

“Sure thing, Pa.”

“ . . . an’ now, we’d like to invite the rest o’ ye to dance wi’ t’ newly wed couples,” Princeton finally invited the rest of the guests.

“It’s finally OUR turn, Pa,” Stacy looked up at her father, smiling.

Ben returned her smile. “Indeed it is, Young Woman.” He turned, facing her, and held out his hand. “May I have this dance?”

“Yes, you may,” Stacy replied, placing her hand in his.

Myra Danvers stood just inside the doorway between the church kitchen and the rest of the basement, watching Ben and Stacy with a baleful glare as they circled the dance floor on the opposite side of the room, threading their way among the other dancers.

“Good afternoon, Ladies.” It was Sheriff Coffee, with a cookie on one hand and a glass filled to brimming with pink punch in the other. His eyes appeared glassy.

“Hello, Roy,” Florence returned the lawman’s greeting with a warm, friendly smile.

Myra Danvers nodded stiffly, not deigning to speak.

“Florence, thissshh . . . I mean is this punch your special recipe?” Roy held up the cup in hand, still two thirds full.

“Yes, it is,” Florence replied.

“Well, THIS is the best da--- . . . oops! . . . I mean best dar--- uhhh, sorry!” Roy, much to his horror and chagrin, felt the sudden rush of blood to his face. He raised the glass in hand to his lips and emptied it with a single gulp. “Florence . . . dish, uhhh . . . this recipe o’ yours sure packs one he---HECK! uva wallop!”

“Roy?!” Florence took note of his ruddier-than-usual-complexion, his glassy eyes, and his difficulty speaking with an anxious frown. “Oh dear . . . Roy, are you alright?”

“I . . . I dunno,” Roy murmured softly, as he squeezed his eyes tight shut against an environment that had just begun to swim and pulsate nauseatingly before him. “A minute ago, I jus’ fine. Now . . . all of a sudden . . . m’ head feels like it’s floatin’ ‘bout three feet off my shoulders.”

“You must be suffering a touch of heatstroke,” Florence declared, as she set the candy dish in hand down on the counter, and moved to the sheriff’s side.

“It . . . IS a mite warm down here,” Roy moaned softly.

“Yes, indeed it is,” Florence agreed, as she placed the candy dish in her hands down onto the kitchen counter, and moved to the sheriff’s side. “It’s really given poor Mrs. O’Hanlan quite a turn.”

Roy cautiously opened his eyes just in time to see Myrna O’Hanlan stumble by, draped almost shamelessly over his deputy, Clem Foster. The latter’s face was a strange shade of port wine, and his eyes were lifted heavenward, desperately beseeching divine intervention. Though he sympathized with poor Clem, Roy couldn’t help but laugh. “Now THAT’S what I call a real bad case o’ heat prostitution!”

Florence Hansen threw back her head and laughed.

“That’s NOT funny!” Myra Danvers declared in a tone that dripped icicles.

Roy paled in the face of Myra Danvers’ malevolent, withering glare. “Oh, uhhh . . .s-sorry, Ma’am,” he babbled, “I’m afraid that, uhhh . . . kinda . . . well, kinda slipped out, I s’pose. I m-meant t’ say heat prosecution, pros--- oh dang it, overcome by t’ heat!”

“Come on, Roy . . . let’s go find an empty chair so you can sit a spell,” Florence said, taking him by the elbow.

“I dunno how y’ stand it, Florence,” Roy murmured softly. “Hour after hour after hour . . . . ” He sighed, and shook his head, only to regret it an instant later.

“Take it slow,” Florence gently admonished the lawman, as he stumbled and pitched forward.

“ . . . hour after hour after blessed hour . . . . ” Roy rambled on, “tha’ woman gives ME uh real bad case o’ t’ heebie-jeebies after I’ve only been in her comp’ny fer a few minutes.”

“Mrs. O’Hanlan DOES tend to be rather high strung,” Florence had to agree.

“Uhh ain’t talkin’ ‘bout Miz O’Hanlan,” Roy groaned. “I was talkin’ ‘bout Miz DANVERS. Ah wonder whut burr worked its way up her---, uh mean . . . uh wonder what’s got ‘er so dang riled up?”

“She IS very upset about Reverend Hildebrandt allowing the wedding guests to waltz,” Florence replied.

Roy cautiously turned his head and favored Florence with a bewildered frown. “That a fact?”

Florence nodded her head. “Oh yes. Myra . . . Mrs. Danvers . . . said--- ” She abruptly broke off as a bright pink patch blossomed forth becomingly on each cheek. “I, ummm . . . don’t feel right using words like that in polite mixed company, so I’ll just say that she thought it highly improper and leave it go at that.”

“Miz Danvers really said . . . whut it was she said?”

Again Florence nodded.

“Well now, ain’t THAT peculiar! I had dinner with that woman a couple a nights ago, ‘n she kept blatherin’ on, ‘n on, ‘n on t’ whole night ‘bout how much she was lookin’ forward t’ sharin’ a waltz or two with BEN.”

“Ma?” Grace Hansen, meanwhile, ventured into the church kitchen, in search of her mother.

“ . . . and what, pray, do YOU want NOW?” Myra Danvers demanded, turning the full force of her ever-growing frustration and outrage on a target that had unwittingly moved into very close range.

Grace yelped and jumped backward. “Oh!” she gasped, her face a sickly yellow color, her eyes round with sheer terror. “M-Mrs. Danvers! I . . . I’m so t-terribly s-sorry, I was looking f-for my mother ‘cause, uhhh . . . well, I, that is, M-Miss Mudgely . . . you know, she’s ummm, the . . . th-the church organist?”

“I KNOW who Miss Mudgely is!” Myra snapped. “Now would you please stop that inane babbling and come to the point?”

Grace flinched away from the intensity of Mrs. Danvers’ glare, and meekly averted her eyes to the floor. “S-she just told m-me to . . . to tell m-my mother that, umm . . . the wedding cake j-just arrived.”

“Well, it’s ABOUT time! Where is it?”

“The men from the bakery have it at the basement door, Ma’am. I . . . I’ll just go and . . . and s-see if I can find Ma . . . . ”

“Don’t bother,” Myra said in a tone of voice, imperious and condescending. “I’LL see to it.” With that, she abruptly turned heel and angrily flounced out of the kitchen.

“Well, Barney, m’lad, I’ve bad news an’ I’ve even worse news,” Mick said dolefully. “Which do y’ want t’ be hearin’ FIRST?”

“Let’s start with t’ BAD news first, Mick,” Barney reluctantly chose, with heart in mouth.

“T’ bad news is . . . I found t’ bucket with Boris t’ Russian’s ‘vodka.’ ” Mick held up the wooden bucket in his hand.

“Oh, but, Mick . . . that’s GOOD news! That’s t’ BEST news I think I’ve ever heard!” Vastly relieved, young Barney began to babble. “Where was it?”

“In t’ kitchen . . . over there!” Mick pointed.

Barney frowned. “I don’t understand, Mick. If this is t’ bad news, what can possibly be t’ even worse news?”

“See f’r yourself, Lad.” Mick tipped the bucket, allowing the younger man to see inside.

Barney’s face paled the instant he peered inside the bucket, and his jaw dropped. For a time, he stood, unmoving, staring with morbid fascination into the empty bucket, through eyes round with sheer horror. “H-holy J-Jesus, Mary, ‘n Joseph, Saints preserve us!” he exclaimed, when at long last he found his voice, crossing himself vigorously.

“My sentiments exactly,” Mick said wryly.

“Mick, what’ll we DO?” Barney cried. “Boris t’ Russian’ll be here in . . . what time IS it?”

Mick reached into his pocket for his watch. Not finding it immediately, he scowled.

“M-Mick?”

Mick O’Flynn’s gnarled fingers frantically moved through the pocket, searching for the watch. Not finding it in its customary place, he began a frenzied search of every pocket in the garments he wore. “M’ watch is GONE!”

“What’ll we do NOW?” Barney wailed.

“Not t’ worry! Matilda’s cookin’ up another batch o’ ‘vodka’ right now,” Barney said quickly.

“WHAT?! MICK, ARE Y’ DAFT?!??”

“Barney, wouldja PLEASE keep your voice down?” Mick clapped his hand over the young man’s mouth, effectively gagging him.

“R-right under t’ nose of t’ sheriff AN’ his deputy, t’ church minister, t’ stuck up Ladies Guild, ‘n most o’ the good folks o’ Virginia City?! Oh, Holy Mary Mother of God!” Barney moaned, as he once more crossed himself. “We’re dead!”

“No, we’re not!” Mick said sternly. “Now I want you to g’won out ‘n wait f’r Boris t’ Russian at t’ usual place, ‘n stall ‘im.”

“H-how long?”

“An hour, at least . . . longer if y’ can.”

“Mick, how’ll I know it’s an hour? We’ve NO watch!”

“Then just stall ‘im as long as y’ can,” Mick said quickly. “I’ve GOT t’ get back t’ Matilda. She’s workin’ on a whoppin’ big batch right now, ‘n y’ know how tetchy she gets.”

“Oh no!” Barney gasped, his hands automatically rising to cover his open, gaping mouth.

“She’s cookin’ up enough, I hope t’ fill half that bucket,” Mick said grimly.

For a moment, Barney’s entire body wavered.

“Buck up, Lad!” Mick seized his young protégée by the shoulders and shook him soundly. “T’ last thing I need right now is for y’ to be faintin’ dead away on me!”

“B-but, t’ last time we tried makin’ a big batch--- ”

“That’s ‘cause I wasn’t watchin’ properly!” Mick said severely. “I’m gonna be right there along side Matilda, nursin’ her through every step o’ t’ way. Now g’won.”

Barney nodded, then turned and bolted, beating a straight path to the door leading directly from the church basement outside.

“Franssshhhish, I’m thirsshtee,” Myrna O’Hanlan giggled. “Be a dear ‘n gimme some more punsshhh?”

“I think you’ve had quite enough o’ that punch, Myrna,” Francis said firmly.

“Bu’ I’m thirsshhh-teee,” Myrna pouted.

“Myrna . . . . ”

“If ‘n YOU won’ get it f’r me, I’ll geddit m’sshelf!” Myrna O’Hanlan shot right out of her seat. The sudden, upward thrusting motion sent the room spinning crazily before her eyes. She took a tentative step forward, her body wavering.

Francis O’Hanlan was at her side in an instant. “Myrna, f’r heaven’s sake!” He seized her by the shoulders and turned her back toward the chairs they had just occupied.

“Franssshhhisshh . . . . ”

Francis gently, yet very firmly sat her back down. “Myrna, what have y’ been imbibing BESIDES t’ punch?”

Her hands, clenched into tight fists, immediately and indignantly found her hips. She glared up at her husband, thoroughly outraged. “Whaddya mean?”

“I mean what are y’ imbibing besides t’ punch!”

Her eyes went round with shocked horror and indignation. “Franshish Sshhean O’Hanlan are y’ accusshhin’ ME o’--- ?!” she gasped, outraged.

“Yes, I am!”

“Never! Ah only drink whisshhkey for medishinul purposshhes!” She furiously shook her finger in his direction. “An’ well ya know dat, too, Mishter Franshish Shhhahawn O’Hanl’n!”

“Mister O’Hanlan?”

Francis looked up sharply and found himself staring into the grim face of Myra Danvers.

“The wedding cake has arrived.” Myra smiled, a tight cold mirthless smile.

“It’s about bloody time!” Francis muttered, rising.

“Mister O’Hanlan, I am dreadfully sorry about the mix up,” Myra offered her apology in a disparaging tone of voice. She sighed, and shook her head. “I TOLD Mrs. Murray that the cake was to be delivered here . . . to the church . . . at nine-forty-five this morning. ‘Nine forty-five?’ says she. ‘Yes,’ I told her. ‘Nine-forty-five.’ If I told her once, I must have told her a dozen times--- ”

“ ‘Tis alright,” Francis very pointedly cut her off. After the wholly unexpected turn of events during the ceremony . . . make that ceremoNIES, coupled his wife’s distressing bout of heat stroke, the last thing in the world he wanted to do right now was listen to a protracted Myra Danvers tirade. “ ‘Tis alright, no harm done. Least wise t’ cake is here NOW, ‘n--- ” His words abruptly terminated in a cry of pure astonishment. “M-Mrs. Danvers, that’s . . . that’s, ummm . . . quite a cake, if it’s an inch!” he stammered, the instant he once again recovered his voice.

Myra’s eyes reluctantly followed the line of Francis O’Hanlan’s gaze. Upon catching sight of the cake, her jaw dropped with a strangled, guttural cry.

The confectionary masterpiece was enormous, tiered with ten layers. The largest layer on the bottom had to have at least measured the height of an average man in diameter. Though iced with white icing, the roses, leaves, ribbon, and other confectionary trim was arrayed in a myriad of dazzling, brilliant colors. On top of the cake sat the customary figures of bride and groom. This bride figure, however, was quite voluptuous, with a pair of enormous, caricatured breasts, tightly ensconced in a skintight gown, with a neckline that plunged almost to her nipples. Her groom looked on with a very appreciative smile. The white cart, upon which the cake sat, was festooned with silk ribbons, hued in hued in the same bright, gaudy colors as the trim on the cake.

“I . . . I thought I’d asked y’ to order one big enough t’ serve between a hundred ‘n a hundred ‘n fifty! I’ll bet this one could serve TWENTY times that, ‘n still have lots left over! Madam, if this . . . this OUTRAGE is s’posed t’ be some kinda JOKE--- ”

“Mister O’Hanlan, that is NOT the cake I ordered!” Myra moaned softly. “It’s NOT!”

“ . . . and y’d best NOT be addin’ t’ cost o’ that monstrosity t’ my bill either,” Francis stated with a curt nod of his head for emphasis. “I’m more than willin’ to pay for the cake I asked for, mind--- ”

“Pa . . . Stacy . . . come ON!” Joe urged, grinning from ear-to-ear, as he came up from behind his father and sister, and gently linked his arms through theirs. “They’re getting ready to cut the wedding cake.”

“Finally!” Stacy exclaimed. “I hope it’s chocolate.”

Joe turned to his sister with a look of horror on his face so grotesque, it was almost comical. “A . . . A wedding cake that’s . . . ummm, what you just said?!” he queried, then vigorously shook his head. “No! You will never . . . EVER . . . see a . . . a wedding cake that’s . . . that’s wh-what you . . . j-just . . . said.”

“Why not?”

“ ‘Cause it’s terrible bad luck, Kiddo,” Joe replied with a melodramatic shudder. “In fact, I think it’s just about the worst kinda bad luck there is.”

“Why is having a choc---?!”

“Ssshhh!” Joe quickly hushed her. He cast a quick, furtive glance over his left shoulder, then over his right. “Stacy . . . y-you shouldn’t oughtta be saying a thing like that, NOT inside a church for heaven’s sake.”

“I shouldn’t be saying a thing like . . . what?” Stacy demanded, favoring her brother with a bewildered frown.

“A thing like . . . what . . . you, umm . . . just said,” Joe replied in a tone of voice a bit too solemn.

“You mean . . . ch---?”

“Sshhh!” Joe immediately shushed her once again. “Stacy Rose Cartwright, if Reverend Hildebrandt ever hears you say that . . . . ” He groaned, and rolled his eyes heavenward.

“Grandpa, if you don’t tell me why a ch--- . . . why MY favorite kinda cake’s bad luck for a wedding cake, and why I can’t say it in church, I’m gonna tickle you silly!” Stacy threatened.

“You mean to tell me you . . . that you don’t know the OTHER name for your favorite kind of cake?” Joe queried.

“WHAT other name?”

Joe glanced over his shoulder again, then bent down and whispered in her ear, “DEVILSfood.”

The look of horrified astonishment on Stacy’s face sent Joe into peals of laughter, dragging their father along with him. “Joseph Francis Cartwright, you made that up!” she accused.

“No . . . n-no, I didn’t!” Joe insisted. “Chocolate cake IS also known as devilsfood. It’s the truth, Kid . . . I swear . . . it’s the pure, unvarnished truth!”

“Pa?” Stacy queried, turning her attention to Ben.

“I . . . I can’t, ummm . . . vouch for anything ELSE your brother said, but he’s right about devilsfood cake being another name for chocolate cake,” Ben confirmed, as his laughter began to subside.

“They named it after YOU, ‘cause you love it so darn much,” Joe added, with a smug grin, “just like they named ANGEL food cake after ME because that’s MY favorite.”

“They did NOT!”

“They did SO!”

“That’s impossible!” Stacy argued. “Because if they HAD named angel food cake after you, they would’ve named it FALLEN angel food cake.”

Joe responded by sticking out his tongue.

Stacy returned the gesture.

“Alright, Children . . . I think you two need to settle down,” Ben said with an amused smile. “We ARE out in public, don’t forget and you need to conduct your--- ” His remaining words ended abruptly in a strangled gasp. Visions of the small cake, exquisitely decorated, lying crushed to a pulp beneath the door opening from the barroom into the back room at the Silver Dollar the night of the bachelor party began to dance through his head. “Oh no . . . please . . . no!” he whispered, as the blood drained right out of his face.

“Pa?” Stacy queried anxiously, placing a tentative hand on his arm.

Ben started violently. All of a sudden his eyes were no longer on the oversized wedding cake, with the figures of buxom bride and leering groom gracing its top tier, but on the anxious, apprehensive faces of his two younger children.

“Y-You alright?” Joe asked.

“F-fine,” Ben stammered. He placed a paternal hand on Joe’s right shoulder and on Stacy’s left, offering what he hoped was a reassuring smile. The deepening furrows, already creasing their brows, told him at once he had failed miserably. “I-I’m fine,” he said again, giving each a gentle squeeze. “Honest!”

Though neither Joe nor Stacy questioned him, he knew by the looks on their faces and in the quick, furtive exchange of glances, that they entertained grave doubts.

In the midst of the growing circle of wedding guests, come to toast the brides and the grooms and partake of the wedding cake, Hoss took up position next to his older brother. “Say, uhhh . . . Adam?” he queried softly, his eyes taking in the height and breadth of the ostentatious wedding cake rising up before them. “Y-You don’t s’pose . . . . ?!”

“I don’t suppose . . . what, Big Brother?” Adam asked in a complacent tone of voice.

“Oh yeah . . . . ” Hoss sighed, remembering that by the time they had gotten around to serving the cake, rather TRYING to serve the cake, at the party last night, Adam lay stretched out on one of the tables, snoozing deep in the cups of ‘Bombed Bay.’

“Hoss?” Adam prompted, as he turned and glanced over at his younger brother with left eyebrow slightly upraised.

“Nothin’, Adam, don’t pay me no never mind . . . . ” Hoss fervently hoped and prayed that the horrible suspicions now mushrooming with an almost sickening rapidity within his thoughts would prove very wrong.

“Gather ‘round, Ladies ‘n Gents, . . . please, gather ‘round . . . ‘n make sure your glasses are full,” Francis O’Hanlan beckoned everyone to come forward. He caught sight of his wife, glassy eyed and leaning heavily on their son for support, standing at the edge of the crowd.

Florence and Grace Hansen, along with other members of the Ladies’ Guild, dutifully circulated through the throng of wedding guests, now gathering about the cake, carrying trays of punch cups filled to the brim with the former’s special pink recipe.

“Ladies ‘n Gents, attention!” Francis called for order. “Attention, if y’ please!”

Gradually, the chattering faded to silence, as all eyes turned expectantly toward Francis O’Hanlan.

“First, Hoss Cartwright will toast Apollo and his new bride, m’ daughter, Colleen,” Francis announced. “After we drink to t’ health of Apollo ‘n Colleen, Adam Cartwright will give t’ toast for Matt ‘n Clarissa. Once we’ve drunk to THEIR health, both couples’ll cut this monster of a weddin’ cake.”

Hoss stepped forward, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m not much for pretty speeches ‘n all, ‘specially when I’m asked to do this all of a sudden, but here goes.” He raised his glass. “To Apollo ‘n Colleen, I’m pretty danged sure I speak f’r everyone here in wishin’ you both health, prosperity, good luck, a lotta happiness, an’ many, many years together t’ enjoy it all. Cheers!”

Hoss touched his punch cup to the newly wed Nikolases, then turned and clinked cups with Francis, then Molly.

“Big Brother, for a man who’s not much for pretty words, you do very well,” Adam complimented Hoss with a proud smile, as they touched glasses.

“Thank you, Adam. That’s high praise comin’ from YOU . . . . ”

Joe, Stacy, and Hop Sing raised their glasses in the general direction of Apollo and Colleen. Ben stood unmoving, punch cup in hand, his eyes glued to the cake.

“Mister Cartwright?” Hop Sing with increasing uneasiness scrutinized the pale, stricken face of his employer and old friend.

Ben started, nearly spilling the contents of the cup in hand.

“Hop Sing sorry for scaring Number One Boss of the Ponderosa,” Hop Sing murmured softly, as his own concern for Ben’s well being deepened. “Is Mister Cartwright sick?”

Ben shook his head. “N-no, Hop Sing, I’m fine, honest ‘n truly, I’m just fine,” he babbled. “I was just lost in thought, that’s all . . . . ”

“Whoa!” Stacy gasped, after taking a generous gulp from the pink liquid in her cup. “What’s IN this punch?”

“I dunno, but Hop Sing, I sure hope you can get the recipe,” Joe drained his cup, then licked his lips appreciatively. “This is without a doubt the best punch I’ve EVER had.”

Hop Sing, glared at the cup in his hand with open suspicion, then raised it to his nose and sniffed.

“What’s the matter, Hop Sing?” Ben queried, noting the grimace on the Chinese man’s face.

Hop Sing very gingerly brought the edge of the cup to his lips and took a tentative sip. “Holy smoke!” he exclaimed, his eyes wide with shocked astonishment. “Take pink stuff easy, Little Joe. This punch pack OWN punch!”

End of Part 5

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