The Wedding Cake War

There it was. Bodwin’s Mercantile. She pushed open the door and bypassed a bushel basket of apples perched on top of a pickle barrel. The thought of food, even a tiny bite of apple, sent her stomach into rebellion.

“Something I can do for you, miss?” The lanky man behind the counter wiped his hands on his denim apron and leaned toward her. He had a breakfasty smell about him, as if he had a grilled sausage in his pocket.

Lolly gulped. “Yes, I—”

“Got just about everything in stock ’cept skunk traps and silver-tipped walking sticks.”

“Do you carry ladies’ outerwear?”

He surveyed her with penetrating blue eyes. “New in town, aren’tcha?”

Lolly swallowed. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, now, ma’am. Anybody’s lived here more’n twenty-four hours knows Dora Mae Landsfelter.”

“Yes, I am acquainted with Mrs. Landsfelter.”

“Well, then, you know why we don’t carry ladies’ outerwear. Or un-outerwear, neither.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” Lolly said. “What has your mercantile stock to do with Mrs. Landsfelter?” She sensed a story here, maybe an amusing one, if she could worm it out of the shopkeeper. She could use a bit of levity this morning; her head buzzed as if it were crammed full of angry grasshoppers.

The lean man chuckled. “Name’s Joshua Bodwin, ma’am. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Leora Mayfield.”

“Oh, yes. You’re one of the brides. I recognize you from the reception last night.”

“You do?” She desperately hoped it was the first part of the evening, and not the last, which she had spent dangling from the arms of Colonel Macready.

“Yep. Kellen Macready pointed you out.”

“He did? What did he s-say?” Lolly’s voice cracked.

Mr. Bodwin grinned. “That you were partial to my applejack. I make it myself, don’tcha know. And deliver it to the hotel for their fancy do’s. I was hopin’ ’tweren’t too potent for womenfolk.”

“Oh, no,” Lolly fibbed. “It tasted quite wonderful. So…relaxing for a social gathering.”

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