Something Borrowed, Something Blue

Greenhorn Groom

that same sunday, around noon. with her hopeful groom.

Every nerve and muscle and tendon in Addison's body is wound up like a spring, and he fidgets with his cufflinks and turns them and feels about the designs engraved into the gold. He's going to be married, and [Name] Little is going to be his wife.

He's going to marry her.

It's almost unreal, and so he pinches himself, but he's not dreaming. He is—really and truly and actually—walking to his place before the altar and preparing to marry the most beautiful, wonderful girl in the entire town—perhaps, even, the world. She loves him, and it's surprising and fantastic and warms his heart just as nicely as he could've hoped it would. She's so sweet and clever and kind, and the taste of her lips is as warm and soft as her affection. She sits and she listens and she never has anything dull to say, and there's nothing quite so wonderful as sharing a thought with her—chatting about things big and small and all the medium bits what fall between. Her face is as lovely as a flower's, and he'll gaze into her thoughtful eyes for all the rest of his life; he'll have the pleasure of holding her at night, of making her his and his alone, and he'll be hers.

She loves him, and that bounty hunter fellow was nothing but a tangent. How could he have ever been anything more?

Father and Stepmother sit near the front, and Petey has the rings, and everything's unfolding just as it should.

Addison makes one last lookover and passes by a man what stands near the back of the church, and he pauses to offer the fellow a polite hello, but the man what's leaned himself up against the wall is none other than Jude Blackburn. He's an odd little decoration—sticks out like a sore thumb against the pretty flowers and twirling bands of fabric and ribbons. The bounty hunter's got his head lowered and his arms crossed, and he's staring hard at the toes of his boots, glaring at them like they might try and stab him in the back. The rifle and pistol he always carries have been left outside, and now the only bits of metal on him are his spurs and buttons, which is an odd sight for a man what treats his guns like they're a piece of his own flesh.

What the Hell is Jude doing here? He doesn't go to church—might not even know what a prayer is, let alone how to make one.

He must've gotten word about the wedding from somebody in town, but then why in God's name did he show up? Ms. Little doesn't want anything to do with him. In a few more hours, Ms. Little's going to be Mrs. Bishop in the eyes of the Lord.

Addison pauses, and a frown starts rising to his lips, but then he says, in a tone that's more of a question than a greeting, "How do you do?"

Jude doesn't look up from his boots, doesn't show a single sign he'd heard Addison, but the scowl pulling at the bounty hunter's lips slightly sours, and he raises a hand and rubs at the stubble that darkens his chin and jaw.

"Somethin' the matter, Addison?" inquires another man, and Addison turns and finds Sheriff Masterson staring back at him. The older man's drawing nearer, and his sharp eyes are shifting to Jude, but Jude's got no trouble with the law. Nothing what the sheriff can jail him for, anyhow.

Jude shifts his weight and turns his head ever so slightly, but Addison's chest is all light and warm and wound up, and it'd be awful selfish of him to ruin his fiancée's special day.

"Oh, no," Addison replies. He fixes his glasses and offers the sheriff a little smile, but his belly's rife with butterflies and nervous electricity crackles in his veins. "Not at all."

The sheriff nods his head, and out of the corner of his eye, Addison sees Jude settle back against the wall of the church, but just as the sheriff is moving to return to his seat, Mrs. Little comes bursting through the church doors. [Name]'s friend, Patty, follows at the older woman's heels, and then comes Audrey, who's clutching some pieces of jewelry like someone had tried to take them from her.