Free 6 The Wedding by Melanie Jackson Page A

Winnipeg’s entire supply of
orchids.”
    “Oh no.”
    “But no worries. Remember, I have
connections.”
    “Yes, what does that mean?”
    “I show you.” Misha pulled a phone from his pocket and
dialed a preset number. “I waited for you to arrive before making call.”
    Danny interpreted the statement to mean the Russian
suspected he would not show.
    Someone answered the phone and Misha replied in Russian. After
several more exchanges using the same language, Misha burst into a broad smile
and flashed a thumbs-up to the Wings. But then an argument broke out. Danny
could tell it was an argument without knowing a word of the language. Misha
held a hand over the cell phone to speak with the Wings in private.
    “Have you got five thousand dollars?” he asked innocently.
    “Heck no, I don’t have that kind of capital.”
    Misha returned to his phone conversation and began swearing
in Russian. Again, Danny could recognize swearing in most any language when he
heard it.
    “You’ll owe me,” Misha said congenially during a quick aside
while listening.
    When the phone conversation eventually concluded, Misha was
his old affable self again.
    “This afternoon, we fly to Winnipeg.”
    “What for?”
    “For orchids, what else?”
    “But you said there were no orchids to be had.”
    “But I also said I have connections.”

 
    *   *   *

 
    I closed the door on Wendell and resisted the urge to beat
my head on the wall. I knew that he meant well, but I didn’t want to go
hunting. I don’t like hunting. The Mountie doesn’t like hunting. And I was
getting tired of being told we needed to go into the forest and bring back food
for the wedding feast. I knew it was traditional but I had other concerns at
that moment.
    Like finishing my dress.
    I turned to stare at the pile of satin that I had come to
resent. The index finger of my left hand throbbed where it had been stabbed
dozens of times.
    “Fine. Come on, Max. We’re going to
get us a wedding feast and they better not complain about what kind,” I said,
reaching for my rifle, an empty backpack, and a mesh bag.
    Max woo-wooed happily. If I have a
gun it means we are going into the woods.

 
    *   *   *

 
    Fiddling Thomas frowned. He had broken his second E string by
winding it too tight and it was because he was a bundle of nerves. It wasn’t
that he was shy about playing—heavens no! Playing came as naturally as drawing
breath. But this was a wedding. He hadn’t played at a wedding before.
    The selection of music was important. The ceol was their
history, the words of their ancestors remembered on important occasions. It
wasn’t just what their people had had to say—it was how they said it. The
passion and intent needed to be perfect. And he wanted to sing the songs in
both Gaelic and English so that the Mountie would understand them too.
    But that was also very difficult. Fiddling Thomas looked at
the notes he had written so far.

 
    The hand that writes is not
permanent.
Nor is the memory that the hand wrote down.
The flowers that bloom now are transient too
As is the corn in the silo and the cow in the field.

 
 
    Was this adequate? It would have to be. He knew of no other
way to express the sentiments of the songwriter, gone these many hundreds of
years.

 
    *   *   *

 
    He was beautiful, a four-point buck standing right in the
middle of my sights. Beside me, Max quivered with excitement,
his urge to howl only barely contained. He kept silent though, testament
to Wendell’s training.
    I sighed and lowered the gun. My backpack was already full.
I had enough for our needs.
    “Sorry, Max, but I can’t do it. I wouldn’t be able to carry
the deer back anyway, and I won’t kill something if half of it is going to go
to waste.”
    Besides, I had conveniently forgotten to bring any
butchering tools with me, so I wouldn’t be carrying back even part of a deer.
And that suited me fine.
    “Let’s head down to the creek. I think I