Too Good to Be True - Kristan Higgins [105]
“Hey, I met a guy in court and thought you might want his number,” Margaret said, aiming her rifle at a Union soldier.
“Oh, wait, don’t fire,” I said. “Snowlight will fall asleep if you do. He has narcolepsy.” I patted the pony’s neck fondly.
“Gentle Jesus of the three iron nails, Grace,” Margs muttered. She pointed her gun at the soldier and said, without much conviction, “Bang.” The soldier, well aware of my steed’s shortcomings, fell with obliging dramatics, clawed the ground for a few seconds, then lay tragically still. “So, should I have him call you?”
“Well, actually, I don’t think I’ll be needing anyone’s number,” I said.
“Why?” Margs asked. “Did you find someone?”
I looked at her and smiled. “Callahan O’Shea.”
“Holy shit,” she yelped, her face incredulous. At that moment, Grady Jones, a pharmacist by day, fired a cannon from fifty yards away, and Margaret dropped dutifully to the ground. “You slept with him!” she exclaimed. “With Callahan, didn’t you?”
“A little quieter, please, Margaret, you’re supposed to be dead, okay?” I dismounted from Snowlight and gave him a carrot from my pocket, stalling so I could talk to my sister. “And, yes, I did. Last night.”
“Oh, shit.”
“What?” I asked. “What about ‘Grace, you deserve some fun’?”
Margaret adjusted her rifle so she wasn’t lying on it. “Grace, here’s the thing. You do deserve fun. You definitely do. And Callahan is probably a tremendous amount of fun.”
“He is. So what’s the problem?”
“Well, fun’s not really what you’re looking for, is it?”
“Yes! It…well, what do you mean?”
“You. You’re looking for happily ever after. Not a fling.”
“Quiet down! You’re supposed to be dead!” snapped a passing Union soldier.
“This is a private conversation,” Margaret snapped back.
“This is a battle,” he hissed.
“No, honey, this is called pretending. I hate to break it to you, but we’re not really in the Civil War. If you’d like to feel a bit more authentic, I’d be happy to stick this bayonet up your ass.”
“Margaret! Stop. He’s right. Sorry,” I said to the Union soldier. Luckily, I didn’t know him. He shook his head and continued, only to be shot a few yards later.
I looked back down at my sister, who had draped her arm across her face to shield her eyes from the sun. “About Callahan, Margs. He happens to be looking for the whole shmere, too. Marriage, a couple of kids, a lawn to mow. He said so.”
Margaret nodded. “Well. Good for him.” She was quiet for a minute. Shots rang in the distance, a few cries. In another minute, I’d have to remount Snowlight, join a reconnaissance party and catch a little friendly fire in the arm, resulting in a gruesome amputation and my eventual death, but I lingered a little longer, the sun beating on my head, the sharp, sweet scent of grass rising all around us.
“One more thing, Gracie.” Margaret paused. “Did Callahan ever tell you exactly what happened with his embezzlement?”
“No,” I admitted. “I’ve asked once or twice, but he hasn’t told me.”
“Ask again,” she advised.
“Do you know?” I asked.
“I know a little. I did some digging.”
“And?” I demanded.
“He ever mention a brother to you?” Margaret asked, sitting up and squinting at me.
“Yes. They’re estranged.”
Margaret nodded. “I bet they are. It seems the brother was the president of the company Cal embezzled from.”
God’s nightgown! I guess my stupefaction showed, because Margaret reached out to pat my shin. “Ask, Grace. I bet he’ll come clean now, since you’re bumping uglies and all.”
“Such a way with words. No wonder juries love you,” I murmured automatically.
“General Jackson! Your opinion is required over here!” called my father, and so I remounted and left my sister to nap in the grass.
For the rest of the battle, my mind fretted over Margaret’s little bombshell, and though I went through