Read Solomon's Oak for Free Online Page B

things until I get my Nikon?”
    “I photographed crime scenes. I don’t do people.”
    Glory held out her hands. “How hard can it be? Just try not to make anyone look dead. I’ll pay you whatever you think is fair. My future is riding on this wedding.”
    “If they come out terrible, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
    “For crying out loud, just shoot! Pictures!”
    He lifted his camera and, hallelujah, began snapping.
    She raced into the house for the Nikon. While she fumbled loading obsolete film into a relic, she wondered why this man would be wandering around her little ranch on a national holiday instead of being at home drinking beer and watching some sports event with his kids and family.
    By the time she returned, the fight was winding down. Angus was red-faced and winded. The bride pulled her dagger, pointed it at her kidnapper’s rear end, and gave him a poke. “Weigh anchor, you ruffian! Unhand me.”
    “I’ll have ye know I’m a picaroon, first-class!”
    “And I be the direct descendant of Gracie O’Malley!”
    The servers were now cheering on the bad guy, but in the middle of them, Glory saw Juniper standing there quietly, hands at her sides, expressionless. Poor kid. Glory bet she had never envisioned her Thanksgiving holiday to feature guns and swordplay. Glory would call Caroline as soon as the wedding was over; she needed to make sure Caroline was really finding another placement for the girl.
    The rival pirate plucked a white handkerchief from his pocket. Angus speared it with his sword. “She’s mine again, as she always were,” he announced, and the guests began filing back into the chapel for the remainder of the ceremony.
    Vows: thirty minutes late, check.
    Glory followed the cop photographer into the chapel. When the bride and groom were back in place at the altar, he resumed taking pictures. On the other side of the chapel Glory took her own pictures, keeping in mind she had thirty-six shots, not the unlimited number she would have had on a digital.
    “Vows, please,” the minister said.
    Angus unrolled a lengthy parchment and the guests groaned. “What?” he said. “I learned ta read special for this moment.” He cleared his throat. “I, Captain General Angus McMahan, aka Mad Dog, take thee, my fine wench with the stout right hook, as me heart, me soul, and sole reason for plunderin’. I promises to love ye and honor ye; to make ye laugh when yer feelin’ out of sorts, love thee through scurvy and fire, in wealth or poverty, and when I speak of treasure, as I am wont to do, everyone within the sound of me voice will know that what I am really speaking about is thee. All of this will I undertake until there are no horizons left to chase and the rum is gone.”
    Glory looked at Mrs. Brown, who held a tissue to her eyes. The ex-cop or whatever he was quietly made his way to the front of the chapel and took close-ups.
    “Oh, Mad Dog,” Karen began, reading from her own scroll. “Me salty jack with a crooked smile that matcheth yer business dealings … ”
    In a week Karen would be back at her paralegal job and Angus would return to managing the college bookstore. Glory would have put their check to good use—the mortgage, another payment to the hospital, and having the vet out to see to the goats and horses, who were due for shots. She’d put $1,000 into her savings account and pray that her truck could go a few more months without new tires. There were always sales in January.
    The best man untied the white satin ribbons from the pillow and handed the candy rings to the kids. Angus and Karen exchanged wedding bands. Using the ribbon from the pillow, the minister bound the groom’s left hand to the bride’s right hand. “Whether plundered or purchased retail, a ring is a circle that never ends. Whom God hath joined this day, with the help of Poseidon and many questionable individuals as witnesses, let no one break apart. Now, we have need of a besom, please.”
    The