He went out to the barn and found George. George was a jack of all trades around the ranch and most of all he was Lance's confidant. He needed someone to talk to that wouldn't carry tales.
George was grooming one of the horses when he came in. He was one of the oldest hands and Lance always trusted his judgement. Even as a boy he sought him out for advice. Nothing had changed.
George was a short man, stocky, and full of life. He had brown-greying hair, and brown eyes, and was a meticulous hand. George had worked for his father years ago, and he'd been his only real confidant in all those growing up years. "Hey boss, what are you doin' back so early?"
Lance took a deep breath, "Can we talk?"
"Sure, let's go inside there," George pointed to the supply shed.
He knew his boss was troubled about something and he always lent an ear and advice if he had any.
When Lance told him what had happened, George was a bit confused. "She didn't stop the wedding?"
"No, she said my kisses discombobbled her." Lance smiled. "And that I didn't give her a chance, I was talking up a blue streak, nerves, I guess.
"Well, that's a good sign."
"What do you mean?"
"She must be some woman if you were kissing her before the wedding."
"Well, George, I thought I'd been writing to her for the last two years. I thought she was Priscilla. I thought she'd expect a warm greeting. Especially since I was about to marry her."
"Obviously, but I thought you had a picture of her."
"I did. But it was fuzzy, she had dark hair in the picture. It's just when I saw her get off the train, in that dress, she looked so beautiful. I mean that dress looked like a wedding dress. What was I to think?"
"So, she didn't throw a fit, and you married the cook?"
"That's about the size of it."
"So, what you gonna do?"
"I'm not sure." Lance started pacing. "I'm not at all sure." He paused and smiled sadly at George. "She told me she came from Irish slaves to this country."
George's mouth flew open and he turned his head. "Irish slaves. I've heard of them up north, but I'd thought it had died out long ago."
"It did, basically, but when you come as a slave and then released, look how the blacks do, they still live in shacks, not making much progress. George, her mother scrubbed floors, and when she died, Trudy scrubbed floors too."
"Poor little gal."
"My thinking exactly."
"Do you love this Priscilla?"
Lance glanced at him, "I thought I did. But I've been so tied in knots the past two weeks, and then this happened."
"She's a real looker, huh?"
"She is that." His voice belied an interest. "She's got hair like some angel, George, it's so long, and black and curly. And the bluest of eyes."
George stared at him now with a smile.
"Why didn't the real bride come?"
"I don't know. After the wedding and I found out what happened, I wired Priscilla, haven't gotten an answer yet."
George shook his head and smiled, "Well, you got a problem. Any time you got two women on a string, you got a problem boy. Your married to this one. You're not, to the other. Which one you like the best?" George asked.