Walker's Wedding Read online

  She sat down across from him. He couldn’t escape. He had to eat this.

  “Where’s yours?”

  “I’m not hungry. I’ve been too busy to think about eating.” She grinned, propping her chin on her tented hands. “I’ll just watch you enjoy your meal.”

  Walker took a bite of egg and toast and quickly chased it with a swallow of tepid amber liquid.

  He peered inside the cup. What was it? Coffee? Hot tea? “Where’s Flo? How come she didn’t fix breakfast?”

  Sarah smiled. “I gave her the day off. Since you’re not working today, I thought we might spend some time together. You’ve been so busy with planting that we’ve barely had a moment to talk about the baby.”

  He glanced up. “Are you…?”

  “I don’t know—but if not I will be soon.”

  “Isn’t it too early…?”

  “Becoming parents doesn’t require any specified length of time.”

  He never thought much about being a father, so he’d never contemplated the length of time it took to become one. He picked up a piece of bacon and studied it. “Time will tell. Once you conceive we’ll talk about it.”

  “All right. We’ll just spend a nice, relaxing day together.”

  Before they had gotten married, he hadn’t thought about what it would mean to have someone underfoot most of his waking hours. What would it be like when babies screamed to be fed, toddlers raced up and down the hallways, and older kids banged doors shut, yelling back and forth?

  Sarah stared at him expectantly, and it dawned on him that she was waiting for an answer. To what? He didn’t have the slightest idea. His mind raced. What had she been talking about? Babies? The house? New dresses?

  “Is that okay with you?” she said, still waiting. “For us to spend time together today? You said you were taking the day off.”

  “Oh.” That’s what she’d asked. “Yeah. Give me half an hour to catch up on my book work and then I’ll join you.”

  “Take all the time you need.”

  He took a bite of runny eggs and forced himself to swallow. “Your cooking is getting better every day.”

  A smile broke across her features. “You think so?”

  “Considerably better.” He excused himself a moment later.

  “I’ll be free as soon as I wash the dishes,” she called. “We can walk down by the river if you like.”

  Walker entered the study and picked up his cattle register. Rubbing his eyes, he edged toward his chair, listening to the third chorus of “Amazing Grace” as Sarah washed dishes. He smiled when he heard the back screen door flap. Brownie had escaped to the porch.

  Walker kept careful track of all his stock in the register: when they were born, bred, and sold. Caleb insisted. Easing down, he suddenly flapped his arms wildly, searching for a seat. He fell backward as the register dropped to the floor. He lay motionless for a moment, stunned. Then…

  “Sarah!”

  She darted out of the kitchen.

  He glared up at her but asked in a calm voice, “Did you move my chair again?”

  “Yes, I moved it this morning. The light is so much better by the window, Walker. I know you like the chair in its regular place, but I thought if you’d just sit in it once by the window, you’d love it.” She started picking up the scattered mail. “See how much better it is?”

  Groaning, he shut his eyes. “I’m moving it back and, Sarah, don’t, I repeat, don’t move it again.”

  “I don’t know what you’re so upset about. Why don’t you look before you sit down?”

  “I don’t want to look when I sit. I want to know my chair will be where I left it.”

  Sarah offered a hand up, which he refused as he pushed himself up from the floor. Giving her another short look, he moved the chair back to its usual place, sat down, and motioned for her to hand him the register.

  “Do you need something?” she asked

  “The register. It’s on the floor.”

  “I see it, but I’m not a dog. All you have to say is, Sarah, please hand me the register.”

  Burying his face in his hands, he said in a tight voice. “Sarah, please hand me the register.”

  “Of course.” She bent and retrieved the book.

  When he had found his place and began again, he noticed she was still there. He lifted his head.

  “Can I get you another cup of coffee?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you need your slippers?”

  “No.”

  She sighed. “Can I get you anything?”

  “My chair. In its proper place.”

  “I’m sorry about your chair—but really, Walker, you ought to look before you sit down.” She turned and went back to the kitchen, and for a blessed two full minutes, silence reigned. Walker sighed, settling deeper into the chair cushion.

  Before he had finished reviewing the information in the register about the new calves, she was back.

  “Are you going to the barn today?” He could see that she had something nestled in her apron.

  “I’m going to check on Diamond later.”

  “Good. You can take these.” Sarah opened her apron to reveal four bright red apples. “There’s one for each horse.” She dropped the fruit in Walker’s lap. He stared at the deposit.

  His wife turned and went back to the kitchen. Walker, holding the register and four apples, watched her disappear through the doorway. A few moments later, she returned.

  “I’m ready to go when you are, okay?”

  Walker nodded.

  When her singing started up again, he quickly shut the register and rose quietly, creeping to the hat rack. He needed a little space. Some time with the horses before they began their time alone.

  He slipped his boots on soundlessly, keeping an eye on the closed kitchen door. As the singing rose in pitch and intensity, he quickly grabbed the apples and sneaked out the front door to find shelter in the barn.

  He brushed all four mares and put them back into their stalls with an extra ration of hay. Spending time in the barn calmed him. Here he knew what to do; with Sarah, he didn’t. But he couldn’t spend the rest of his life hiding from his wife. He hung the picks and brushes back on the wall and then removed his hat and wiped his forehead, recalling his life before Sarah. Uncomplicated. Quiet.

  He walked toward the bunkhouse, his mind on Spring Grass now. The ranch had been his father’s pride and joy. The verdant, rolling hills stretched for miles. He inhaled the warm air, sweet from newly turned soil, and realized that regardless of the change in lifestyle, he was happy. Sarah’s ways were different, but for some insane reason she didn’t bother him most days. If she would just leave his chair alone they would get along fine. It was nice to have her around in the evening. She tatted while he read. He’d never thought to ask her about her former life, where she was raised and educated. Were her folks still living? Did she have brothers and sisters? So far she hadn’t offered a scrap of information regarding her private life, and he knew little more than that she came from Boston.

  He reached S.H. and Flo’s cabin as S.H. was leaving.

  “Where are you off to?”

  “Flo’s supplies are runnin’ low. What are you doin’ today?”

  “Sarah thinks we need to spend the day together.”

  The old man winked. “Now, what can newlyweds find to occupy their time?”

  Flo’s voice sounded from the kitchen. “Git on with yer business, S.H. Quit teasin’ the poor man!”

  “Morning, Flo,” Walker called. Inside, he found the housekeeper busy making new curtains. Bolts of shiny checked material were spread across the kitchen table. The woman looked up. “Thought you and Sarah planned to spend the day together.”

  “We’re going to. I wanted to check on Diamond.”

  “By the way, Sarah moved your chair again this morning.”

  “I noticed.”

  Flo shook her head. “She wants to help, but she don’t know how.”
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  “I don’t understand it, Flo. The ad promised an experienced housekeeper. Either her pa lied, or the Mallorys have a different idea of experienced than we do.”

  “Well, now. She’s not a Mallory. She told you so the day she got off the train.”

  “Yes—I forgot. Some sort of mistake at the agency.”

  “So she says.”

  He glanced up. “You don’t believe her?”

  “I ain’t got a problem with her other than she’s underfoot. She cramps my style, but I can live with it if you can.”

  Walker frowned. “Her name isn’t important.”

  “If that’s your feelin’, Walker, then I’d stay with it for a while.” She bit off a thread. “Can’t never tell how soup is going to turn out until it’s done.”

  For a moment, silence dominated the room. Walker took off his hat, absently tapping his forefinger against the crown. “Given time, she’ll improve, won’t she?”

  “The poor thing tries hard enough.” Flo bent close to the table, her scissors rhythmically cutting the fabric. “Don’t suppose you’ve taken a likin’ to her.”

  Walker turned toward the counter and poured a cup of orange juice.

  Eyeing him, Flo grinned. “Not going to answer?”

  “Flo, do you have any dime novels? Sarah said something the other night about liking to read them.”

  “I may have a few.” She laid the scissors aside and disappeared into the bedroom. Walker heard her sorting through the trunk at the foot of the bed, and a few minutes later, she returned with a stack of books.

  “These ought to keep her busy.”

  Walker studied the covers, frowning. They looked like love stories. He took one off the top, read part of a scene, and then snorted and threw it back. “Got anything else?”

  Flo laughed. “Men. Not a romantic bone in their bodies.”

  Walker took the books, thanked Flo, and walked back to the main house.

  Strains of “Amazing Grace” met him at the door. He was tempted to ask Sarah if she knew any other hymns but thought better of it. She was making her way down the stairs with a basket of Walker’s clothes tucked beneath her arm.

  “You’re back.” She spotted the books. “What are those?”

  “I thought you might like to read these. They’re dime novels. They belong to Flo—”

  “Love stories?” She took the last steps easily and then set down the basket. “That’s so thoughtful of you, Walker. I love to read.”

  “You actually read this stuff?”

  She frowned. “I have a romantic side. Does that bother you?”

  “No, of course not. I wouldn’t have brought them for you if it did.”

  Sarah scanned the covers. “I mostly read magazines back in Boston, when I had the time.”

  “Flo says to keep them as long as you need. She’s read them all twice.”

  Sarah reached for a book and thumbed through it. “Thank you again, Walker. That was most thoughtful.”

  “I’ll be ready to go shortly.”

  “I packed a picnic lunch. We can eat by the river.”

  “Fine. I’ll be ready when you are.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  That evening Sarah and Flo washed the dishes while Walker and S.H. escaped to the front porch. The sun hung low as it found its bed for the night, bathing the two-story home in a golden light. The men sat quietly, Walker on the swing and S.H. in a wicker chair with his feet propped on the ledge. Neither spoke at first, surrounded by the soft chirrup of crickets and the horses’ nickers as they settled in their stalls.

  “Been quite a day,” S.H. said.

  Hat tipped over his face, Walker murmured, “Can’t remember a harder day off. Not since I was a small boy and Ma made me spend Saturdays working in the house. It’s going to take me a while to get the hang of marriage.” Sarah was good company, but Walker wasn’t accustomed to doing nothing. Didn’t suit his nature.

  S.H. chuckled, settling deeper into his chair. Inside the house, dishes clattered and the melody of the women’s conversation drifted to them.

  Walker sat up and reached over to set his hat on the railing, barely missing a caterpillar working its way along the edge. He watched it reach the end of the post and inch up the side of the house. As it paused, a flutter of white caught the corner of his eye from the direction of the barn.

  He straightened, squinting against the setting sun. “S.H., is that a chicken over by the barn?”

  S.H. sat up for a closer look. The men watched the chicken get up, take a few steps, and flop back down.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Don’t know.”

  The bird staggered back to its feet, wobbled in a wide circle, and then hit the ground again, occasionally ruffling its feathers.

  The men got up and leaned over the railing for a better look.

  Three more chickens staggered out of the barn.

  “Are they sick?”

  “They weren’t an hour ago.”

  Walker stepped off the porch as the coop door swung open, spilling a dozen more hens and the rooster, all flapping and squawking. S.H. followed him down the steps, frowning.

  “I’ll be. Ain’t never seen anything like it. It’s almost like they’re—uh-oh.”

  Walker turned to look at him. “Uh-oh? What’s ‘uh-oh’ mean?”

  S.H. lunged for a chicken and the bird hopped away, stumbling out of reach.

  Wading into the flock, Walker tried to snare one. “It’s like they are drunk.”

  “I think they are. Sarah was wantin’ to help earlier, so I told her she could feed the horses. She must have gotten into my mash.” S.H. grabbed for a hen and missed.

  “Moonshine mash? S.H., I’ve told you I don’t want you making or drinking that stuff on my property. Flo’s going to have your head on a platter someday.”

  “I know. It’s a powerful bad habit, one the Lord don’t approve of, but this hankering comes over me…If Flo finds out I’m makin’ moonshine, she’ll nail my hide to the outhouse.”

  The two men sneaked up on the inebriated chickens one at a time. The fading light made it difficult to see, and Walker stumbled over a grain bucket, startling a hen he was about to nab. She bolted away, eyes glassy, sides heaving. He made a dive and caught her, and then he put her back in the coop.

  “If Flo sees us, I’m dead.” S.H. grabbed another hen by the leg and pinned her to the ground. The bird stared at him in wonder. Then feathers flew and she squawked as he carried her to the pen.

  The men froze when Flo lifted the kitchen window and shouted, “S.H? What’s going on out there?”

  “Just settling the chickens,” S.H. shouted back. He shot Walker a desperate look.

  “They ain’t gone to roost yet?” Flo yelled.

  “They’re gettin’ there!”

  Two hens had made it all the way to the porch and were assessing the steps. Their heads wobbled precariously on their feathered shoulders. Walker quietly approached the closest one.

  “You take the other one,” he whispered. S.H. reached for the first hen just as the porch door flew open.

  “S.H., why are my hens putting up such a ruckus?” Flo stood in the doorway, Sarah peering over her shoulder. “S.H.?”

  He straightened with a sheepish grin. “Nothin’s going on, sugar. We’ll be there in a minute.”

  Flo eyed the hen flapping behind his back.

  “Why aren’t those hens roosting?” she asked. “It’s nearly dark.”

  “Well, they don’t seem to be feelin’ too good,” he said. The hen set up another squawk, feathers flying the air.

  Stepping onto the porch, Flo put her hands on her hips. “S.H. Gibson, what’s goin’ on out here? You two look like naughty boys caught with a hand in the cookie jar.”

  Walker caved in first. “They’re drunk, Flo.”

  S.H. glared at him. Then he and Walker both faced her wrath, each holding a chicken that, apparently thinking it had successfully roosted, appear
ed to be asleep.

  “Drunk!” she bellowed.

  “Drunk?” Sarah echoed. “Chickens drink hard liquor?”

  S.H. tried to absolve himself. “Now, Flo, honey, I know you’re not going to like it, but I bought a little mash in town today—it’s my last, sugar pie. Bought it from Babe Jensen, and I was gonna tell ya, but I didn’t want ya to yell at me.” He glanced at Walker pleadingly. “I don’t know how the chickens got into it.”

  “Of all the—” Flo began. “Did you feed it to them?”

  “Me! No, I wouldn’t make a mistake like that, honey bunch.”

  Three pairs of eyes swiveled to Sarah.

  Sarah’s hands flew to her cheeks.

  Walker eyed her. “Sarah?”

  “What does mash look like?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  Sarah swallowed. “S.H. allowed me to feed the horses earlier and…”

  “Oh, mercy.” Walker dropped his chicken. Squawking, she rolled onto her side. “Not the horses too!”

  “No!” Sarah exclaimed. “I know I fed them oats. I know what oats look like.” Color flooded her cheeks. “But when I was looking for the oats, I opened another barrel and…I may have forgotten to shut the lid.”

  S.H. was in the doghouse with Flo, and Walker had a coop full of drunken poultry.

  Sarah’s bottom lip quivered. She looked at the unconscious chicken under S.H.’s arms and the one lying peacefully in the dirt. “Are they going to die?”

  “Mash isn’t going to kill them, but they’re gonna have a mean hangover come morning.” Walker bent to pick up a limp bird. “I wouldn’t use the eggs tomorrow, Flo.”

  Whirling, Flo marched back into the house and slammed the door. Sarah sank onto the porch swing, stunned.

  “Guess I know where I’ll be roostin’ tonight,” S.H. grumbled. He adjusted his hen and started for the barn.

  Sarah glanced at Walker. By the look on his face, he was ready to buy her a train ticket back East. She had taken pains not to crowd him today, had done everything she could to make the outing successful, and now this happened. Granted, it had been foolish of her to leave the lid off that mash barrel, but it wasn’t a hanging offense. She was getting a little tired of feeling inept. She might not have been born and reared on a ranch, she might not be the most experienced cook or housekeeper, but she tried, and Walker should be grateful that she loved him enough to want to learn. Tears welled in her eyes, falling unchecked down her cheeks.