Walker's Wedding Page 6

  The customary exchange took place between the happy couple. Sarah sliced the cake and fed Walker a bite. He did the same, his eyes meeting hers over the tip of the fork. The sincerity in her gaze puzzled him. She was like a breath of fresh air to a stale room. Why was she here? And why would a woman like her need to marry a stranger?

  It was late when guests began departing. Parents loaded children into buckboards and wagons, while others, reluctant to give up the merriment, danced beneath the full moon. The musicians seemed ready to play all night, if necessary.

  The bride had disappeared upstairs earlier. Walker stood beside the barn, his eyes focused on the lamp burning in the upstairs window. Sarah would be getting ready for bed, brushing her hair, putting on a white silk gown…

  Desire rose in him. But a whisper of fear was there too. Sarah was an outsider. The trick would be to allow her into his life but still keep a safe distance emotionally, so he wouldn’t fall too hard and be burned again. A man didn’t have to love a woman to live with her. He could spend the next fifty years with her in the house and never give her his heart. The deed was done. He and Sarah Livingston were man and wife. There was no going back now, even if he could. He headed for the house.

  When he tapped on the bedroom door, Sarah answered with a soft, “Enter.”

  Candlelight spilled over the pristine sheets. His bride was sitting in the middle of the bed, waiting for her groom, her hair falling to her waist. Sarah McKay’s gaze fastened on him, issuing a silent but unmistakable invitation.

  “Are the guests gone?”

  “A few are still dancing.” He glanced at her, unbuttoning his shirt. He was surprised when she watched, her eyes brimming with interest. Peeling the shirt off, he tossed it on the chair atop her wedding gown.

  She slid out of bed, padding over to him. Meeting his gaze, she smiled. Then her fingertips skimmed featherlight over the scars on this chest. She frowned. “Do they hurt?” When he didn’t answer, she looked up at him and said softly, “It’s the wife’s duty to be concerned for her husband, isn’t it?”

  “I believe it is.” He reached out to take her in his arms.

  “Am I too bold?” she asked, hesitancy creeping into her voice.

  “No, ma’am,” he whispered.

  “Good,” she whispered back. “I only want to please you.”

  He was aware of the sounds of “The Missouri Waltz” drifting through the open window. He doubted he’d ever hear the melody again without remembering this night and this woman. Their mouths met, and his last coherent thought seemed odd.

  For the first time in my life, S.H.’s nagging makes sense.

  Chapter Nine

  Stirring, Sarah shielded her eyes against the sunlight as she reached for Walker. Morning rays fell across the empty pillow where he’d lain beside her all night, his breathing slow and even. She smiled, quietly humming “The Missouri Waltz,” which had unofficially become their wedding song. She was a wife—and hopefully she would be a mother soon. She lifted her head and her sleepy gaze scanned the room. She was alone.

  Her wedding dress lay next to Walker’s rumpled suit. It was hard to imagine that a day earlier, in this very room, Flo had been helping her dress, careful that every hair was in place. She smiled at the thought of Walker’s “barbecue” wedding, recalling the sights and sounds, the guests celebrating long into the night.

  At least that part of her dream had remained intact. The only thing more exciting than the wedding had been the wedding night—her first night as Mrs. Walker McKay.

  The door opened softly and Walker came in carrying a tray of steaming coffee and cinnamon rolls from the kitchen. When he saw that she was awake, color crept up his neck and he mumbled a good morning.

  “I thought you might want to sleep in,” he said, setting the tray on the cedar chest at the end of the bed. “Yesterday was a big day.”

  She eyed the tray. “Do you cook too?”

  “Flo left the rolls for us. I made the coffee. Hope you like it strong, with cream.”

  A man who didn’t like his coffee black. That was a refreshing change. Propping herself up on her elbows, Sarah tucked the sheet under her arms.

  “I like it any way you do.” When she first came to Spring Grass, she could barely drink the coffee that was thick enough to spear with a fork. Over the past few days she had grown used to the murky black liquid and actually started to enjoy her morning cup with Flo.

  She muffled a weary yawn. “Yesterday was quite a day, with the barbecue and all.” Their eyes met and she grinned impishly. Walker sat down at the foot of the bed, his shirt open just far enough to reveal his thick thatch of curly, dark brown hair interspersed with red scars. Her throat closed, realizing how close he’d come to death. Flo had said it was a miracle that the bull hadn’t killed him.

  God had spared him for her.

  “Sorry. I wanted to make sure—” he began.

  “The bride showed up?” She sipped her coffee, watching his reaction over the rim of the cup. At least he had the decency to look apologetic. “Wild horses couldn’t have stopped me from being there. There was one tiny problem, though.”

  Walker frowned. “What’s that?”

  She leaned toward him and murmured, “I felt a little overdressed.”

  Walker responded, meeting her halfway. Their mouths were mere inches apart. “How do you feel right now?”

  “Happy. Incredibly happy.” She closed the distance for his kiss, sighing with pleasure.

  Later, Sarah returned the cold coffee and untouched cinnamon rolls to the kitchen, and decided that she would enjoy married life. Immensely. Immeasurably.

  Chapter Ten

  I don’t want to be underfoot, but that chair would look much better by this window.”

  Flo, a hand on her hip, stood by as Sarah bustled around the room cleaning up the final reminders of the previous day’s wedding. She’d been as busy as a one-armed wallpaper hanger all afternoon, dusting, polishing, and rearranging. Considering the pinched look on Flo’s face, she was getting on the housekeeper’s nerves.

  “Can’t understand all the fuss. I’ve cleaned for the McKays all these years. I don’t know why all of a sudden things need changin’.” Flo sidestepped as Sarah eased past, clutching a broom and a dustpan. “I dust the parlor every morning, but with the extra work lately, getting ready for the wedding, I hadn’t had time—”

  “Oh, Flo, I don’t want to interfere. I know you’ve kept this home forever, but it’s my home now, and I’d feel dreadful having you do all the work.” She swatted an imaginary dust bunny. “Really, don’t you think the chair would look better over here?” She stood by the side window. “We can go into town and look for material for new drapes. Then we could change out the lamps—”

  “Whoa! Walker’s a generous man, but he likes his home the way it is.”

  Sarah frowned. “But the drapes are faded—and those old lamps are outdated.” She didn’t understand Walker’s modest lifestyle when he apparently had all the resources he’d ever need, not to mention her wealth—which he didn’t know about yet. How much could a new pair of drapes and a new lamp cost?

  Flo dropped into the chair in question—a large brown leather monstrosity positioned in front of the fireplace. Sarah knew it was Walker’s favorite because he sat in it every evening to read.

  “Walker likes the drapes—and his mother bought his father this chair for a wedding present. Walker’s happy with the way things are, young’un. He won’t want you to change anything.”

  Sarah cocked her head. “Papa says the house is a woman’s domain.”

  “Walker ain’t Papa.”

  Sarah couldn’t understand why Flo was being so stubborn about moving a silly old chair a few feet across the room. The more she tried to help, the more Flo vetoed her ideas. How was she supposed to be a good wife if she wasn’t allowed to do anything? Sarah stared at the chair, determined. It didn’t look right where it sat. The light was better by the window.

>   “Flo, I’ll take full responsibility for moving the chair. If Walker notices and says anything, we’ll move it back, but I don’t think he will, because it’ll look ever so much better over here. He’ll be so glad for the change that he won’t mind that it’s not in its normal place.” Sarah touched the worn leather lovingly. “Men don’t care about furniture.”

  Once, Wadsy had rearranged the whole parlor and Papa hadn’t noticed for weeks. Of course, he’d looked a little cross when she lit in on his study.

  Flo snorted, crossing her arms. “Walker’ll notice.”

  “You can tell a lady by the mark she leaves on her home.” Sarah began pushing against the back of the chair with Flo still in it. “Now…please…help…me…move…this.”

  Flo got up. “Move it, then. But you’ll have to do it yourself. I’ll have nothing to do with it.” Muttering something Sarah couldn’t make out, the housekeeper left the room, confiscating the broom and dustpan along the way.

  With a newfound resolve, Sarah shoved the chair to its new place by the window. After several tries at pushing and pulling and coaxing, she got it where she wanted it. Then she lugged a table from the opposite side of the room and placed it just so next to the chair for Walker to set his coffee cup on.

  “Fresh-cut flowers this summer,” she murmured, “and it’s perfect.” She stood back, assessing the newly arranged room with a satisfied smile.

  The rest of the day she scurried about the house, polishing, adjusting, and putting her touches on Walker’s home. Flo had barricaded herself in the kitchen so Sarah couldn’t consult her about further domestic possibilities. There were so many things she could do to convert this house from a bachelor’s hideaway to a family home.

  She eventually braved her way into the kitchen to see if Flo had started supper. The housekeeper was standing at the sink chopping something green, and she refused Sarah’s help when she offered it.

  “Two is one too many in the kitchen,” Flo said.

  “I just thought I should be cooking for Walker on our first night together.”

  Flo paused, giving Sarah an exasperated look. “I’ve got most of it done, but if you insist, you can make the corn bread. Be sure to watch that it don’t burn. I’m going to see if the men are back before I set supper on the table.”

  Sarah opened the back door for her, bidding Flo a pleasant goodbye. A minute later she was dumping cornmeal, flour, eggs, buttermilk, salt, pepper, and a wad of bacon grease into a ceramic bowl. Blending the thick mixture, she scraped it into a hot skillet and carefully slid the pan into the oven. Then she hurried upstairs to freshen up before Walker came home. She only had the one calico dress, but she could send for all her clothing once she informed Papa…she paused. She’d been so caught up in wifely duties she hadn’t made a trip into town to send Papa a wire.

  Walker strode into the parlor, stretching his aching shoulder. He thumped loudly across the room, leaving a trail of boot scuffs across the freshly polished floor.

  Engrossed in a letter, he headed for his favorite chair, toeing off one boot and then the other as he walked. It had been a long day. He and S.H. had worked on both fences in the back field. The cattle were being moved to greener pastures, so today he’d had one problem after the other. After hours of hard work, the coolness of the wooden floor felt good to his sore feet.

  He held the spring issue of his favorite seed catalog tucked under his arm. One of the ranch hands had picked it up at the mercantile just this morning. He’d read it through after dinner, but first he’d peek inside. Pausing in front of the fireplace, he folded the letter, flipped open the catalog, and sat down. Before he could read the first ad, he was flat on his back and seeing stars. The seed catalog flew into the fireplace, where it rested on ashes. Not yet able to grasp what had happened, he heard footsteps coming down the stairs two at a time.

  Sarah appeared in the doorway. “Walker? What happened?”

  “Where’s my chair?”

  “By the window.”

  Walker struggled to sit up and Sarah hurried to assist him.

  “Goodness. Are you injured—”

  “Who moved my chair? Flo!”

  “Don’t yell at Flo. I moved your chair. I thought you’d enjoy more light when you read, so—”

  “I want my chair left where it was—Flo!” He shot Sarah a disbelieving look. “Does Flo know you’re moving furniture?”

  Sarah nodded. “Change does a body good. You need—”

  “I want my chair right here.” He pointed to the spot where the chair had previously sat. “Not by the window.”

  Sarah bristled at his tone.

  “Where’s my seed catalog?” he demanded. Sarah’s eyes switched to the fireplace and his followed. He grunted and reached for the flyer.

  “You’re getting everything dirty!” she cried, trying to intercept the sooty catalog before he ruined a whole day’s work.

  Snatching it free, Walker started to shake it clean.

  Irritated, Sarah took it back and swiped it across the front of her dress, leaving a black powder mark but saving the rest of the room.

  Walker glared at her for a moment before proceeding to move the chair to its original spot. When he turned back, he saw tears hovering in her eyes as she clutched her dirty dress, and his anger cooled. “Look, I’d rather you leave things as they are.”

  Blinking, she lifted her chin. “I’m sorry. I was trying to be helpful. I just thought you might enjoy more light.”

  Walker uttered something under his breath. Women and tears. He’d forgotten how easy it was to hurt their feelings, especially about womanly things. He fell into his chair, removing his hat. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Sarah, but at the end of the day I want to come home and sit down in my chair in its usual place.” He paused, waiting for the tears to let up. “Flo knows I don’t want the furniture moved.”

  “Even if it’s a better arrangement?”

  “I like my furniture kept in the same place, okay? If you want to move something, move the porch furniture.”

  “Who cares about porch furniture? A woman leaves her mark on her house—”

  “Please leave things alone,” he said, more gently this time. “Flo knows how I like things kept.”

  Sarah’s brown eyes snapped. “Flo’s not your wife. I am.”

  “Flo has taken care of me for twenty-eight years. You’re going to have to live with that.” When he saw a tear roll down her cheek, he mentally kicked himself. Marriage was going to take some getting used to. “I’m not spoiling for a fight, Sarah. I only mean…” he paused, sniffing the air. “What’s burning?”

  Sarah’s jaw dropped. “The corn bread!” She raced out of the room and into the kitchen, where smoke was rolling out of the oven. Walker followed her, pitching the smudged seed catalog onto the table.

  Grabbing an oven mitt, she opened the door and reached for the pan of corn bread. A plume of smoke billowed out of the oven, and she jerked back as a blast of hot air and flames assaulted her and burned her arm.

  “Here, I’ll get that.” Walker stepped in and took the mitt away from her, and she moved away to smear butter on the burn. He extracted the corn bread, tossed the skillet on top of the stove, and beat out the flames with a dish towel. “There. Fire’s out.”

  Sarah sank onto a kitchen chair and buried her face in her sooty hands. “I’m so sorry.” She was more than sorry, she was mortified. What wife didn’t know how to bake corn bread?

  Hands coming to his hips, Walker shifted stances. “Did you burn yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  He reached for her arm and examined the burn. “It’s not bad.”

  “Flo told me to watch the bread and not let it burn, but I was busy arguing with you about that silly chair.”

  He glanced at the smoking skillet and sighed. “I like burned corn bread.”

  Flo came into the kitchen, fanning smoke with her apron. “What’s goin’ on?”

  Walker pointed to the smolde
ring pan.

  Flo focused on Sarah, who dabbed butter on her arm. Flo’s eyes switched back to Walker. He shrugged. “Land sakes,” Flo said, eyeing the damage. “I’ll stir up a new batch.”

  “Set the food on the table, Flo.” Walker winked at Sarah. “Tonight’s corn bread will make a man appreciate good cooking when he gets it.”

  “Sarah.”

  Sarah opened one eye to see Walker inches from her face the following morning. He shook her shoulder again lightly.

  “Get dressed. We’re going to town.”

  Sarah propped herself up on one elbow. He seemed in an unusually good mood, especially after the humiliating incidents of the night before. After supper, Sarah had gone to their room and pretended to be asleep when he finally came to bed. She’d been Mrs. Walker McKay one day, and already she’d stirred up enough trouble to last a month. Maybe Walker wanted her to get up so he could send her home—was that why they were going into town?

  “Why?”

  “Errands. Put on something presentable. We’ll be leaving in half an hour.”

  Walker left the room and Sarah rolled onto her back. Wadsy’s amused face danced in front of her. Done cut off your nose to spite your face, haven’t ya, baby girl?

  Sarah spotted a cup of coffee and some toast on the bedside table. Walker couldn’t be too furious with her if he was bringing her breakfast in bed. Of course, he hadn’t stayed to eat it with her.

  Sarah consumed the buttery toast and the scalding coffee, hungry from not having eaten much dinner the night before. She slipped out of her nightgown and into her only dress. The fabric now had black soot across the front of it. She brushed her hair, nimble fingers braiding the mass into a thick plait.

  In spite of the first blush of marriage, her concern over Papa’s certain worry cast a heavy shadow. His health would be sure to suffer. Sarah scowled in the mirror and bit her lower lip. A quick telegram to Boston would suffice. Turning from the dressing table, she hunted through the nightstand until she found pen, ink, and paper. Perhaps it would be wiser to let him know she was safe and well but not inform him yet about the marriage. He might try to have the union annulled, though she was Walker’s wife in every sense of the word.