Waiting for Morning (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) (24 page)

“We were lucky.” Molly brushed the sawdust off her skirt. “But we could have gotten ourselves killed.”

“Yes, but it was for a good cause.” Bessie started down the
boardwalk just as the marshal came running up the street—late to the party as usual. “Come along, Molly.”

Molly hurried to catch up to her. “Where are we going?”

“Where do you think?” Bessie replied. She couldn’t resist sashaying Molly-style as she ambled along the boardwalk. “To the Golden Eagle Saloon. I’m not about to let one little bar fight stop me. Get ready to sing and, eh . . . swing those hips.”

Chapter 22

M
olly didn’t want to go to the wedding. She didn’t even know the “happy couple,” as everyone referred to them. She’d never met the groom and had caught a glimpse of
the bride for only a brief moment.

But it wasn’t just the wedding, it was the church. Just the memory of being forced to stand outside during her father’s funeral filled her with rage. And the few times she’d stepped foot in the Cactus Patch church confirmed her opinion: churchgoers were a bunch of hypocrites!
Sorry, God, but it’s true.

There were exceptions, of course, Aunt Bessie being one. But even her friendly smile couldn’t make up for all the judgmental glares from other worshippers. Still, she had no intention of letting Aunt Bessie down, not after their mutual escapades and knowing how much the wedding meant to her.

Never had Molly seen so much fuss over a wedding. The way the ranch hands talked about the nuptials was unnatural. If a miner ever went to a wedding, he was either the groom or dragged there at gunpoint—sometimes both. It struck her as odd that the ranch hands looked forward to the event and couldn’t stop talking about the bride-to-be.

“That Kate was really somethin’,” Ruckus said. “I never saw anyone have so much trouble stayin’ on a horse.”

He wasn’t the only one enamored with the woman named Kate. Stretch told about the time she read them a novel. “A love story,” he said, without embarrassment. “And she writ every word herself.”

Even Wishbone got into the act. “Remember the time she climbed the windmill?”

“And the time she was chased by a javelina,” one of the other ranch hands added.

Molly was tired of all the talk about the wonderful, divine Kate. “Why isn’t Miss Walker going to the wedding?”

Ruckus shook his head. “I don’t think the boss lady will ever forgive her for givin’ up the ranch for marriage.”

“She doesn’t have to worry about me runnin’ off and marrying.” Since singing at the Cactus Patch saloons, she’d worked even harder to learn ranching and could now ride and rope with the best of them. She didn’t want to go back to being a dance hall girl—she couldn’t. All those leering men. All those horrible drunks. She shuddered. It was the ranch or nothing. Had to be.

Nothing could stop her now. Not even her silly schoolgirl crush on the handsome and charming Caleb Fairbanks.

Ruckus insisted that he and his wife, Sylvia, drive her and Donny to the church. She debated on what to wear and settled on her yellow dress with puffed sleeves. The modest neckline made up for the bright— some might even say bold—color. People would stare. They always did, but it was better they stare at her than Donny. Protecting her brother
was all that mattered. It was uppermost in her mind practically every waking moment.

Donny wore his dark pants and white shirt and a tie made from rattlesnake skin that Ruckus loaned him.

People were milling outside the church when they arrived, greeting friends and sharing news. All talk stopped when Molly stepped down from the buckboard. She didn’t recognize any of the men staring at her, but they certainly seemed to know her. A few men winked and tried to talk to her but were yanked back by glaring wives. Molly glared back. If it hadn’t been for her and Aunt Bessie, most of these men would have been in no condition to attend the wedding. This was the thanks she got.

Cactus Patch churchgoers were every bit as narrow-minded as they had been back home in Dobson Creek and she wanted no part of them.

Seething, Molly held her head high and walked past the crowd, drawing attention away from her brother with an ease that only came with practice. Her feigned poise deserted her the moment she spotted Caleb.

Heart skipping a beat, she met his gaze with a hesitant look, the last encounter in his office a sword hanging over their heads. Had he heard how she and Aunt Bessie forced the saloons to close down? Not that it mattered. Of course it didn’t.

He tipped his hat politely, keeping his thoughts hidden behind hooded eyes. She walked by him with a slight nod that belied her churning emotions.

A short while later she tossed a glance over her shoulder to find him still watching her. Cheeks flaring, she quickly followed Ruckus and the wheelchair into the vestibule.

Bessie had arrived at the church early that day. There was little left to do except rearrange a basket of flowers, straighten a bow, and drape a satin ribbon over the piano. The church had never looked so lovely. Dressed to the nines in her very best green taffeta frock, face deftly painted, she bustled up the aisle in a swish of swirling, rustling skirts.

The door flew open and her sister rushed into the chapel like a hen chased by a fox, feathers and tightly wound curls all aflutter. “Bessie, you won’t believe the news. Mr. Winkleman is dead!”

Bessie gasped. “Are you sure?”

Lula-Belle gave an indignant nod. “Of course I’m sure. Heard it with my own two ears.”

“But that’s not possible,” Bessie wailed. “I just talked to him yesterday. Told him what I wanted him to sing.”

“From what I hear, dying doesn’t take all that long,” Lula-Belle said in a hushed voice. “You can do it in less than a day. An hour if necessary.”

Winkleman dead? It was shocking but not all that surprising. Something about weddings gave him cold feet. He’d left a bride at the altar not once but twice, but never did Bessie imagine he would go to such extremes to avoid a wedding not his own.

Her husband, Sam, opened the door just wide enough to stick his head through. “Are we ready?” he asked.

“Not yet,” Bessie said, waving him away. She spun around to face her sister. “How did he die?”

“According to Mr. Green, Mr. Winkleman died of sobriety.” Lula-Belle spoke in a hushed voice, one generally saved for funerals, hangovers, and sleeping babies.

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. How is it possible for a man to die from
not
drinking?”

“Mr. Green said that sobriety was hard on the heart and even harder on the family.”

Bessie made a face. “So is planning a wedding, but you don’t see me kicking the bucket.”

Lula-Belle’s brow creased like a folded fan. “Mr. Green blames you for insisting the saloons close last night.”

“Mr. Green blames me for Governor Hughes’s removal.” Just because she supported the governor’s prohibition stance was no reason to think she had anything to do with his political troubles.

Determined not to let Winkleman’s demise ruin the wedding, Bessie paced back and forth. “We’ll just have to do the best we can without him. As long as we still have a piano player . . .”

“Eh.”

Bessie stopped pacing. “Go on, get it out. What is it?”

“Mr. Green isn’t the only one to blame you for Mr. Winkleman’s death. Panhandle does too.”

Bessie made a face. “I don’t care who he blames as long as he plays the piano.”

Lula-Belle threw up her hands. “That’s just it. He refuses to attend the wedding. That leaves you without a piano player
or
a singer.”

Bessie pressed a palm on her forehead. “Wait till I get my hands on Panhandle. Just wait!”

Sam peeked around the open door and again she waved him away. She traced a path up and down the aisle of the still-empty church, wringing her hands and bemoaning her misfortune. Sam’s voice could be heard placating impatient guests.

What a fine kettle of fish! What did she ever do to deserve this? No wedding could proceed without music. Why, oh why, didn’t things ever work out as planned?

“What about Mr. Washington?”

“He went to Flagstaff on business.” Lula-Belle stared at the oak door, her eyes wide with dismay. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I’m thinking. I’m thinking.”

Lula-Belle straightened her outlandish feathered hat. “Well, think faster. The guests are growing restless.”

Bessie suddenly brightened. “Molly!”

“What?”

“Molly sings.”

Lula-Belle looked horrified. “The dance hall girl?”

“If you can sing in a saloon, you can sing anywhere.” She started up the aisle. “Close your mouth and come along.”

Chapter 23

T
he moment the church doors flew open, guests streamed inside the sanctuary, pushing past Donny’s wheelchair as if it didn’t exist.

“Watch where you’re going!” Molly snapped. “Of all the rude—” It nearby broke her heart to see her brother treated like a piece of furniture.

After everyone else had entered the church and the way was clear, Ruckus pushed Donny’s wheelchair inside. Molly followed behind, aware that all eyes were on her.

The church was crowded with practically every seat taken, but Ruckus located an empty pew in back with room for the wheelchair. It was hot and Ruckus’s wife handed Molly a fan, which helped a little. After getting Donny settled, Ruckus left to escort the bride down the aisle.

Caleb sat several rows in front, his broad shoulders practically touching the guests seated on either side of him, and it was all Molly could do to keep from staring at him.

Just then Aunt Bessie burst through the door and ran up the aisle, her face so flushed it looked like a bad case of sunburn. Her bright green dress was better suited for a woman half her age and made her
generous figure look even more rounded. Her gaze traveled from pew to pew, hat to hat, stopping when it got to Molly. She then threaded her way along one row of seated guests to Molly’s side.

“I need your help,” she whispered. “I need you to sing.”

Molly wouldn’t have been more surprised had she been asked to stand in for the preacher. “But . . . I don’t know any . . . wedding songs.” She didn’t even know any Christian songs for that matter.