Walker's Wedding (5 page)

G
usty wind greeted Sarah as she stepped from the train at Tall Timbers station. It snatched a lock of red hair from its clip and sent it flying above her head. She tried unsuccessfully to rein it in while holding her skirts. Her gaze skimmed the bustling town.

The knot in her stomach painfully tightened. She couldn't do this. Last night she realized that she couldn't pretend to marry a man—take vows before God and live in sin. She couldn't perpetrate the fraud. But…she was here, and Walker McKay was expecting a bride.

The platform teemed with activity—mothers and fathers greeting returning children; sweethearts embracing, caught up in the moment of blissful reunion, unashamed of their public displays of affection. Families bumped against cattle ranchers and farmhands apparently waiting for supply shipments.

Stepping from the bottom stair onto the ground, she searched the milling crowd, her heart fluttering like a trapped sparrow. Her eyes swept the area for Walker McKay. Lucy couldn't provide a physical description of the man beyond the possibility of disfigurement from his recent accident. Sarah's eyes leapt from face to face, trying to match the features she'd formed in her mind—frail, perhaps in a wheelchair. She would just have to tell the truth about her identity and hope that he understood. Her cheeks warmed. What reasonable man would approve of such a silly act?

A man wearing a gun in a holster slung low and heavy from his belt made his way through the crowd, his eyes searching the platform. His cragged features were ringed in dust, his clothes spattered with—Sarah recoiled—was that horse dung? When his gaze locked on her, he offered a tobacco-stained grin.

Her worst fears were realized. Lucy's husband-to-be was grizzled
and not
the most handsome man around.

He paused a foot away. He was four inches shorter than she, and as he removed his hat she saw that he was as old as Papa. She closed her eyes. Backing out might be easier than she thought. Lucy had lied. The wench had needed someone to marry this shriveled old pipsqueak so she wouldn't have to.

Sarah checked her temper, reminding herself that she had made the choice to switch places. She'd admit what she'd done and be on her way.

“Miss Lucy Mallory?” The tender excitement in his voice softened his countenance but did nothing to ease Sarah's disappointment. “Is that you, girl?”

“Actually…the agency made a mistake. My name is Sarah Livingston. I'm not Lucy Mallory.”

There. That was easy enough. With the safety of the train and a return trip no more than five quick steps behind her, she didn't have to admit to anything. But as the days spent traveling to Wyoming territory would certainly have given the detectives ample time to have located Julie's apartment, traveling to New York now would mean almost certain return to Papa. It didn't take a crystal ball for her to know that he would banish her to Uncle Brice's forever. She took a long look at her future and repeated, “Sara Elaine Livingston. I'm not the woman you sent for.”

“Names don't matter.” The old man's smile spread across his worn face, deepening the etched lines. “Yer finally here. And yer even purtier than I'd pictured.” He appeared barely able to contain himself as he replaced his hat and reached for her bag. “This way, ma'am.”

It took every ounce of resolve for Sarah to drag her feet across the station, past young, handsome men greeting their wives, past young
children on the platform who were engrossed with a dead coyote near the tracks. What would her children look like? Rosy images of a perfect home life with a handsome husband and strong, beautiful children whipped off with the hot wind. How Papa and Wadsy would laugh. Even Abe would tease her about this one, but a bargain was binding.

She berated herself for her foolishness. If she started being picky now, she might as well reconcile herself to being an old maid. He was most likely a very kind soul. Her dream, however bittersweet, was about to be realized and all she could see were flaws—a few missing teeth and some battle scars. A lot more years than she'd anticipated. She studied the man, her heart sinking.

With newfound resolve, she caught up to him as he tried to maneuver himself and her bag into a buggy. She was just gathering up the nerve to ask him how long the ride to his ranch was when a particularly strong gust snatched his hat and sent it skittering into the crowd. Without thinking, Sarah lifted her skirts and ran to catch it, following it as it skipped along.

The hat bounced merrily in front of her, and she quickened her pace to catch up with it. The felt hat paused momentarily as if to tease her and then bounced on. A break in the wind lent her hope and she made an ungraceful lunge, propelling herself forward at the very moment a set of dusty boots appeared on the opposite side of the hat. Unable to break her fall, she lurched forward into the waiting arms of a man who caught her with surprising grace and easiness.

Her face flaming with embarrassment, Sarah mustered her composure and lifted her gaze to meet two of the clearest blue eyes she had ever seen. Her gasping breath caught in her throat, and for a moment she forgot to breathe. Arms—gloriously strong and stout as oak posts—casually lifted her to her feet and then reached down to recover the hat. Her eyes were held captive by his long, denim-clad legs, slim hips, and broad shoulders. This was the man she'd hoped who would meet her at the train, sweep her into his arms, and marry her.

His eyes discreetly skimmed the length of her gown down and back up before he extended the hat. “This must be yours?”

“It's not mine.” She was amazed at how a brief jog across the station could make her feel so giddy. “It's his hat,” she said, handing it to the older man, who had caught up with her and was trying to adjust the unruly felt hat back to the shape of his head. “Mr. McKay's.”

Both men paused, and for a moment she was confused as they glanced at each other and winked. Was there a joke she was missing?

The handsome stranger smiled. “You must be Miss Mallory,” he said in a deep, rich baritone.

“Miss Livingston. The agency made a mistake. Please call me Sarah. And you are?”

“Walker McKay. This is my foreman, S.H. Gibson.”

She swallowed. “
You're
Walker McKay?” Her recent thought of backing out collapsed. This incredible man was young and brawny, with strong features and a commanding presence, and apparently in perfect health. Before leaving the train, Lucy had said something about Mr. McKay being a Christian. If this man standing before her was truly all he seemed to be, the mere thought of taking vows with him left her a little breathless. God had abundantly answered her prayers.

S.H. stepped up. “Sorry about the confusion, Miss Mallory.”

“Livingston.” She lowered her tone for fear Mr. McKay might have reservations about the name change.
Livingston,
she mouthed.

The man bowed, sweeping his hat from his head. “I shoulda introduced myself. S.H. at yer service.”

When she glanced back at Mr. McKay, she noticed that his electric blue eyes were focused on her, but he made no comment.

If this man was Walker McKay, that changed everything. She shook off her shock and reached for his hand, breaking into a wide smile.

“Relieved…I mean, pleased to meet you, Mr. McKay.” She drew a long breath and released it.

He had no idea
how
pleased.

S.H. courteously extended an arm. “Shall we go?”

Sarah glanced at Walker McKay, her grin widening. “By all means, Mr. Gibson.” She sent one last glance at the handsome rancher who was handling her bag. “By all means.”

W
alker informed her that they would waste no time with courting; the wedding would occur as soon as possible. The switch in names didn't appear to bother him, but truthfully he didn't appear overly interested in her, period. There was an impatience about his request to marry right away that puzzled her, as if he thought she might bolt and return to Boston, but leaving Spring Grass was the last thing on her mind. The ranch itself was enormous—thousands of acres of pastures, smooth hills, and gently rolling valleys. The homestead consisted of the main house; a smaller log home for the foreman and his wife, Flo; a shed; a bunkhouse for the ranch hands; a large barn for horses, hay, and equipment, and several smaller cattle and horse pens. The house itself was grand: a large colonial with seven bedrooms—obviously a house built to be filled with children. The only part of the ranch that wasn't perfectly kept was a flower garden behind the den that stood in disarray. Sarah hadn't asked Walker about it, and S.H. and Flo hadn't mentioned it.

S.H. insisted that Sarah stay with him and Flo until the wedding. So far, Flo had been invaluable to Sarah, who, for all her zest and desire to be married, knew next to nothing about weddings beyond what she'd read in books. Flo volunteered to orchestrate the whole affair. Now they sat in Flo's tidy kitchen discussing the guest list for the ceremony
only days away. The list was large—all Walker's friends. Sarah was determined they would be hers too in a short time.

Flo shook her head. “Poor Sadie Miller. She'll bawl for days when she finds out Walker chose a mail-order bride over her.” Walker's white-haired housekeeper couldn't contain a chuckle. “Of course, I'd have to say every man in the county would make the same choice.” She wrote Sadie's name on a growing list of families from the surrounding area.

Sarah picked up the sheet of paper, scanning the column of names. “Who's Katie Brown? Is she single?”

“Katie? She's single and a nice enough girl, I suppose. Walker's known her since the two of them were knee-high to a grasshopper, but I think he considers Katie a friend—more like a sister than a wife.”

Sarah sighed. It seemed to her that Walker could have had his pick of women, yet he'd chosen a woman he'd never seen. “There has to be at least one woman in the whole territory of Wyoming he doesn't have sisterly feelings for.” She couldn't understand how any woman with an ounce of sense could let a man like Walker McKay get away. Her face flushed and her knees turned to jelly whenever she saw him striding from the house to the barn with long, assured steps, or when she sneaked a peek at him riding out to the fields in the morning. Her excitement was tinged with worry too, considering that apparently he wanted nothing more than a woman to bear his child. Since arriving, she had done and said everything she could to reassure him that she was delighted to be at Spring Grass, even going out of her way to show him she was thrilled to be his bride. Yet she felt his hesitancy—almost as if he wanted to avoid any mention of permanency. Maybe he didn't want to fall in love, but in time that would change. She'd be such a doting wife that he couldn't fail to fall in love with her.

“You're gettin' a fine man,” Flo said, breaking into Sarah's thoughts.

“But he could have chosen any single woman—”

“He had his pick and he picked you.” Getting up from her chair, Flo refilled Sarah's lemonade, her red, roughened hands proof of her workload.

Sara sighed. He hadn't exactly picked her. “Has he been married before?” It wouldn't matter if he had been, but…

“No, you'll be the first Mrs. Walker McKay. Might be best if I told you about Trudy, though, so you won't go asking him and getting him all riled up. She done a terrible thing to him. He's real touchy now and has a bitter streak towards women. And if you break that man's heart—”

Ah. Another woman had hurt him. A knot rose in Sarah's throat at the thought of a hitch in her plans. She would see that he forgot her quickly. “I won't break his heart. I will be a good wife. What happened?”

“They was engaged a couple of years back. She ran off with a hat salesman just before the wedding. It was real humiliatin' for Walker.” Flo picked up the wedding list, her eyes scanning the columns. “She ran off with a man who sold bowlers, so I wouldn't mention hats to Walker, if I were you.” She tossed the list aside. “Needless to say, we were all shocked. She hurt him real good.”

Sarah couldn't help wondering how anyone could be so cold. Walker was ten times better than any man she'd tried to marry in Boston. It would take fifty Joe Mancusos, from what she'd seen, to make one Walker McKay. Desert this man—this handsome, wonderful man—for a hat salesman? Trudy's actions were inconceivable.

“I'd also best warn you to not go anywhere near that weed patch behind the house. That was Trudy's garden, the place where the wedding was to take place. Walker ain't allowed anyone near it since the day she left.”

“I was wondering about that. What a shame to let such beauty go to waste.” She paused. “Why would Walker be considering marriage now?”

“He had a brush with death, and the accident got him to thinking. He ain't gonna be young forever, and there's no heir to Spring Grass. He needs a son or daughter. Simple as that.” She glanced over. “Sorry—”

“No, that's quite all right. I understand my responsibility.” Sarah might want love and bliss, but it was understandable that Walker wasn't ready for that. In time, though, she was sure he would grow to adore her.

Flo sat back down at the table, smiling. “Speakin' of beauty, what about you, young'un? You haven't said much about yourself. Seems a girl as pretty as you are could have her pick of any red-blooded young man. What made you decide to be a mail-order bride?”

The weight of Sarah's ruse was heavy on her heart. From the moment she'd arrived, it had been on the tip of her tongue to tell Walker about the switch of brides on the train. She had given her real name, and he certainly hadn't seemed to care. But would he care if he knew that she had lied about the agency mix-up and that in truth she and his intended bride had met and decided to change their circumstances to suit themselves? And poor Papa was most likely beside himself with worry. She would have to send word soon on where she was, but first she would marry. She was so close to realizing her dream. In a few days, she would finally be a bride, and then she would immediately send word to Papa of her whereabouts. She was comfortable with Flo, but not enough to confide her secret. Better to wait until after the wedding, when the marriage was a done deal.

“I've never wanted anything but to be a dutiful wife and mother, to raise children and keep a home for a loving man.” She paused, deciding to keep as close to the truth as possible. “But when the opportunity to marry now rather than later arose, I seized it.” A bead of sweat trickled down the back of Sarah's neck and into the collar of her blouse. The heat in the kitchen had grown insufferable. “The men in Boston are so intent on their work or the rail system.”

She bit her lip. The train yard was almost too much information. What if Flo linked her to the railroad and thus to Lowell Livingston? Sarah glanced up from her hands to see Flo staring at her as S.H. breezed in through the back door and removed his hat. “Are you all right, dear? You look flushed.”

“It's hot in here. May I have another glass of lemonade?”

“You set where you are, Mama. I'll pour the pretty lady another glass of lemonade. It's warming up,” S.H. said, picking up Sarah's empty glass for a refill.

Flo's cheeks pinked when S.H. planted a kiss on her forehead as he
passed by on the way to the sink. The love between the two had been evident from the first day Sarah met them. They had spent nearly all their married life in the log cabin at Spring Grass, and they were obviously as enraptured with each other as they had been when they first came to work for Mitch Walker years ago. It was exactly the kind of relationship Sarah wanted with her future husband.

How long would it be before she could trust the couple enough to let them, and Walker, in on her secret? They couldn't send her away. They just couldn't. She had already come to love the long days at Spring Grass and the cold nights on the prairie. Lying in her soft featherbed, she listened to the lowing cattle and stared out the window at the bright stars that twinkled high overhead. She loved the clear blue skies and the courteous cowhands, who were careful to take their hats off as she approached to say hello. Most of all, she found she was already falling deeply in love with Walker McKay, although she barely knew him.

S.H. set a full glass in front of Sarah and she smiled. She sipped the lemonade and then said, “Thank you, S.H. With all this planning and the wedding only days away, I haven't had time to catch my breath.”

The old man grinned. “Don't worry, miss. Flo and me'll take care of everything. We're just so dern tickled to have you, we cain't sleep for thinking about the weddin'.”

“You've both been wonderful,” she said, softly stifling a yawn. “Maybe I'll lie down for a while. I'm suddenly very sleepy.”

“You go right ahead, young'un.” Flo got up from the table, swatting S.H. away from the apple pie that was cooling on the windowsill. “I think I'll go out and see if Potster needs any help at the bunkhouse.”

“Potster can feed the men without your help,” S.H. complained good naturedly. “Too many cooks in the kitchen spoil the taters.”

As they gently argued over the feeding of the ranch hands, Sarah excused herself from the table and went into the back room.

Shaking her head, Flo watched the girl leave. “What do you think of her, S.H.?”

“I think she's exactly what Walker needs. Once he slows down and pays her a little attention, I think he'll agree.”

Frowning, Flo picked up Sarah's glass and carried it to the sink. “You don't think there's something odd about a young woman who's that pretty and well mannered wanting to be a mail-order bride?”

“Now, Flo,” S.H. teased, tweaking her under her chin. “There you go thinking about Trudy again. Miss Livingston wouldn't do that to Walker. Maybe you should be lying down for a while to get those crazy ideas outta your head.” He stole another brief kiss. “He'll take care of himself. Stop yer frettin'.”

When he left, Flo sat down at the table and stared at Sarah's closed bedroom door. What was it that had her on edge? The girl seemed warm and honest. Her manners were faultless, her tone that of a woman of higher education and refinement. She should be happy that such a find had practically fallen into Walker's lap. Her eyes traveled back to the guest list.

So what about Sarah Livingston had her on edge?