Walker's Wedding (7 page)

“Good friends, we delight in the marriage of…uh…” The preacher paused and then leaned close to Sarah. “What's your name, dear?” he whispered.

“Sarah,” she quietly replied. “Sarah Elaine Livingston.”

“…in Walker and Sarah's marriage today, and let us never forget the seriousness of the vows this couple is about to exchange.”

The crowd quieted. It wasn't the marriage Sarah had dreamed about. Outside the window, ranch hands turned roasting meat over open spits. Household help shooed hungry hands away from the steaming bowls of corn and parsley potatoes lining the long rows of cloth-covered tables. The smell of baking bread drifted in from the kitchen while children scampered about on the lawn, kicking a ball as Sarah and Walker repeated their simple vows.

The McKay parlor wasn't the church she'd attended since birth. And there weren't a lot of flowers, just a bouquet of winter berries that someone—probably Flo—had placed on the parlor table. Wadsy, Abe, and Papa weren't here to share this moment, their eyes brimming with love. But it
was
her wedding day—the happiest day of her life—and she would do everything within her power to erase the uncertainty in Walker's voice, the haunted look in those blue eyes. It wouldn't happen today or tomorrow, but in time he would love her. There was no doubt about that in her mind.

“Do you, Sarah Elaine Livingston, take Walker Edward McKay to be your husband?”

“I do.”

“Do you, Walker Edward McKay, take Sarah Elaine Livingston to be your wedded wife?”

“Yes.”

Then it was over. She was married. She had the prized gold band on her left hand. S.H. engulfed her in a bear hug, nearly squeezing the life out of her while a beaming Flo looked on. The whole room was buzzing with congratulations, everyone wanting a turn at the newlyweds.

“Can't say I've ever been more surprised,” Tom Howell confessed, pumping Walker's hand.

Walker smiled. “Me neither, Tom.”

“Walker.” A young woman approached, her eyes warm with congratulations. “Walker, you rogue. Why didn't you tell any of us?”

He winked at her. “Seth Olson would nail my hide to the barn if I'd stolen you.”

“Seth?” Her eyes shifted to a tall, rawboned farmer who was talking with a group of men. “He doesn't know I exist.” But a speculative smile now lightened her face.

Walker moved Sarah on to shake hands with the other guests.

Her new husband introduced her to a man who was the exact opposite of the handsome rancher. Small in stature, balding, with pale skin, the man wore wire-rimmed glasses, which he had taken off to clean as Walker and Sarah approached. “Caleb, I'd like you to meet Sarah…” He turned. “What's your last name?”

“
McKay,”
Sarah reminded him under her breath, smiling.

“Of course. McKay,” he acknowledged. “Sarah, my good friend, accountant, and banker, Caleb Vanhooser.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Caleb greeted her, returning his glasses to his face and then grasping her hand solidly. “You could have knocked me over with a feather when I realized Walker was getting married today.”

“Yeah.” Walker smiled again at his bride. “It all happened pretty fast.”

Later, Sarah donned her calico dress and moved through the rows of tables outside, pouring coffee, offering pie, and being the genial hostess. When Walker noticed, he pulled her aside.

“What are you doing?”

She gazed up at him warmly. “Serving our guests.”

“You're not supposed to ‘serve our guests.' It's your wedding reception.”

“Really?” She stood back, assessing the crowd. “Looks the world to me like it's a barbecue.”

“Look, I guess this was pretty underhanded. If you like, we'll do it again later—”

“No, this is perfect.” She smiled. “I love barbecues.”

Taking her arm, he ushered her to a chair and sat her down. She hoped to share a few private moments with him, but that wasn't to be. Women immediately crowded around her, and her hopes were dashed as he moved on.

Walker could hear her fielding questions from their guests and guilt struck him.
That was a rotten thing to pull on her, McKay.
So far she'd been nothing but compliant. He should have at least warned her theirs would not be the traditional marriage ceremony. He turned to look back. She was still sitting, chatting with the women.

But would she be there an hour later? Could he blame her if she up and left without a by-your-leave? What woman welcomed a barbeque on her wedding day?

Dusk streaked the reddened sky and lanterns were lit. Musicians stepped to the wooden platform and began taking their instruments out of cases. The sounds of fiddles and guitars filled the air.

Standing beside the gazebo, Walker chatted with friends who chided him about the surprise celebration.

“What gives, McKay? All these months and you never let on you had something like her, you old fox!”

“Figured you was bound to stay single the rest of your life.”

“Bull changed your mind, did it?”

The men chortled, one reaching out to tap an angry scar still evident on Walker's left cheek.

“Pert near got yourself killed. You're lucky to get a second chance.”

“Where have you been hiding this little beauty?”

Walker's eyes followed his bride, who was being waltzed around the dance floor by yet another man. Bride. Wife. That was going to take some getting used to.

As the men threw jovial arm punches, Walker took the affable ribbing in stride, his eyes on a radiant Sarah. He couldn't dispute the fact that his bride was a desirable woman. Her eyes sparkled, her laughter filled the spring air. Something stirred inside him, something he hadn't felt in a long time.

Something he didn't want to feel.

“Folks, gather around,” S.H. hollered. “It's time to cut the cake!”

Walker watched a smile light Sarah's face when Flo emerged from the house carrying a large, three-tiered wedding cake. He silently thanked Flo for her amazingly adaptable skills. She'd produced a wedding cake faster than the average woman could cut one. The smile faded. What kind of groom would have forgotten the cake?

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.

S
tirring, 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.