Walker's Wedding (9 page)

“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.

Dear Papa,

I am sorry for my hasty departure. Be assured that I am quite content and well, but please don't look for me yet. I will send more information later. Please also give my love to Wadsy and Abe.

Your loving daughter,

Sarah

She folded the note and shoved it into her pocket. All she needed now was a chance to go to a telegraph office alone. How likely was that to happen? And would Papa be able to trace it?

When she came downstairs, both Flo and Walker were sitting at the dining room table.

“Well, she is awake!” Flo said, smiling.

Sarah wondered if Flo's happiness came from the thought of having her out from underfoot for a day. But the woman was good; Sarah knew that. She studied her Bible first thing every morning, and Sarah had heard her praying aloud while she dusted and cleaned.

“Thank you for the toast and coffee, Walker. I enjoyed it very much. I'm ready to go when you are.”

Walker tossed down the last of his coffee and got up. “We may be gone all morning, Flo.”

“Don't worry about me. You two have a good time.” The housekeeper accompanied the newlyweds out to the front porch, where S.H. had the buggy hitched and waiting. “Gotta bake a cake for Mrs. Snyder. She's been ailing this week.”

“Aren't we going for supplies? Shouldn't we take the wagon?” Sarah wondered what would make Walker take a day off just to go to town.

“We don't need the wagon today.”

S.H. helped Sarah into the buggy and Walker reached for the reins. His secrecy about the unexpected outing puzzled her, but she was relieved he hadn't asked her to bring her valise so he could put her on the train back home.

“Your father founded Spring Grass?” she ventured, unsure of what topics he would be willing to discuss. She held her head high as other buggies passed, proud to be sitting beside her strong, handsome husband.

“Some forty years ago. He and Ma came to Wyoming with a group headed for the far West to find work. Ma loved the land, and Pa bought it for her. Used every penny he had. S.H. and Flo live in the original homestead.”

“You were born in Flo's cabin?”

“Guess I was. Pa built the new house for Ma years later.”

“It must have taken a great deal of money.” Sarah colored at her forward remarks. She cared not a whit about Walker's bank account. Being a Livingston meant that she had more money than she could spend in a lifetime. “It's a lovely home,” she amended.
A young couple in love, building a home together on the wild prairie. How romantic.

“They earned every cent. And they paid a high price for the land. The hard work killed Ma, and Pa was gored by a bull and died at the scene.” Walker fell silent, and she wondered what memories darkened his thoughts. They rode for a while listening only to the clicking wheels.

Finally Sarah ventured to speak. “You were in an accident involving a bull recently?”

Walker nodded, his jaw tightening. “I was luckier than Pa.”

“Your folks had a good marriage?”

“The best.”

Sarah watched his tanned, masculine hands flick the reins against the horse's flank. She wanted to know everything about him, including his life before he met her. She longed to ask a dozen things more about him, but the buggy had rolled into town before she could voice them. The newlyweds caught everyone's attention, and once in a while Sarah would see someone point and turn to the person he was with, no doubt talking about the “barbecue” at the McKay ranch.

The buggy pulled to a stop in front of the mercantile. Sarah took in the row of weathered buildings, and her excitement grew when she saw a telegraph office not far from the livery, a general store, and a miller to the west. The bank where Caleb Vanhooser worked sat across the street from the train station. Overshadowing the other buildings, it was easily the largest structure in town.

Springing from the buggy, Walker helped Sarah down. Though her feet were now planted firmly on the ground, he still kept hold of her hand. His touch sent off all kinds of dizzying sensations. Squeezing his arm, she whispered, “Have I mentioned how happy I am?”

With a smile she couldn't quite read, he patted her hand. “Look around in the store. I need to talk to Caleb for a minute.”

“Is there anything I should get?” she asked as he started across the
street, wondering why he'd brought her with him if he only needed to talk to Caleb.

“Just look around. I'm sure Martha will be happy to help you.”

She stood until he disappeared into the bank. When she was sure he couldn't see her, she scanned the street for buggies and hurried across to the telegraph office. Using money she'd taken with her from Boston, she ordered the telegram to be sent and gave explicit instructions that the persons on the end of the line were not to be told where the telegram had originated. The request caused raised brows, but the clerk promised to adhere to her wishes. “It's your money,” he said. His eyes lit up when she added an extra dollar, which he stuck in his pocket.

After that she crossed the street again, and a lively bell jingled her entry into the mercantile, bringing a tall, slight man with two missing front teeth from the back room.

“Can I help ya, miss?” He glanced at the wedding ring on her finger. “I'm sorry. Can I help ya, ma'am? We got some—” He stopped and scratched his head. “Wait now…yer the new McKay missus, ain't ya? Didn't recognize ya there for a minute.”

Sarah smiled and blushed. This was the first time she had been referred to as a missus. She liked the salutation.

“Yes, and you are?”

“Denzil. Denzil Logan. Only got ta meet ya for a second at the barbecue—I mean, weddin'. Quite a surprise for us all.”

“Denzil! Denzzzzzil! Who's there?” a sharp voice barked from the back room, startling them. Sarah turned in search of the source.

“It's Mrs. McKay, Martha! Walker's new bride.” The shopkeeper looked apologetic. “It's the missus,” he whispered, as if the marriage were a secret and he'd like to keep it that way.

A large, tall woman lumbered out of the back room, wiping her hands on the front of her apron. She looked to be a little younger than Flo, but Sarah was no good at guessing ages. Martha Logan's round red face gave Sarah the impression she had been in a smokehouse, with the sweat rolling down her forehead and plump cheeks.

“Well, so it is. Morning, Miz McKay.”

“Good morning. Please, call me Sarah.”

“All right, and you can call me Martha.” Her greeting faded when she glanced at Denzil, who was leaning on the counter and admiring Sarah's red hair with an ear-to-ear grin.

“Denzil! Go thread the machine. And be quick about it!”

The henpecked spouse excused himself and disappeared behind a curtain. Martha turned back, a friendly smile replacing her frown. She looked Sarah up and down as if she were a ham laid out for Christmas dinner. Her open appraisal made Sarah uncomfortable.

“Well, let's see,” she said, taking Sarah by the arm and turning her around to study her back side. “Whoever made this dress knew what they were doing. Wasn't you, was it?”

Sarah shook her head.

“No, suppose not if you're here. Well, let's get to work, then. Do you know your measurements, or should I take them myself?”

Sarah stared at the woman in disbelief and then glanced out the front window. Where was Walker? And why would this woman be interested in her measurements?

Martha Logan came around the counter and pulled out a tape measure. “I bet that waist ain't much more than sixteen inches. Hmm…last time I had a waist that tiny was right before I married Denzil. Hon, married life will change that waist. Hate to mention it.”

Sarah smiled lamely. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Call me Martha, hon.”

“I'm sorry, Martha, but I'm not sure what you're talking about. I came in here to…” Why
had
she come in here? Because Walker had insisted, that's why.

“Don't know what I'm talkin' about? Why, I'm talkin' about when ya have babies. You can't expect to keep that figure if you're gonna be birthin' McKay young'uns. Look at me.” She patted her round stomach, the apron's fabric stretched full. “Had five before Doc told me not to have any more.”

Sarah's gaze moved through the store for signs of children, but there were none.

“They're in school,” Martha clarified, as if reading her mind.

Sarah considered backing away from the strange woman and leaving the store, but just then the bell jingled and Walker came in, his hat in his hands.

“You almost done?” he asked.

“Walker, you got a stubborn little lady here. I asked her for her measurements, but she doesn't seem to want to tell me.” The woman grinned and brought her hands to her ample hips “Never seen a girl so fidgety when it comes to getting measured for dresses.”

Sarah shot Walker a puzzled look. “Dresses?”

“Oh, honey, didn't your man tell you? You're here to get a mess of new dresses. Seems Walker don't want you running around in calico. Never found anything wrong with the fabric myself, but some folks are more picky than others, I suppose.” She faked a frown and shook a finger at Walker. “Some are too rich for their own good.”

“New dresses?” Sarah turned to face her husband.

“I noticed you only have the one. I had one of my ranch hands ride into town late last night to see if Martha would be willing to make a few.” Amused blue eyes rested on hers. Sarah opened her mouth to deny that she needed dresses. She had closets full—but then the garments would need explanation.

“Can't have a McKay wearing the same dress the rest of her life.”

She clasped her hands together in front of her and turned to Martha. “So you wanted my measurements because you're the town seamstress.” Except for her wedding dress she had never, ever worn anything that Wadsy hadn't sewn with her own hands, but she guessed that was about to change.

“The best in town and don't you forget it!” Martha said, beaming. “Of course, Bessie Higgins will swear she is, but don't believe her.”

Martha ushered her into the back room, shooing Denzil back to the front with a wave of her beefy hand. Among a variety of dressmaker's forms and material, the storekeeper's wife took Sarah's measurements.
When she was finished and Sarah emerged from behind the curtain, Walker was browsing the store, looking at farm implements and supplies.

“Martha said I'm to pick out fabric for my dresses. How many should I choose?”

“As many as you want. Just don't break the bank.”

She smiled at her husband, hoping he knew how much she appreciated his generous gesture. Of course, when her secret was out and she told Papa about the marriage, he would send her wardrobe to Spring Grass and she would be buried in dresses.

Most of the samples on the table were plain, everyday fabrics, with none of the fancy taffetas and silks the dressmakers back East carried. She looked up to see Walker watching her. She blushed and picked up a bolt of brushed cotton.

“Do you like this?” She held it up next to her face.

“Fine.
”

She held the bolt at arm's length and studied it. The fabric was a deep crimson. “I think it may be too red for me.”

She held up another, a light yellow. “How's this one?”

“Fine
.”

“I don't know…maybe it's too bright.” She smiled. “Why don't you come over here and choose one for me?”

Walker hesitantly came over to the table and shuffled through the fabrics. He picked up a bolt of light rose.

“This one.” He held it up to her. “It looks all right.”

“Not pink. I have red hair.”

“So?”

“Redheads don't usually wear pink.”

He picked up a bolt of black.

“Black? Widow's weeds?”

“Okay—you choose,” he said, laying the fabric back on the table. “Order what you want from Martha's selection or special-order something if that suits you better. I'll be out front.” He turned to Denzil. “Put it on my account, Denzil.”