Walker's Wedding (11 page)

S
arah stepped out the back door that evening, drawing her wrap tighter around her shoulders. The air had cooled tonight, reminding her of Boston. Martha had included this beautiful soft wrap as a wedding present with the first dress she'd finished, and Sarah was thankful for its warmth.

Somewhere nearby, a wild animal called to its mate. Wolf? Coyote? Ordinarily she'd be curious to learn the source, but tonight she was just too tired to care. Sinking down onto the porch swing, Sarah thought about the long, exciting week, the wedding, then the days following when she'd acquainted herself with the rules and ways of ranch life. Papa would be quick to tell her she'd made her bed and now she'd have to sleep in it, but what a lovely bed it was. Walker was still detached in his new role, but she hoped that would change.

A smile raised the corners of her mouth and she shivered from thoughts of the tenderness Walker showed in the marriage bed. He was mindful of her innocence. She knew little of a man's way, but Wadsy had told her that all men were not alike. Some were good, and others were just plain inconsiderate. But not Walker. He was perfect.

Afraid he might read her thoughts, Sarah quickly looked away when the screen door creaked and her husband walked out. He paused, gazing up at the star-studded sky.

“Thought you'd be in bed by now.”

“No.” She fussed with her wrap, determined to ignore the powerful set of his shoulders. “Care to join me?” She patted the seat beside her. “It's a lovely evening.”

“I didn't plan on staying out long. Just needed a breath of fresh air.”

“Please. Sit.” She scooted aside, making a place beside her. He eased down, the swing creaking beneath his added weight. The aroma of soap and the sunshine scent of his freshly ironed shirt drifted to her. Flo took care with his clothing, pressing each garment with a hot iron. Sarah had stood before Walker's open closet for a long time that morning, familiarizing herself with her husband's taste. He liked blue, with just a hint of starch in his collars. Denims were his choice of work clothes, but for social occasions he favored khaki, white shirts, and brown suits. Walker McKay was fastidious about his appearance, and that suited her fine.

The swing moved quietly back and forth. Moonlight bathed the honeysuckle trail along the front porch. Sarah could see a light burning in the bunkhouse. She'd yet to become friends with the ranch hands, but she would make it a goal to get to know them all soon. She intended to be a vital part of her husband's life in every way.

“Are you settling in comfortably?”

Sarah shifted at the sound of his voice, pulling her back to the present. “Yes, thank you. As long as I stay out of Flo's way.”

“I take it you haven't had much experience in the kitchen.”

“No…well, a little.” She'd watched Will cook. And Wadsy had tried to teach her the finer arts of homemaking, but the lesson had not sank in. She much preferred reading magazines, wedding notices, or stories about faraway lands. Someday she wanted to go to Ireland, but Papa was always too busy to travel. Once he'd promised to take her, but he never had, and he had frowned on her going alone.

“I thought your letter said you cooked,” Walker said.

“I do. A little.” Very little.

“It doesn't matter. Flo is going to be rattled if you don't let her take care of the house and meals.”

Sarah didn't intend to move in and abolish Flo's position in Walker's home, but she would like the freedom to consult with the housekeeper
about food and furniture placement. She wanted to fit in, and part of fitting in meant being a wife and performing wifely duties, but she also knew she couldn't storm in and demand that everyone change for her. Eventually Flo would allow her into the kitchen, and she'd be careful not to overstep her bounds.

The hypnotic sound of the creaking swing blended with the sounds of the early spring evening.
This is what I've wanted all my life. Husband and wife enjoying each other's company at the end of the day.
And soon, if the good Lord blessed them, there would be three of them. A real family. Her life was finally perfect—with the exception of two small, niggling doubts. What she'd done was deceitful. And poor Papa. She
must
write the letter informing him of her marriage, but to do so meant telling Walker of her deception, and she wanted to be very sure there would be no retribution when she confessed her ploy. Fear that he would find the silly switch anything but what it was—a solution to everyone's problems—troubled her. He did not seem the type of man to find a ruse amusing. The lie was the only fly in an otherwise blissful ointment. Papa would forgive her peccadillo, but would Walker forgive her? Especially after Trudy's deception?

“Nice evening.”

“Yes, lovely.” Certainly he must be tired. He'd left the house shortly after sunup and hadn't returned until supper. Flo said Walker wasn't afraid of work. Like his father before him, he put in twelve to fourteen hours a day.

“Are you tired?” she asked.

“Tired?”

Color flooded her cheeks, so aware was she that the question sounded more like an invitation than casual conversation.

“I know you work very hard.”

He smiled. “Are you?”

“Somewhat.”

“Is this another one of the new dresses?” His fingers lightly toyed with a lock of her hair, playfully tugging it.

“Do you like it?”

“It's real flattering on you. Will you wear it to church in the morning?

“Yes. Thank you.”

Sarah sighed with contentment. If she hadn't met Lucy Mallory, she would be in New York now, hiding from Papa and searching for a man who filled her dreams and expectations. God had dropped Walker McKay in her lap.

Turning, she smiled. “It is getting late,” she whispered. “And you do need your rest.”

S
arah decided that no time was to be wasted arranging her first McKay social. She couldn't wait to plan her first husband-wife event for the ranch.

The day before the party, Flo invited her back into the kitchen on a limited basis.

“Darlin', you're trying too hard. If you'll let me do the work and just help instead of taking over, we'll move faster.”

Today the two women were baking apple pies. Flo tried teaching Sarah how to make a crust using flour, a pinch of salt, lard, and a little water. Sarah's attempts turned out tough and doughy compared to the light and flaky works of art Flo eased from the oven. With each failed attempt, Sarah grew more flustered. She had watched Will prepare everything from tea biscuits to roasts. How could a simple piecrust defeat her?

“No, no, no.” Flo stopped slicing apples and reached over to where Sarah was attempting to roll out another batch of crust. “You're pressing too hard. The crust won't be thick enough.” The housekeeper confiscated the rolling pin and ran the pin back and forth until the dough was the right thickness. “I never saw the likes. Didn't your mama teach you how to cook?”

“Not really.” Actually, she'd never seen her mama cook a single dish.
Will had cooked for the family forever. She sighed. “I want to be a good cook for Walker, but maybe I'm just not made for cooking.”

“Don't give up. Cooking takes time and practice.” Flo handed her the pin and returned to the apples. “You need to relax and enjoy your marriage. In time everything will fall into place.”

“I'm trying, but it seems like I'm going backward instead of forward.”

“Why don't you take a little break? Maybe if you took a nice walk, you'd feel better. When you come back, we'll start over.” Flo pushed a bowl of bruised apples across the table. “Stop by the barn; the mares will appreciate a treat. There's nothing they like better than apples, and gettin' out of the kitchen for a few minutes will do you good.”

Sarah had the strong feeling it would do Flo even better. She formed her apron into a cradle and Flo dumped several apples into it. Sarah smiled. “I suppose I could check on Diamond.”

“She's with foal, isn't she?”

“Yes. She was bred late so she has a few more weeks yet.”

She and Walker had taken a moonlight walk one evening, and they'd stopped at the barn to check on his personal stock. Diamond—Sarah's favorite—was Walker's prize mare, and Walker was anxious to see the foal delivered safely.

Flo shooed her out of the kitchen and into the midday light. Sarah savored the heat of the warm earth in the fields. A dozen ranch hands would be planting hay tomorrow. Walker had talked about it all week long, hoping that the rain would hold off until they could get the crops into the ground. Clutching the apples to her, Sarah sauntered toward the barn.

It took a moment to adjust to the dim light of the moist interior. Mares stuck their noses over their gates to sniff at Sarah's treats as she walked by. The breath from their big, round nostrils stirred up dust when they snorted.

She offered an apple to the first animal, a large roan. Long lips felt around the treat and enormous teeth split it in half with a crunch. Sarah jumped, laughing as the mare withdrew to chew with noisy
satisfaction. She held up the second half of the apple and the animal made soft nickering sounds in her long, sleek throat. Patting her head, Sarah offered the other half and moved to the second stall.

Diamond's stall was larger than the others. The horse raised her muzzle from the water bucket when she heard Sarah approach. Diamond was a full sixteen hands high, coal-black with white markings on her forelock and front fetlocks. Sarah could see why she was Walker's favorite. She had enormous brown eyes that kindly asked what Sarah had brought.

“Here you go, girl.” Sarah lifted an apple. The horse sniffed and took it from her hand in one bite, leaving a trail of water and saliva in her palm. Sarah wrinkled her nose.

“It's very unladylike to drool. If I couldn't see that you obviously have found a mate, I would remind you that men don't appreciate this kind of thing. Of course, horses may be different.” Balancing on tiptoes, she stroked Diamond's mane while the mare crunched contentedly. She ran her hand up and down the long nose. “Now, Diamond, you are a lucky lady. You don't have to cook or clean or worry about not being able to cook or clean, right, girl?” Sighing, Sarah stepped back to move across the aisle to the next mare suddenly overcome with guilt. These beautiful creatures reminded her of home. Papa had been ecstatic when he'd given her Samson.

“You shore nuff are a purty one,” a kindly voice said from behind her.

Sarah started, dropping the remaining apples into the hay. Leaning around the stall, she spotted a small, grizzled-looking man, holding a bowl of potato peelings. Potster. She'd seen the bunkhouse cook around, but they had not spoken

“I didn't hear you come in,” she said.

“Sorry. I wasn't expectin' to find a little redheaded filly in the barn.” He turned and spat into the hay. “I was enjoyin' your speech to Diamond there. And it sounded like Diamond was enjoying it, too, wasn't ya, girl?” He moved to the mare's stall, reaching into the front pocket of his vest for a lump of sugar.

Color sprang to Sarah's cheeks. “You shouldn't have eavesdropped. That's not polite.”

A tobacco-stained grin widened. “Sorry if I offended ya, Mrs. Walker.” Removing his battered hat, he made an old-fashioned, sweeping bow, dislodging some of the potato peels. “But I always speak my piece.”

Sarah relaxed. “You're the bunkhouse cook.”

“Potster. Bunkhouse cook and all-around maid. Closer to a mother hen sometimes.” He wheezed a dry laugh and returned the hat to his head. “These boys need lots of lookin' after.”

Sarah held out a hand. “It's nice to meet you, Mr. Potster, sir.”

He frowned. “Mr. Potster,
sir
? You must be from the East. Round here I'm just Potster or Potsie.” He bent down and picked up the scattered apples. “I believe you was in the process o' feeding the girls?”

Sarah took the remaining apples and tossed them into the stalls. “I should get back to the kitchen. Flo's teaching me how to bake pies, but I'm having trouble with the crust.”

Potster threw his head back and laughed, slapping a thick thigh. “Flo's crust cain't hold a candle to mine. You come with me and I'll teach ya how to make a pie that will make Flo cry.”

The last thing she wanted was to make Flo cry. “Thank you, Mr. Potster, but—”

“Just plain Potster, honey. No ‘mister' to it.” Potster spat into the hay and rubbed his chin. “No offense, ma'am, but from what I hear, Flo don't want you underfoot in her kitchen.”

Sarah bristled. How dare he insult her…her…her what? Her rights? Actually, she didn't have any yet. Nobody had given her run of the house, especially Flo.
Face
it
,
Sarah McKay. You can't boil water without burning it.
Potster's rough honesty disarmed her.

“It's not that I haven't tried. Honestly, I have. I just don't know how to cook.”

“People ain't born knowin' how to cook. Ya gotta learn the skill.”

“I'm trying. Flo's been working with me, but I'm afraid I'll never be able to make a decent piecrust or pan of corn bread.”

“Why, corn bread's th' easiest thing on earth. Here.” He reached for her arm. “Help me scatter these potato peelin's to the chickens, and we'll go back to the bunkhouse and make corn bread for the hands' supper.”

“I'd better not.” Sarah shook her head, thinking about the last pan of corn bread she'd tried to make. Walker had to beat the fire out with a dishcloth. “The men would starve if I cooked for them. Besides, I promised Flo I'd be right back.”

“If I know Flo, she's doing fine without ya, and I could use yer help. I got thirty-five hungry men to feed! You'll learn a thing or two about fixin' vittles, an' I'll have a pretty face in m' kitchen for a change.”

Sarah considered the request. She supposed any advice would be helpful. “I should tell Flo where I am in case she needs me.”

Potster winked. “You do that, an' I'll meet you at the bunkhouse.”

He chuckled a few minutes later when Sarah told him that Flo seemed relieved that Sarah would be spending the next few hours in his kitchen instead of hers.