Walker's Wedding (13 page)

Walker took the books, thanked Flo, and walked back to the main house.

Strains of “Amazing Grace” met him at the door. He was tempted to ask Sarah if she knew any other hymns but thought better of it. She was making her way down the stairs with a basket of Walker's clothes tucked beneath her arm.

“You're back.” She spotted the books. “What are those?”

“I thought you might like to read these. They're dime novels. They belong to Flo—”

“Love stories?” She took the last steps easily and then set down the basket. “That's so thoughtful of you, Walker. I love to read.”

“You actually read this stuff?”

She frowned. “I have a romantic side. Does that bother you?”

“No, of course not. I wouldn't have brought them for you if it did.”

Sarah scanned the covers. “I mostly read magazines back in Boston, when I had the time.”

“Flo says to keep them as long as you need. She's read them all twice.”

Sarah reached for a book and thumbed through it. “Thank you again, Walker. That was most thoughtful.”

“I'll be ready to go shortly.”

“I packed a picnic lunch. We can eat by the river.”

“Fine. I'll be ready when you are.”

T
hat evening Sarah and Flo washed the dishes while Walker and S.H. escaped to the front porch. The sun hung low as it found its bed for the night, bathing the two-story home in a golden light. The men sat quietly, Walker on the swing and S.H. in a wicker chair with his feet propped on the ledge. Neither spoke at first, surrounded by the soft chirrup of crickets and the horses' nickers as they settled in their stalls.

“Been quite a day,” S.H. said.

Hat tipped over his face, Walker murmured, “Can't remember a harder day off. Not since I was a small boy and Ma made me spend Saturdays working in the house. It's going to take me a while to get the hang of marriage.” Sarah was good company, but Walker wasn't accustomed to doing nothing. Didn't suit his nature.

S.H. chuckled, settling deeper into his chair. Inside the house, dishes clattered and the melody of the women's conversation drifted to them.

Walker sat up and reached over to set his hat on the railing, barely missing a caterpillar working its way along the edge. He watched it reach the end of the post and inch up the side of the house. As it paused, a flutter of white caught the corner of his eye from the direction of the barn.

He straightened, squinting against the setting sun. “S.H., is that a chicken over by the barn?”

S.H. sat up for a closer look. The men watched the chicken get up, take a few steps, and flop back down.

“What's wrong with it?”

“Don't know.”

The bird staggered back to its feet, wobbled in a wide circle, and then hit the ground again, occasionally ruffling its feathers.

The men got up and leaned over the railing for a better look.

Three more chickens staggered out of the barn.

“Are they sick?”

“They weren't an hour ago.”

Walker stepped off the porch as the coop door swung open, spilling a dozen more hens and the rooster, all flapping and squawking. S.H. followed him down the steps, frowning.

“I'll be. Ain't never seen anything like it. It's almost like they're—uh-oh.”

Walker turned to look at him. “Uh-oh? What's ‘uh-oh' mean?”

S.H. lunged for a chicken and the bird hopped away, stumbling out of reach.

Wading into the flock, Walker tried to snare one. “It's like they are drunk.”

“I think they are. Sarah was wantin' to help earlier, so I told her she could feed the horses. She must have gotten into my mash.” S.H. grabbed for a hen and missed.

“Moonshine mash? S.H., I've told you I don't want you making or drinking that stuff on my property. Flo's going to have your head on a platter someday.”

“I know. It's a powerful bad habit, one the Lord don't approve of, but this hankering comes over me…If Flo finds out I'm makin' moonshine, she'll nail my hide to the outhouse.”

The two men sneaked up on the inebriated chickens one at a time. The fading light made it difficult to see, and Walker stumbled over a grain bucket, startling a hen he was about to nab. She bolted away, eyes
glassy, sides heaving. He made a dive and caught her, and then he put her back in the coop.

“If Flo sees us, I'm dead.” S.H. grabbed another hen by the leg and pinned her to the ground. The bird stared at him in wonder. Then feathers flew and she squawked as he carried her to the pen.

The men froze when Flo lifted the kitchen window and shouted, “S.H? What's going on out there?”

“Just settling the chickens,” S.H. shouted back. He shot Walker a desperate look.

“They ain't gone to roost yet?” Flo yelled.

“They're gettin' there!”

Two hens had made it all the way to the porch and were assessing the steps. Their heads wobbled precariously on their feathered shoulders. Walker quietly approached the closest one.

“You take the other one,” he whispered. S.H. reached for the first hen just as the porch door flew open.

“S.H., why are my hens putting up such a ruckus?” Flo stood in the doorway, Sarah peering over her shoulder. “S.H.?”

He straightened with a sheepish grin. “Nothin's going on, sugar. We'll be there in a minute.”

Flo eyed the hen flapping behind his back.

“Why aren't those hens roosting?” she asked. “It's nearly dark.”

“Well, they don't seem to be feelin' too good,” he said. The hen set up another squawk, feathers flying the air.

Stepping onto the porch, Flo put her hands on her hips. “S.H. Gibson, what's goin' on out here? You two look like naughty boys caught with a hand in the cookie jar.”

Walker caved in first. “They're drunk, Flo.”

S.H. glared at him. Then he and Walker both faced her wrath, each holding a chicken that, apparently thinking it had successfully roosted, appeared to be asleep.

“Drunk!” she bellowed.

“Drunk?” Sarah echoed. “Chickens drink hard liquor?”

S.H. tried to absolve himself. “Now, Flo, honey, I know you're not
going to like it, but I bought a little mash in town today—it's my last, sugar pie. Bought it from Babe Jensen, and I was gonna tell ya, but I didn't want ya to yell at me.” He glanced at Walker pleadingly. “I don't know how the chickens got into it.”

“Of all the—” Flo began. “Did you feed it to them?”

“Me! No, I wouldn't make a mistake like that, honey bunch.”

Three pairs of eyes swiveled to Sarah.

Sarah's hands flew to her cheeks.

Walker eyed her. “Sarah?”

“What does mash look like?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Sarah swallowed. “S.H. allowed me to feed the horses earlier and…”

“Oh, mercy.” Walker dropped his chicken. Squawking, she rolled onto her side. “Not the horses too!”

“No!” Sarah exclaimed. “I know I fed them oats. I know what oats look like.” Color flooded her cheeks. “But when I was looking for the oats, I opened another barrel and…I may have forgotten to shut the lid.”

S.H. was in the doghouse with Flo, and Walker had a coop full of drunken poultry.

Sarah's bottom lip quivered. She looked at the unconscious chicken under S.H.'s arms and the one lying peacefully in the dirt. “Are they going to die?”

“Mash isn't going to kill them, but they're gonna have a mean hangover come morning.” Walker bent to pick up a limp bird. “I wouldn't use the eggs tomorrow, Flo.”

Whirling, Flo marched back into the house and slammed the door. Sarah sank onto the porch swing, stunned.

“Guess I know where I'll be roostin' tonight,” S.H. grumbled. He adjusted his hen and started for the barn.

Sarah glanced at Walker. By the look on his face, he was ready to buy her a train ticket back East. She had taken pains not to crowd him today, had done everything she could to make the outing successful,
and now this happened. Granted, it had been foolish of her to leave the lid off that mash barrel, but it wasn't a hanging offense. She was getting a little tired of feeling inept. She might not have been born and reared on a ranch, she might not be the most experienced cook or housekeeper, but she tried, and Walker should be grateful that she loved him enough to want to learn. Tears welled in her eyes, falling unchecked down her cheeks.

She was in the kitchen feigning reading by the oil lamp when Walker came through the house and went upstairs. She heard the thump of heavy boots down the hallway; then their bedroom door opened and shut.

Tucking a bookmark into her book, she wiped away her tears and then crept up the stairway, straining to hear his activity. Was he so angry that he wouldn't talk to her?

She heard first one boot drop and then the other. When the bedcovers rustled, she walked into the room. Walker, sitting in bed, looked up from the journal he was reading.

“What are you crying about?”

“Nothing.” She marched to the closet and removed her dressing gown.

Laying his reading aside, he sighed. “Anyone could have left the lid off that barrel.”

“No, it's my fault and I'm sorry. I don't pay enough attention to what I'm doing.” She crossed the room and sat down on the bed, determined to stay calm. She knew he hated it when she cried.

“Don't worry about it. You'll learn. You've only been here a short while.” Softening, he asked, “Would a hot bath make you feel better? I'll have Flo heat some water.”

While the thought of soaking her cares away was enticing, she knew a bath wouldn't solve the problem. They had to communicate on an emotional level. They needed to talk. The marriage would never grow otherwise, and she dearly wanted it to bloom, to thrive so that eventually, solving little problems like the chicken fiasco would be as automatic as breathing.

“We need to talk, Walker. I'm sorry if I get in the way. I only want to help.”

“I'm sorry I make you feel that way. Your efforts are duly noted, but I'm not a talker, Sarah. Afraid I never will be. If you need something, just ask me but don't expect me to read your mind.”

Sarah thought that was a little harsh, yet he was right. It would take years to learn each other's way, to develop trust and communication. But she
would
learn. She would show them all that she could be a sterling wife and helpmate. Ranching was second nature to Walker, and Flo had cooked for S.H. for forty years. How could she expect to master in a few weeks what had taken others a lifetime to perfect?

She swallowed the lump in her back throat. “A bath would be nice.”

“Hey.” His eyes gentled. “It's not the end of the world. You made a mistake. I make them all the time.”

“Thank you.” Tears welled in spite of her promise to not cry.

“Just be more careful next time.”

“I promise I will. I know what mash looks like now.”

And she wouldn't likely mistake it again.

Later, Sarah ran a finger over the cover of her dime novel.

“Are you going to turn out the light?”

She gave her husband an absent love pat. “In a minute. I want to read a few pages of my book.” She met his gaze. “Thank you for being so thoughtful. I love to read. I even thought about writing a book someday.”

He turned to his side. “That's nice.”

An hour passed. She sat up and slammed the book shut. “Walker!” She rolled toward him and he grunted. “I'm going to write that book.” She didn't know a wit about ranching, but she was well educated. She could write. She knew she could. And get the work published.

Opening an eye, he stared at her. “You're going to what?”

“I am going to write a love story.” After all, she was living one—somewhat. But their union would grow year by year, and one day she would realize that what others thought was pure folly would be prove to be good judgment. She felt sorry for Lucy. This could have all been hers… “I can do it. Will you permit it?”

“You want to write a book?”

“Yes. A romance.”

He wadded his pillow beneath his head. “Have you ever written anything before?”

“I've written letters, and once I wrote a short poem that took second place in a contest. May I use your den?”