Walker's Wedding (17 page)

Walker was starting to trust again. It'd be a nightmare if his trust were misplaced a second time. Sarah seemed to be his perfect match, yet what did they really know about her? She came from somewhere near Boston, and her ma and pa must have been anxious to marry her off to have allowed her to be a mail-order bride. Flo threw a shirt into the basket.

She'd never seen Walker happier than he'd been with Sarah the past few weeks. His smile was back, and he walked with a lighter step. Marriage agreed with him. She'd hate to think Sarah was in the marriage for reasons other than honest ones. Could she possibly be one of those gold diggers out for Walker's money and nothing more? Spotting Sarah's hastily discarded dress flung on a corner chair, she stuffed it in the
basket. Young'uns. Even though it was one of Sarah's new frocks, she figured it could use washing after the dance.

She moved to the bed, straightening the covers. Young folks these days weren't taught to make a neat bed. Nothing bothered her more than—She glanced over her shoulder when she heard something drop to the floor. An envelope?

She bent to pick it up. Mallory. Flo turned the envelope over in her hands as she studied it. The letter itself lay under the bed. Groaning, she got down on her knees to fish it out. Her eyes skimmed the body of the text.
This is none of yer business, Flo. Lay the letter on the nightstand and be about yer laundry.

Getting to her feet, she refolded the papers. They were uneven, so she shook them out and tried to put them in order. Her eyes fell on the first sentence.

Then the second one.

A minute later she stuffed the letter into the envelope and laid it on the stand. Snatching the remainder of the dirty clothes, she stuffed them into the basket, steaming. It appeared that the Mallorys were schemers, but how was Sarah tied up with Lucy Mallory? Apparently there
was
a Lucy Mallory or her parents wouldn't be writing to her here. And they no doubt thought their daughter was about to put them in tall clover, but if the agency had a mix-up in names…How did Sarah figure in all this? More to the point, if Lucy thought she'd milk money out of Walker, why would she have consented to a switch with Sarah, if that was what had happened?

Flo tried to shake her mind loose from her fussy thoughts. Something sinister was going on here, but when S.H, heard about it, he'd either tell her to mind her own doins' or else he'd tell Walker.

Oh, precious Lord. What do I do now?
She didn't have the heart to tell Walker the Mallorys were out to take him and witness his disappointment a second time, but she couldn't stand by and let strangers swindle him out of his money.

She was torn between anger at Sarah and pity for Walker. S.H. He'd know what to do. S.H. could talk sense into Sarah. The girl didn't seem
materialistic; in fact, she was just the opposite. Maybe Walker wouldn't care about the switch. After all, he'd married Sarah to produce an heir. Maybe he was willing to pay whatever price she asked.

Then again, maybe Walker McKay didn't have an inkling that Sarah had married him to provide an income for her shiftless family. Sinking to the side of the bed, Flo stared at the basket of dirty clothes.

There was gonna be trouble over this or her name wasn't Florence Mae Gibson.

A
box of pencils and two hundred sheets of white paper were tucked safely in the supply box for Sarah, so Walker guessed the whole day wasn't a wash. He smiled, liking the thought of having an author for a wife. Chances were, nothing would come of Sarah's efforts, but he was impressed with her writing goals.

He could smell supper as S.H. wheeled the buckboard into the barnyard.

“Pot roast,” S.H. guessed.

“Meat loaf.”

S.H. and Walker unhitched the team and walked them into the barn before heading for the house. They found Sarah curled up reading in Walker's chair. She paused to look up and smile when they came into the foyer.

“Research?” Walker teased over his shoulder as he climbed the stairs to wash up.

Sarah grinned. “No, I'm saving that for later.”

“I have something you might like,” he called.

“I like everything you have!”

He laughed at her almost childlike devotion, deciding that having a daughter with curly red hair might be nice. A boy would be fine, someone to carry on the McKay name, but he'd have no objections to a girl with Sarah's laugh. Or her smile. Or anything about her. Truth was, he
was starting to like everything about Sarah. Maybe marriage wasn't so bad. Once a baby came, they would be a family.

Flo had supper on the table when S.H. and Walker took their seats.

“Flo, if you weren't already married, I'd marry you again,” S.H. said.

“If I weren't married, you'd have a time of it catching me, S.H. Gibson. Get your elbows off the table.”

S.H. spooned green beans onto his plate, winking at Walker. “You let Sarah talk to you this way?”

Walker grinned at Sarah as she put a couple of slices of roast beef on his plate. “My wife has respect for me, S.H.”

“The meat should be delicious. I didn't go anywhere near it,” Sarah said quickly, handing the platter to S.H.

Walker grinned. “I can see that. Thanks.” The couples didn't ordinarily eat together, but that morning before they left for town, S.H. had suggested that they all eat together at their place that evening.

S.H. then took the bowl of potatoes Flo was offering him. “Why don't you fix my plate? Sarah fixes Walker's.”

Flo ignored her husband and sat down. “S.H., it's your turn to say grace.”

The meal proceeded with friendly chatter, except for Flo, who ate without looking up.

Sarah buttered a piece of hot bread, smiling. “How was your trip into town?”

“Wasted a whole ding-dong day,” S.H. said. “Didn't get half done what we needed to do.” He glanced at his wife. “You're awful quiet tonight, sugar bunch. Something put you in a bad mood?”

Picking up her fork, Flo met Sarah's eyes pointedly. “Just you, S.H. You always put me in a bad mood.”

S.H. winked at Walker. “Tart little heifer. I wouldn't trade her for a California gold mine.”

“A California gold mine?” Walker reached for the cream pitcher. “I'd have to think about that one.”

After supper, the men insisted the women could wash dishes later. They led them onto the porch and handed them packages, which, by the look of them, they'd wrapped themselves. Walker couldn't take his eyes off Sarah as she shook the gift, trying to guess what the box held. She hadn't been far from his mind all day.

“Go on,” S.H. urged Flo, his brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “Open yers first.”

His wife eyed the ill-wrapped package. “S.H., what'd you do? Wad this paper up and stomp on it?”

“That's a first-class wrapping job, Florence Mae.”

“It's downright disgraceful.” Flo tore into her package, gasping with delight when she held up a new dress. “S.H., you old goat! We can't afford this.”

“Honey bun, I'm rich in every way that matters. Just stuck a little extra money away in my sock each payday—weren't nothin' much.” He reached for her hand and gave her a kiss as gallant as any knight would his lady. “Worth every penny to see the look in yer eyes right now,” he said softly.

Flo's eyes misted and she leaned over and kissed him soundly.

Walker draped an arm around Sarah's waist. “You're next.”

“Oh, Walker, you shouldn't have. You bought me all those lovely dresses—”

He silenced her with a brief kiss. Sarah squealed when she opened the parcel of pencils and paper. “Paper! Thank you so much.” She jumped up and threw her arms around his neck. She glanced at Flo.

Walker watched the exchange, wondering why there was an underlying tension between the women tonight. “I love it!” Sarah hugged the paper and pencils to her chest. “Thank you. I've never had a nicer gift.”

“Are you gonna write love scenes?” S.H. teased.

Sarah turned a deep shade of crimson. “Of course not, S.H. My books are going to be fun and inspiring and…well, I'd never—”

“Oh, S.H., leave her alone,” Flo said. She gathered up the wrapping paper and headed back into the house.

“Hey, where ya goin'?” S.H. sat up in his chair. “Aren't you gonna model yer new dress for us?”

“Not tonight, S.H. Those dishes won't wash themselves.”

The screen door flapped shut, and S.H. turned to Sarah. Shrugging, she handed the pencils and paper to Walker. “Guess I need to help her.”

Walker glanced at S.H. when she disappeared into the house. “What's that all about? Did the two of them get into it today?”

S.H.'s features sobered. “Flo didn't say, but there's a definite chill in the air.”

Later that night, when she told S.H. about catching Sarah reading Walker's financial records and about strange the letter, he told her to stay clear of Walker's business. Said she didn't need to be stickin' her nose into other people's dealings, but Flo didn't like withholding information from Walker, especially this information.

If Sarah was up to something she shouldn't be, Walker needed to know.

W
hen Caleb knocked on the door the next morning, Sarah invited him inside. As always, he carefully stepped around her, avoiding her direct gaze as he fiddled with his glasses.

“You're a bit early. Walker's not in from his morning rounds yet,” Sarah explained as she escorted him into the parlor. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee or tea, perhaps?”

“Well, uh, yes, coffee would be nice.” He smiled, but the effort seemed insincere. Sarah excused herself while Caleb sat uncomfortably on the couch. Flo wasn't in the kitchen when Sarah got there, but the coffee from breakfast was still warm on the stove. She poured two cups, placed them on a tray, and went to retrieve sugar from the pantry.

Playing hostess to Caleb was not exactly an ideal way to spend a morning, especially with her novel awaiting her. She sighed. Returning from the pantry, she placed the cream pitcher and sugar bowl on the tray and lifted it. With slow, sure steps, she navigated back into the parlor.

Caleb shot off his seat the moment she came through the doorway. His hat, which he had taken off and placed on the chair beside him, tumbled onto the floor and lay by the satchel he carried with him to each meeting with Walker. Sarah set the tray on the table.

“Here,” she offered. “Let me take your things into Walker's study so you won't be tripping over them.” She picked up the hat and reached for the satchel.

“No!” Caleb's tone startled her. Sarah straightened and delicately lifted her eyebrows.

He cleared his throat. “I…I prefer to keep it with me.”

“Suit yourself,” she said, taking a seat opposite him. The man certainly was an odd duck. She watched his hands fumble with the sugar spoon until he managed to tip a few spoonfuls into his cup. Rather than let him make a similar mess with the cream, she intervened.

“Allow me to serve you.” She took the pitcher from his hand. Despite the warmth of the room, Caleb's touch chilled her. She poured cream for both of them and settled back into her chair. Why was the accountant so nervous? He had no way of knowing she had been snooping through Walker's books. And even if he did know, why would that knowledge make him uncomfortable?

She took a sip of coffee. She didn't want to accuse Caleb; she couldn't confront him with anything. All she had were suspicions of misconduct. Considering her own lies, Sarah realized she couldn't make bold statements until she had informed Walker of the truth about her situation. But that shouldn't stop her from finding out what the little man was about—for this little man
was
about something.

“So, Caleb,” Sarah asked, “how long have you been taking care of Walker's books?”

The accountant took a moment to answer. Clearing his throat, he fixed his gaze on his crossed hands. “Your husband and I have been close friends since Mitch and Betsy died.”

“You didn't keep Walker's father's books?”

“No. Mitch took care of everything. Cattle. Books. Everything.”

“Strange.” Sarah took a sip from her cup and silently chided herself for pursuing the questioning this far.
Go slowly. This isn't the Inquisition.

“Pardon?” Caleb adjusted his glasses and then took a sip of coffee.

“Excuse me, I was musing out loud. I've seen Walker working on the books—or so I thought.”

“He leaves notes. He may glance at the calculations once in a while, but there's no reason for him to concern himself with finances.”

“That is so true,” Sarah said, placing her cup back on her saucer. “Especially with the ranch making such a handsome profit these last few months.”

Caleb smiled. “The growth of Spring Grass has been astounding. Mitch taught him well.”

“But he didn't teach him everything, obviously,” Sarah said with a feigned laugh, “or Walker would keep his own books.”

Her meager attempt at humor fell, and silence took over. She wanted so badly to ask about the inconsistencies she'd found in the calculations, but she didn't. She had already overstepped her bounds by being in her husband's study in the first place, and most definitely she should not be nosing around in his personal business. The errors she'd detected had been small but puzzling. And yesterday she'd found a sizeable deposit that had gone unrecorded. Perhaps Caleb would catch the error today.

She glanced up when Walker came in through the front door, knocking mud from his boots.

“Caleb! Sorry I'm late. Things were a little hectic around here this morning.” He smiled at Sarah and her heart fluttered. “Luckily you were in good hands.”

“Yes, excellent hands,” Caleb agreed. He immediately got up and reached for his briefcase. A moment later he disappeared into the study, no doubt relieved to be free from Sarah's prattle. Walker followed the accountant and Sarah slumped back in her chair.

What had gotten into her? Questioning Walker's best friend as if he were a common thief. Her teeth worried her bottom lip. She couldn't know for certain if the errors were incompetence or held significance.

That night Sarah climbed into bed with pencil and pad in hand. “Walker?”

“Mmm?”

“I'd like to read you part of my book.”

“Okay.”

“Are you too tired to listen?”

“No, I'd like to hear it.” He rolled over to face her.

She paused, filled with curiosity. “How was your meeting with Caleb today?”

“Good. Why?”

“I was just curious. He always seems uneasy around me.”

“He's got a shy nature. I thought you were going to read what you've written.”

“Oh, yes. This isn't all I've written, but let me tell you a little about the plot. It's a story about a girl who wants nothing more in life than to be married. Her papa is overprotective, so no one who courts her is ever good enough. The men, in essence, are terrified of her father's reputation of smothering his daughter, and though he is wealthy beyond words, the smarter ones want nothing to do with her. She sets her cap for numerous men, but they are never the one God or her papa has planned for her life. She becomes more and more frustrated because she thinks that she will be too old to marry and have children by the time the Lord sends the right man.”

Walker listened intently.

“So this girl—this foolish, foolish girl—decides to run away. She boards a train and on the train she meets…” Sarah paused, taking a breath.

Walker's eyes skimmed her. “The man of her dreams?”

“Yes. Definitely the man of her dreams, but I haven't reached that part yet.”

“Then what? The train derails? That won't hold the readers' interest if she dies in the first chapter.”

“No, the train doesn't derail.” Sarah shuffled the papers. “That's about as far as I've gotten right now. I can't decide where to go from here.”

“So,” he offered, “maybe she meets the man on the train. Love at first sight?”

“Possible. Or perhaps she meets a young, desperate woman whose
parents have insisted that she be a—oh, a mail-order-bride? And she doesn't want to marry a stranger because she's desperately in love with another man, one she feels God intends for her. So, perhaps there's another woman on the train who wants nothing more than to be married—”

“The heroine of your book.”

“Yes…the heroine. What if she's on that train and she meets up with Elizabeth and—”

“Elizabeth?”

“Secondary character.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, what if this woman and Elizabeth meet up and decide that since the woman wants nothing more than to marry, and Elizabeth wants nothing more than to be free of her parents' plan to marry her off to a stranger—” she glanced over when she heard Walker's soft snore.

“What if I decided to fill Lucy's place? And I love it and I love you, and S.H. and Flo. I love Spring Grass.” Her tone trailed off, and she set the pencil and paper aside and slid down between the sheets. “And now I have myself in a dismal mess that I can see no way out of.”

“Hmm?”

“Nothing, darling. Rest.” She patted her husband's hand and closed her eyes.

Dear God, forgive me. If only truth wasn't stranger than fiction.