Walker's Wedding (12 page)

S
arah settled on a tall stool and watched Potster slice potatoes with deft precision. In front of her was a large bowl and an assortment of cornmeal, eggs, flour, a mixture of cream of tartar, baking soda, and clabbered milk, buttermilk, salt, and bacon grease.

“I mix all of this together?” Sarah asked when Potster urged her to get to work. “How do I know how much to add?”

Potster winked at her. “Just start mixin'. I'll help when you get stuck.”

Sarah lifted a dollop of bacon grease and flipped it into a heavy iron skillet. It seemed very odd to her that she should be taking cooking lessons from one of Walker's ranch hands.

“Enough?” she asked.

Potster glanced up from his potatoes and craned his neck to peer at the skillet. “Good enough. Now stick the skillet in the oven and let the grease get good and hot afore you add the cornmeal mixture. Remember, yer cookin' for hungry men. We'll need four skilletfuls.”

Nodding, Sarah carried the pan to the woodstove.

Potster's laugh rang out. “You got spunk, girl. Ain't no doubt about that. I can see why Walker hitched to your wagon.”

Sarah's cheeks flamed when the ranch hand slapped his knee with his free hand. “Can you open the oven door for me?”

“You gotta do this yourself or you'll never learn.” He wiped his hands on a cloth and set the potatoes to boil.

She eased the skillet to a table and then opened the oven door. “I'm planning our first party as man and wife. There will be around fifty guests. How much meat do I need?” She slid the pan in and closed the door.

“Fifty, huh? That's purty small for a McKay gatherin'.”

“I don't want to overstep my bounds, especially on my first event.”

“Well, then I'd say five turkeys and four hams, and you'll need a pan of dressing for every five folk.”

Sarah's face brightened. Arithmetic was her best subject. The numbers began ticking in her head. She quickly scooped another thick lump of grease from the can. “So cooking is all about math!”

He chuckled. “Never thought of it that way. My ma taught me. There were fourteen of us young'uns, and we all had to pitch in and help or we didn't eat. Ma was a pinch and smidgen cook.”

“A what?”

“A pinch o' this, a smidgen o' that.” He grinned. “That woman could cook for a king—imagine she is right now. She died ten years ago.” He paused. “I suppose a body could write all these things down, but I never took the time.”

“Just a pinch and a smidgen and you can produce edible meals?”

“Never had a man leave my table complainin' or hungry. As for learnin' to cook? After a while, you'll do it without thinkin'.”

Sarah set to work. “Potster, you've worked for the McKays a long time, haven't you?”

“Since I was a knee-high to a grasshopper.”

“Then you knew Walker when he was a little boy?”

“Helped deliver him.” Potster poured water over cut potato chunks. “It was rainin' cats and dogs that day.”

“What was my husband like when he was a small?”

She saw glimpses of “boy” still in him. The way he loved cookies and milk, and how he'd find humor in the oddest things.

“Oh, he was the typical little boy. Had more energy than a kid ought to have.” The cook chuckled. “Got his backside tanned real often.”

Sarah glanced up. “His father was a strong disciplinarian?”

“He was when you set his hayfield on fire.”

Sarah grinned. “Walker did that?”

“Twice. Both times when he wasn't supposed to have a match anywhere near him.”

The afternoon flew by as Sarah ladled yellow batter into heavy iron skillets and talked about Walker's youth. The more she learned about Walker McKay, the more she loved him.

“Now,” said the cook with a grand flourish, “the secret of making corn bread is…” He slid the pans into the hot oven and closed the door.

“Putting them in the oven?” Sarah peered over his shoulder.

“No,” he said, his voice a gravelly whisper. “Taking them out at exactly the right time. The Potster's secret.”

Sarah grinned, thankful she'd accepted this delightful man's invitation. Walker would be surprised!

Along with stories about Walker, Potster shared his cooking secrets and kept Sarah transfixed with tales of the West—the outlaws, cowherds, dust, and ponies that dotted the beautiful, wide-open land. Before she knew it, supper was ready, including four beautiful batches of perfectly browned corn bread.

She jumped when she realized the late hour. Flo would think she'd gotten lost! Throwing her arms around a startled Potster's neck, she squeezed. “I must leave now, but thank you so much.”

Potster nodded. “Time shore got away from us.”

She smiled. “Thank you for the cooking lesson. May I visit again?”

“Yer welcome as rain. It's been a real pleasure, Mrs. Walker.”

“Call me Sarah.”

His features turned bright red. “Yes, ma'am. Sarah.”

“And you will be at the party this weekend?”

Potster frowned. “Would I have to wear my fancy duds?”

“Others will, but if you're more comfortable in your ordinary duds, then wear them.” She had yet to adjust to these folks' peculiar vernacular.

A smile lit the cook's face. “Then I'll be there. Wouldn't miss it for the world!”

W
agons, horses, and guests eager for another McKay event crowded into Spring Grass on Saturday. News of the latest gathering had traveled faster than Sarah's invitations. Mild breezes and blue skies greeted the guests.

Walker leaned against a porch railing, keeping away from the party-goers filing through the house and out into the yard. In the midst of the attendees, his wife made sure that everyone had punch as they drifted around, chatting before retiring outdoors. Flo and Sarah had the place shining. Walker had been so busy planting the past two days that he had barely seen his bride.

Toward the end of the week, she had been up earlier than he was, preoccupied with the party and cooking lessons. He had heard Potster was tutoring her culinary skills. Cooking lessons from Potster. The two seemed an unlikely pair.

Music from guitars and banjos filled the air as guests mingled. He watched Sarah carry trays of smoked ham and cheese to the table. She suddenly turned from her task and met his gaze. “Why, Mr. McKay, what a pleasure to see you here. I'm so glad you could join the festivities.” She playfully curtsied.

Walker conceded his absence with a nod. “I know I've been scarce lately. Planting season is a busy time.”

“Hey, McKay, nice party,” a voice called out.

Acknowledging the comment with a wave and a smile, Walker moved to join a growing group of ranchers on the opposite side of the porch. Sarah melted back into the crowd.

“So, Walker, how's ranching been treating you?” Blake Slayton asked.

“Looks to be a bumper year, Blake.”

The remark brought a low, appreciative whistle from the other men. Every rancher there knew the pitfalls of a bad year, and they were quick to rejoice when one of them pulled off a good profit. Walker searched the faces of the men around him, many of whom were close friends. Rusty Johnson and his family had been on the same wagon train with Walker's parents. He and Rusty's sons had grown up closer than kin.

“Looks the same way over at the Circle J,” Rusty offered. “We shore need it after the last few.” Every man nodded in agreement.

“Maybe Walker should have married sooner.” The men turned to see Caleb Vanhooser approaching. The accountant looked small and out of place among the ranchers. The men parted and welcomed him into their circle. He smiled nervously at the group.

Walker clapped the accountant on the shoulder affectionately. “I'd venture to say that this man and the good spring rains are partly accountable for the encouraging outlook.”

Caleb removed his glasses and cleaned them with his handkerchief. “I think Walker's hard work deserves the praise.”

Walker didn't know how he would have made it through his parents' deaths if Caleb hadn't been there to help him with the financial end of things. Walker was better with cattle than figures.

The group moved on, leaving Walker and Caleb alone on the porch. They spoke about the ranch and cattle prices until Sarah approached with punch. Caleb nodded and accepted a cup. “Lovely party, Mrs. McKay.”

“Thank you.” She extended the tray to Walker, who also accepted a cup. Inside, the first few notes of “The Missouri Waltz” drifted out.

“Very nice gathering,” he commented. Was she aware of the song? Did it bring back memories of her wedding day?

“Thank you. I hope it isn't too large?”

“No.” He took a sip of punch. “Looks to be about right, but I'm going to have to excuse myself. I have work to do in the barn before it rains.”

“Today?” Her expression fell.

“I expected to be free, but unfortunately—”

“Can't your ranch hands do it?”

“No, Sarah. They're busy attending a party.”

A strained silence formed. Caleb lifted his cup and swallowed some punch.

When she stiffened her back and walked away, Walker frowned. “What's wrong with her?”

Smiling, Caleb said, “You know women.”

No, Walker didn't know women, but this one was starting to seem different. As he watched his wife walk away, he found himself wishing that he could stay a bit longer.

I
t was rare for Walker to take a day off, but the hay was taken care of, fences restored, and the push of work before and after the party left him needing a day of rest. Leaning close to the mirror, he slowly ran his razor down a cheek as he wondered what Sarah was up to this morning. She'd left the bed earlier than usual, murmuring something about baking biscuits.

He grinned when he thought of her in the kitchen. Potster had worked a miracle. His wife could now cook a skillet of corn bread that even Flo admired.

Sobering, he faced his image. Was that contentment he saw on his face? How could that be? He'd been married less than a month, and the tight lines around his eyes were gone. He studied the change, surprised at the transformation.

Whistling, he dressed and went downstairs, sniffing the air, which was laced with the smell of burning bacon. Potster couldn't change a moth into a butterfly overnight. Sarah's voice drifted to him from the kitchen.

“I don't think we should wake him. He was up very late last night.” Her voice trailed off as she disappeared into the pantry.

Walker paused for a moment at the top of the stairs. Through the front window he saw Flo working in her early vegetable garden, so whom was Sarah talking to?

“What do you think, Brownie?” Sarah's voice came from the pantry, and Walker realized that she'd lured one of the cattle dogs into the kitchen. His grin widened as he pictured the old coonhound a captive audience, head cocked to one side, trying to decide what the female was saying. “Should I use white napkins or the blue ones? White is more practical, but blue matches his eyes…” Sarah started as Walker entered the room.

“You're awake. I was going to bring you breakfast in bed.” She crossed the room and kissed him good morning. “I didn't wake you up, did I?”

Walker merely shook his head before sitting down at the table and watching her put the finishing touches on a breakfast tray, which she then carried to the table. He surveyed the damage before him and lifted a fork to run through undercooked eggs. Jagged pieces of eggshell floated in the gelatinous whites. Black specks dotted the heavily buttered toast. Four charred strips of what appeared to be bacon took up the rest of the plate.
Please, God, let “breakfast cooking” be on Poster's agenda.

She sat down across from him. He couldn't escape. He had to eat this.

“Where's yours?”

“I'm not hungry. I've been too busy to think about eating.” She grinned, propping her chin on her tented hands. “I'll just watch you enjoy your meal.”

Walker took a bite of egg and toast and quickly chased it with a swallow of tepid amber liquid.

He peered inside the cup. What was it? Coffee? Hot tea? “Where's Flo? How come she didn't fix breakfast?”

Sarah smiled. “I gave her the day off. Since you're not working today, I thought we might spend some time together. You've been so busy with planting that we've barely had a moment to talk about the baby.”

He glanced up. “Are you…?”

“I don't know—but if not I will be soon.”

“Isn't it too early…?”

“Becoming parents doesn't require any specified length of time.”

He never thought much about being a father, so he'd never contemplated the length of time it took to become one. He picked up a piece of bacon and studied it. “Time will tell. Once you conceive we'll talk about it.”

“All right. We'll just spend a nice, relaxing day together.”

Before they had gotten married, he hadn't thought about what it would mean to have someone underfoot most of his waking hours. What would it be like when babies screamed to be fed, toddlers raced up and down the hallways, and older kids banged doors shut, yelling back and forth?

Sarah stared at him expectantly, and it dawned on him that she was waiting for an answer. To what? He didn't have the slightest idea. His mind raced.
What had she been talking about? Babies? The house? New dresses?

“Is that okay with you?” she said, still waiting. “For us to spend time together today? You said you were taking the day off.”

“Oh.”
That's
what she'd asked. “Yeah. Give me half an hour to catch up on my book work and then I'll join you.”

“Take all the time you need.”

He took a bite of runny eggs and forced himself to swallow. “Your cooking is getting better every day.”

A smile broke across her features. “You think so?”

“Considerably better.” He excused himself a moment later.

“I'll be free as soon as I wash the dishes,” she called. “We can walk down by the river if you like.”

Walker entered the study and picked up his cattle register. Rubbing his eyes, he edged toward his chair, listening to the third chorus of “Amazing Grace” as Sarah washed dishes. He smiled when he heard the back screen door flap. Brownie had escaped to the porch.

Walker kept careful track of all his stock in the register: when they were born, bred, and sold. Caleb insisted. Easing down, he suddenly flapped his arms wildly, searching for a seat. He fell backward as the register dropped to the floor. He lay motionless for a moment, stunned. Then…

“Sarah!”

She darted out of the kitchen.

He glared up at her but asked in a calm voice, “Did you move my chair again?”

“Yes, I moved it this morning. The light is so much better by the window, Walker. I know you like the chair in its regular place, but I thought if you'd just sit in it once by the window, you'd love it.” She started picking up the scattered mail. “See how much better it is?”

Groaning, he shut his eyes. “I'm moving it back and, Sarah, don't, I repeat, don't move it again.”

“I don't know what you're so upset about. Why don't you look before you sit down?”

“I don't want to look when I sit. I want to know my chair will be where I left it.”

Sarah offered a hand up, which he refused as he pushed himself up from the floor. Giving her another short look, he moved the chair back to its usual place, sat down, and motioned for her to hand him the register.

“Do you need something?” she asked

“The register. It's on the floor.”

“I see it, but I'm not a dog. All you have to say is, Sarah, please hand me the register.”

Burying his face in his hands, he said in a tight voice. “Sarah, please hand me the register.”

“Of course.” She bent and retrieved the book.

When he had found his place and began again, he noticed she was still there. He lifted his head.

“Can I get you another cup of coffee?” she asked.

“No.”

“Do you need your slippers?”

“No.”

She sighed. “Can I get you anything?”

“My chair. In its proper place.”

“I'm
sorry
about your chair—but really, Walker, you ought to look
before you sit down.” She turned and went back to the kitchen, and for a blessed two full minutes, silence reigned. Walker sighed, settling deeper into the chair cushion.

Before he had finished reviewing the information in the register about the new calves, she was back.

“Are you going to the barn today?” He could see that she had something nestled in her apron.

“I'm going to check on Diamond later.”

“Good. You can take these.” Sarah opened her apron to reveal four bright red apples. “There's one for each horse.” She dropped the fruit in Walker's lap. He stared at the deposit.

His wife turned and went back to the kitchen. Walker, holding the register and four apples, watched her disappear through the doorway. A few moments later, she returned.

“I'm ready to go when you are, okay?”

Walker nodded.

When her singing started up again, he quickly shut the register and rose quietly, creeping to the hat rack. He needed a little space. Some time with the horses before they began their time alone.

He slipped his boots on soundlessly, keeping an eye on the closed kitchen door. As the singing rose in pitch and intensity, he quickly grabbed the apples and sneaked out the front door to find shelter in the barn.

He brushed all four mares and put them back into their stalls with an extra ration of hay. Spending time in the barn calmed him. Here he knew what to do; with Sarah, he didn't. But he couldn't spend the rest of his life hiding from his wife. He hung the picks and brushes back on the wall and then removed his hat and wiped his forehead, recalling his life before Sarah. Uncomplicated. Quiet.

He walked toward the bunkhouse, his mind on Spring Grass now. The ranch had been his father's pride and joy. The verdant, rolling hills stretched for miles. He inhaled the warm air, sweet from newly turned soil, and realized that regardless of the change in lifestyle, he was happy. Sarah's ways were different, but for some insane reason she didn't bother
him most days. If she would just leave his chair alone they would get along fine. It was nice to have her around in the evening. She tatted while he read. He'd never thought to ask her about her former life, where she was raised and educated. Were her folks still living? Did she have brothers and sisters? So far she hadn't offered a scrap of information regarding her private life, and he knew little more than that she came from Boston.

He reached S.H. and Flo's cabin as S.H. was leaving.

“Where are you off to?”

“Flo's supplies are runnin' low. What are you doin' today?”

“Sarah thinks we need to spend the day together.”

The old man winked. “Now, what can newlyweds find to occupy their time?”

Flo's voice sounded from the kitchen. “Git on with yer business, S.H. Quit teasin' the poor man!”

“Morning, Flo,” Walker called. Inside, he found the housekeeper busy making new curtains. Bolts of shiny checked material were spread across the kitchen table. The woman looked up. “Thought you and Sarah planned to spend the day together.”

“We're going to. I wanted to check on Diamond.”

“By the way, Sarah moved your chair again this morning.”

“I noticed.”

Flo shook her head. “She wants to help, but she don't know how.”

“I don't understand it, Flo. The ad promised an experienced housekeeper. Either her pa lied, or the Mallorys have a different idea of experienced than we do.”

“Well, now. She's not a Mallory. She told you so the day she got off the train.”

“Yes—I forgot. Some sort of mistake at the agency.”

“So she says.”

He glanced up. “You don't believe her?”

“I ain't got a problem with her other than she's underfoot. She cramps my style, but I can live with it if you can.”

Walker frowned. “Her name isn't important.”

“If that's your feelin', Walker, then I'd stay with it for a while.” She bit off a thread. “Can't never tell how soup is going to turn out until it's done.”

For a moment, silence dominated the room. Walker took off his hat, absently tapping his forefinger against the crown. “Given time, she'll improve, won't she?”

“The poor thing tries hard enough.” Flo bent close to the table, her scissors rhythmically cutting the fabric. “Don't suppose you've taken a likin' to her.”

Walker turned toward the counter and poured a cup of orange juice.

Eyeing him, Flo grinned. “Not going to answer?”

“Flo, do you have any dime novels? Sarah said something the other night about liking to read them.”

“I may have a few.” She laid the scissors aside and disappeared into the bedroom. Walker heard her sorting through the trunk at the foot of the bed, and a few minutes later, she returned with a stack of books.

“These ought to keep her busy.”

Walker studied the covers, frowning. They looked like love stories. He took one off the top, read part of a scene, and then snorted and threw it back. “Got anything else?”

Flo laughed. “Men. Not a romantic bone in their bodies.”