Walker's Wedding by Lori Copeland

decent meal in weeks.”
    Nodding, Lowell turned away. “Maybe some chicken—and bread and butter. And a few of those pickles I like. Maybe a slice of blackberry pie too. Tell Will not to forget the cream.”
    â€œYes, sir.” Pleased, Wadsy walked away.
    That telegram must have set Mr. Livingston’s mind to rest. He’s askin’ for cream and butter again. He must be feelin’ powerful relieved.

Chapter Twelve

    T he McKay kitchen blossomed with Sarah’s chatter. Her mind worked faster than Walker could think. She’s nervous, he told himself as he ate breakfast and absently nodded at her cheerful prattle. Once she settled in she’d quiet down.
    Having two strong-willed females in the house wasn’t easy. Flo complained about having Sarah underfoot and that she took her “wifely” role too seriously. He wasn’t sure how he should handle the dispute, but if he let them establish their territories on their own, he figured he’d be far better off.
    Sarah broke through his ponderings. “Walker, do you think we could have a party? A real party that is not a wedding pretending to be a barbecue?”
    He kept his eyes on the seed catalogue he was reading. “I don’t mind.”
    â€œWonderful. I was thinking maybe a lavish event? Everyone could wear their finest attire. A nice formal dinner with rich satin tablecloths—and maybe one or two of the ranch hands could serve so Flo doesn’t have to work so hard. We could serve coq au vin—”
    â€œWhoa!” Walker frowned. “We’re simple country folk. Don’t serve anything fancy and keep the list to a hundred folks. Beef and potatoes and none of that French stuff. Besides”—a flicker of a smile broke through—“you’d put a dent in my herd trying to feed all of our friends.”
    Sarah fell silent and he felt her gaze on him.
    â€œYou said ‘our friends.’”
    Walker sipped his coffee. “Did I?”
    â€œYou did. You said ‘our friends.’ I can’t tell you how much that pleases me.” She stepped closer to rest her hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for making me feel so welcome in your home.”
    â€œIt’s your home now.” He hoped she wasn’t going to go all womanly on him and cry.
    â€œYes, it is. Thank you again. It’s a lovely thought.”

    Late that afternoon, Flo filled a jar with lemonade and wrapped it in a heavy cloth. Walker and S.H. were moving cattle nearby, and Sarah thought they would appreciate a cool drink. Though the distance wasn’t far to walk, she asked a ranch hand to saddle one of the mares anyway. It had been months since she’d ridden, and she looked forward to the outing. She skipped upstairs to put on the new riding skirt Martha had made her.
    Fifteen minutes later she was astride the mare and galloping to the south pasture. She missed her horse, Samson, and wondered if he missed her. They had ridden together nearly every day in the past few years. Once she’d cleared the air with Walker, she’d ask him to send for the animal.
    The lemonade swished in the saddlebag. The mare’s shod feet clipped merrily along the fields. Sarah’s heart sang as she perched on the polished saddle. She was married to the man of her dreams. Other than not being able to see or talk to Papa or Wadsy, her life couldn’t get any better. Soon she would tell Walker about the ruse, and then she would invite her family to come visit.
    She spotted a shirtless Walker bent over a calf, and her pulse quickened. The heifer bawled for its mother, which S.H. held at bay.
    Sarah approached quietly in order not to startle the men. Her gaze skimmed her husband’s torso, resting on the vicious scars marring his olive skin. Reining in, she quietly admired him.
    S.H. glanced up and grinned when he saw her. “That you, Sarah?”
    Walker turned at the mention of her name.