Waiting for Morning (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series)

by Margaret Brownley

  He wasn’t the only one enamored with the woman named Kate. Stretch told about the time she read them a novel. “A love story,” he said, without embarrassment. “And she writ every word herself.”

  Even Wishbone got into the act. “Remember the time she climbed the windmill?”

  “And the time she was chased by a javelina,” one of the other ranch hands added.

  Molly was tired of all the talk about the wonderful, divine Kate. “Why isn’t Miss Walker going to the wedding?”

  Ruckus shook his head. “I don’t think the boss lady will ever forgive her for givin’ up the ranch for marriage.”

  “She doesn’t have to worry about me runnin’ off and marrying.” Since singing at the Cactus Patch saloons, she’d worked even harder to learn ranching and could now ride and rope with the best of them. She didn’t want to go back to being a dance hall girl—she couldn’t. All those leering men. All those horrible drunks. She shuddered. It was the ranch or nothing. Had to be.

  Nothing could stop her now. Not even her silly schoolgirl crush on the handsome and charming Caleb Fairbanks.

  Ruckus insisted that he and his wife, Sylvia, drive her and Donny to the church. She debated on what to wear and settled on her yellow dress with puffed sleeves. The modest neckline made up for the bright— some might even say bold—color. People would stare. They always did, but it was better they stare at her than Donny. Protecting her brother was all that mattered. It was uppermost in her mind practically every waking moment.

  Donny wore his dark pants and white shirt and a tie made from rattlesnake skin that Ruckus loaned him.

  People were milling outside the church when they arrived, greeting friends and sharing news. All talk stopped when Molly stepped down from the buckboard. She didn’t recognize any of the men staring at her, but they certainly seemed to know her. A few men winked and tried to talk to her but were yanked back by glaring wives. Molly glared back. If it hadn’t been for her and Aunt Bessie, most of these men would have been in no condition to attend the wedding. This was the thanks she got.

  Cactus Patch churchgoers were every bit as narrow-minded as they had been back home in Dobson Creek and she wanted no part of them.

  Seething, Molly held her head high and walked past the crowd, drawing attention away from her brother with an ease that only came with practice. Her feigned poise deserted her the moment she spotted Caleb.

  Heart skipping a beat, she met his gaze with a hesitant look, the last encounter in his office a sword hanging over their heads. Had he heard how she and Aunt Bessie forced the saloons to close down? Not that it mattered. Of course it didn’t.

  He tipped his hat politely, keeping his thoughts hidden behind hooded eyes. She walked by him with a slight nod that belied her churning emotions.

  A short while later she tossed a glance over her shoulder to find him still watching her. Cheeks flaring, she quickly followed Ruckus and the wheelchair into the vestibule.

  Bessie had arrived at the church early that day. There was little left to do except rearrange a basket of flowers, straighten a bow, and drape a satin ribbon over the piano. The church had never looked so lovely. Dressed to the nines in her very best green taffeta frock, face deftly painted, she bustled up the aisle in a swish of swirling, rustling skirts.

  The door flew open and her sister rushed into the chapel like a hen chased by a fox, feathers and tightly wound curls all aflutter. “Bessie, you won’t believe the news. Mr. Winkleman is dead!”

  Bessie gasped. “Are you sure?”

  Lula-Belle gave an indignant nod. “Of course I’m sure. Heard it with my own two ears.”

  “But that’s not possible,” Bessie wailed. “I just talked to him yesterday. Told him what I wanted him to sing.”

  “From what I hear, dying doesn’t take all that long,” Lula-Belle said in a hushed voice. “You can do it in less than a day. An hour if necessary.”

  Winkleman dead? It was shocking but not all that surprising. Something about weddings gave him cold feet. He’d left a bride at the altar not once but twice, but never did Bessie imagine he would go to such extremes to avoid a wedding not his own.

  Her husband, Sam, opened the door just wide enough to stick his head through. “Are we ready?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” Bessie said, waving him away. She spun around to face her sister. “How did he die?”

  “According to Mr. Green, Mr. Winkleman died of sobriety.” Lula-Belle spoke in a hushed voice, one generally saved for funerals, hangovers, and sleeping babies.

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. How is it possible for a man to die from not drinking?”

  “Mr. Green said that sobriety was hard on the heart and even harder on the family.”

  Bessie made a face. “So is planning a wedding, but you don’t see me kicking the bucket.”

  Lula-Belle’s brow creased like a folded fan. “Mr. Green blames you for insisting the saloons close last night.”

  “Mr. Green blames me for Governor Hughes’s removal.” Just because she supported the governor’s prohibition stance was no reason to think she had anything to do with his political troubles.

  Determined not to let Winkleman’s demise ruin the wedding, Bessie paced back and forth. “We’ll just have to do the best we can without him. As long as we still have a piano player . . .”

  “Eh.”

  Bessie stopped pacing. “Go on, get it out. What is it?”

  “Mr. Green isn’t the only one to blame you for Mr. Winkleman’s death. Panhandle does too.”

  Bessie made a face. “I don’t care who he blames as long as he plays the piano.”

  Lula-Belle threw up her hands. “That’s just it. He refuses to attend the wedding. That leaves you without a piano player or a singer.”

  Bessie pressed a palm on her forehead. “Wait till I get my hands on Panhandle. Just wait!”

  Sam peeked around the open door and again she waved him away. She traced a path up and down the aisle of the still-empty church, wringing her hands and bemoaning her misfortune. Sam’s voice could be heard placating impatient guests.

  What a fine kettle of fish! What did she ever do to deserve this? No wedding could proceed without music. Why, oh why, didn’t things ever work out as planned?

  “What about Mr. Washington?”

  “He went to Flagstaff on business.” Lula-Belle stared at the oak door, her eyes wide with dismay. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I’m thinking. I’m thinking.”

  Lula-Belle straightened her outlandish feathered hat. “Well, think faster. The guests are growing restless.”

  Bessie suddenly brightened. “Molly!”

  “What?”

  “Molly sings.”

  Lula-Belle looked horrified. “The dance hall girl?”

  “If you can sing in a saloon, you can sing anywhere.” She started up the aisle. “Close your mouth and come along.”

  Chapter 23

  The moment the church doors flew open, guests streamed inside the sanctuary, pushing past Donny’s wheelchair as if it didn’t exist.

  “Watch where you’re going!” Molly snapped. “Of all the rude—” It nearby broke her heart to see her brother treated like a piece of furniture.

  After everyone else had entered the church and the way was clear, Ruckus pushed Donny’s wheelchair inside. Molly followed behind, aware that all eyes were on her.

  The church was crowded with practically every seat taken, but Ruckus located an empty pew in back with room for the wheelchair. It was hot and Ruckus’s wife handed Molly a fan, which helped a little. After getting Donny settled, Ruckus left to escort the bride down the aisle.

  Caleb sat several rows in front, his broad shoulders practically touching the guests seated on either side of him, and it was all Molly could do to keep from staring at him.

  Just then Aunt Bessie burst through the door and ran up the aisle, her face so flushed it looked like a bad case of sunburn
. Her bright green dress was better suited for a woman half her age and made her generous figure look even more rounded. Her gaze traveled from pew to pew, hat to hat, stopping when it got to Molly. She then threaded her way along one row of seated guests to Molly’s side.

  “I need your help,” she whispered. “I need you to sing.”

  Molly wouldn’t have been more surprised had she been asked to stand in for the preacher. “But . . . I don’t know any . . . wedding songs.” She didn’t even know any Christian songs for that matter.

  “That’s all right. Just sing something romantic,” Aunt Bessie said. “But don’t wiggle your hips.”

  “But . . . but . . .”

  Bessie looked around. “You don’t by chance play the piano, do you?”

  “No, I’m sorry—”

  “I do,” Donny said, raising his hand shoulder high.

  “Shh,” Molly cautioned but already too late.

  Aunt Bessie practically danced with joy.

  Molly shot Donny a warning glance before quickly trying to save them both from embarrassment. “He can’t read music. He can only play a few songs by ear.” None of which were appropriate for a wedding.

  “That’s quite all right,” Aunt Bessie assured her. “Beggars can’t be choosers, can they?” She gave a thin little laugh before growing serious. “You’re an answer to my prayers. Both you and your brother. Come, come.”

  Aunt Bessie hurried away and stood in front of the altar. She clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “As you may know, Mr. Winkleman is no longer with us. May God bless his soul. And our piano player . . . is indisposed.”

  An uncharitable female voice floated up from the back of the church. “Hammered, more like it.”

  “I say we should close all saloons permanently,” another woman stated.

  A loud murmur concurred. Things were clearly out of control and Molly felt sorry for Aunt Bessie.

  Bessie lifted her voice to be heard over the clamoring crowd. “Please, we’ll talk about that later. Right now we have a wedding to think about, and Miss Hatfield and her brother have graciously volunteered to help out.”

  No sooner had Aunt Bessie made the announcement than all eyes turned in Molly’s direction. One woman looked appalled and another glared at her grinning husband.

  Aunt Bessie moved the piano stool to make room for Donny’s wheelchair. “Come, come. Don’t be shy. We’re already late getting started.”

  Molly’s heart fluttered and she felt a sinking feeling inside. She was hardly the answer to anyone’s prayer. But since Stretch had already wheeled Donny to the piano, nothing could be done but to make the best of things.

  Molly walked up the aisle and took her place by Donny’s side, flushing from the weight of a hundred gazes. She felt out of place. Singing in front of a bunch of intoxicated miners was one thing; singing to a staid and sober group of churchgoers was entirely something else.

  She leaned over the piano. “I wish you hadn’t volunteered!” she whispered.

  Donny looked confused. “I didn’t want you singing by yourself,” he whispered back.

  Molly felt a tug inside and her anger melted away. Her brother had been trying to protect her.

  Aunt Bessie lifted her hand, indicating it was time to begin. “We’re ready,” she called, her voice shrill with excitement.

  Molly’s brain raced. Donny didn’t know how to read music so the hymnal on the piano stand was of no use. Unfortunately, his limited range ruled out anything resembling appropriate wedding or church music. The least offensive song he knew, perhaps, was “John Brown’s Body.” Why, oh why, hadn’t she paid more attention to his musical education?

  Panic rose inside. “I don’t know what to sing,” she said beneath her breath.

  “How about this?” He played several notes and Molly’s knees practically buckled. “Not that one!”

  He continued to play the prelude. “That’s my favorite,” he argued. “And everyone loves the way you sing it.”

  He was right: it was her most requested song, but it was never meant to be sung in church.

  Forcing a smile for the benefit of the wedding guests, she stood by the piano, her mind scrambling. What’s another word for drink?

  She opened her mouth to sing, “Think, think, think . . .” The piano was almost as out of tune as the one she sang to nightly at Big Jim’s.

  “Old Ben Harrington could do nothing but think . . .”

  Aunt Bessie looked confused, as did some of the female wedding guests. No doubt they wondered why thinking caused Ben to stumble and fall. Most of the men, however, recognized the ditty and some even laughed out loud, much to the annoyance of the women by their sides.

  Donny played with great gusto, his fingers rippling over the yellow keys as easily as leaves blowing in the wind. He hit plenty of wrong notes, but since the piano was out of tune anyway, it didn’t much matter.

  She sang all four painful stanzas, substituting any word that might be deemed offensive. “So he threw out his frisky pug,” she sang, instead of whiskey jug. “And old Ben Harrington never thank again.” Thought; she meant to say that he never thought again.

  After Molly finished the song, an uneasy silence filled the church. Aunt Bessie’s smile was forced. Even the feathers on Aunt Lula-Belle’s hat were frozen in place.

  Finally someone clapped, the hollow sound of palm against palm bouncing off the rafters. It took Molly a moment to determine her appreciative audience of one was Caleb. A warm flush crept up her neck. Others followed his lead, though the male guests were remarkably more enthusiastic than the women.

  Reverend Bland, who had been standing by the wall, coughed and took his place in front of the altar. He looked remarkably different than the last time Molly had seen him. His pants were neatly pressed, as was his frock coat. One would never guess by appearances that he’d been any less than a respectable preacher.

  He was followed to the altar by a nice-looking man in a dark suit who was obviously the groom. The preacher stared at Molly for a moment before turning his gaze to the back of the church.

  Aunt Bessie signaled with a nod of her head that it was time for the bride to make her appearance.

  “Play ‘Poker, Whiskey, and Women,’” Molly whispered. It was another drinking song but at least it was a march. She only hoped no one recognized the tune. As soon as Donny started playing, the guests rose and faced the back. The door flew open and Kate Tenney, looking absolutely radiant in a simple ivory gown, walked down the aisle with Ruckus by her side, her steps in perfect sync to the drinking song.

  The bride’s fitted bodice gave way to delicately puffed sleeves. The skirt flared from the waist to the hem. Her blond hair was brushed away from her face, falling down her back in a cluster of curls secured by a silk tulle veil decorated with white ribbon bows.

  She took her place by her handsome groom, greeting him with a beautiful smile so filled with love it gave Molly goose bumps. She recalled seeing her parents exchange a similar look, and though she’d been too young at the time to know what it meant, she’d never forgotten. But that was before Donny’s accident, before her family was ripped apart.

  The bride and groom turned to face the preacher.

  “Dearly beloved . . .”

  After the vows were exchanged, guests streamed outside to another tinny encore of “Poker, Whiskey, and Women.” When the church was nearly empty, Molly leaned toward her brother.

  “I hope you’re satisfied. Now we’re the laughingstocks of Cactus Patch.”

  Donny’s puzzled expression looked genuine. “Everyone looked so hot and miserable before the wedding. I thought it would make them laugh. It would have, too, if you hadn’t changed the words. It didn’t make any sense the way you sang it.”

  “This is a church and—”

  “Ben Harrington was a thinker, eh?”

  She whirled at the sound of a male voice to find Caleb behind her, a gleam of humor in his eyes. She should have known that he wo
uldn’t let the song pass without comment.

  “My brother knows only a limited number of songs,” she said stiffly.

  “Ah, but he plays them so well.” He gazed at Donny. “You didn’t tell me you could play the piano.” He swung his gaze back to her. “Music talent runs in the family.”

  To hide her reddening cheeks, she moved toward Donny.

  “Allow me,” Caleb said. He gripped the handlebar on the back of the wheelchair, pulled it away from the piano, and pushed it up the aisle.

  “I must say, you two know how to make a solemn occasion . . . interesting. I don’t think I ever enjoyed a wedding more.”

  She fell in step by his side and glanced at him askew. As far as she could tell, he wasn’t just being nice; he meant what he said. “I hope Aunt Bessie wasn’t upset.”

  He grinned. “The only thing she cares about is adding a new notch to her matchmaking belt.”

  Ruckus and his wife stood in line outside the church, waiting to wish the bride and groom well. One woman stepped out of the church and walked a wide circle to avoid Molly. She gave Donny a pitying glance but he didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy plying Caleb with questions.

  “Do you know how many parts there are in a piano?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” Caleb said, his humor-filled eyes on Molly.

  “More than twelve hundred. And do you know a piano’s real name?”

  “Pianoforte,” Caleb said, and both he and Donny laughed as if sharing some sort of private joke. How did Caleb do that? How did he always manage to make Donny laugh?

  Aunt Bessie bustled over to them, her sister, Lula-Belle, padding behind like a faithful dog. “Thank you for saving the day,” Aunt Bessie said graciously. “I don’t think I’ve heard such a . . . uh, lively tune played on that old piano.”

  “If it was a funeral it would have awakened the dead,” Lula-Belle muttered.

  “It’s the first time I’ve been in church when everyone was wide awake,” Bessie said, glowering at her sister. She patted Molly on the arm. “And it wasn’t only because the guests were sober. You really do have a lovely voice, dear. Everyone enjoyed hearing you sing.”