Seconds passed, and no one appeared. Her mind drifted, wondering what quality her future husband’s voice would have. Nasal and high like a tenor? Clear and strong like a baritone? Or deep and gravelly like a bass?
Several minutes passed and the others moved off, their voices fading in the chilly air, until she was alone on the platform. Vanity precluded her from wearing a wrap because she’d wanted to be seen in this lacy ensemble. Now that goose flesh rose on her skin as her wait lengthened, that idea seemed rather silly. What if something happened? Her fingers tightened on the carved parasol handle. The last she’d heard from Dell was more than a week ago. Had he changed his mind? Fear formed a tight ball in her stomach. She stepped to the platform edge and looked toward the freight cars.
Jomo worked with two other men to unload the crates onto a clearing a distance from the tracks. But no trees stood close by, and the ostriches sat in the direct sun. A situation which could not continue for long.
Libbie walked to the opposite side of the platform and scanned the dirt street, looking for a solitary man moving in the direction of the depot. Among the men currently in view were tall ones in jeans and wide-brimmed hats, two rotund gentlemen in business suits, and a few in coveralls. How foolhardy not to have exchanged the most basic of physical details. Her jaw tightened and she paced.
Her priority was her precious birds, so she’d have to make arrangements for their transport. Decision made, she spun to head toward the back of the train and spotted Jomo approaching from that direction.
“Miss Libbie, de birds unloaded now. Where this man who be your husband?” Jomo held his battered felt hat at his waist as he glanced around the area.
“He’s obviously delayed.” She refused to say a bad word about Dell until she knew the circumstances. “I see a livery stable in the first block so I’ll make arrangements to rent wagons.”
“Yes, miss. I wait at de crates. Maybe feed a handful of grain.”
“That’s good, Jomo, and thank you.” She smiled at his competence. The routine of caring for animals always calmed her. If today wasn’t supposed to be such a special one, she’d have done the feeding herself. She extended her carpetbag toward him. “I’ll join you when the wagons are secured.” Grabbing a handful of her skirts, she stepped down from the platform and headed across the dusty street. Each step kicked up a cloud of dirt that would stain her hem in no time, but she had no other choice.
The sign overhead read “First Prescott Livery” in yellow block letters. Libbie entered through the open double doors and paused, leaning forward and glancing around. The familiar scents of fresh hay and animals calmed her nerves a bit. What was the protocol at such a place of business? Was there an office to speak to a clerk like at the train depot? She reached out a hand and rapped her knuckles on the nearest wooden surface. “Hello, anyone here?”
“Hang on.” The shout came from an end stall right before a head of black hair rose over the wooden slats. A tall man sauntered down the middle of the row of stalls, wiping his hands on a towel. “How may I help you?”
Libbie liked the sound of his deep voice, maybe a mid-range bass. “I have a need to rent wagons to transport several crates.”
The man’s brown eyes lit with a spark. “That accent means you’re not from this region.”
“No, sir. I am formerly of South Africa.” Although she’d read the population of America was made up of immigrants from many countries, she suspected this man would not be the first to comment on her accent.
“Who-eee, that’s a long way.” He narrowed his gaze as he took in her dress and lifted a brow at the parasol.
With quick moves, she compressed the folds and held it at her side. “I’m afraid I am unaccustomed to making such arrangements. Perhaps you can explain what is available.”
“First off, miss, my name’s William.”
Already she felt more at ease. In Boston, clerks and service helpers rarely offered familiarities, always being in a rush to conduct the business transaction. “I’m Libbie.”
“Ahh.” A grin flashed, and then his mouth pressed into a smooth line. “I’ll need to know how many crates, their weight, and, of course, the final destination. Then we will talk fees.”
More fees. She’d hoped Dell would be present to help with this process. “Six large crates, but I’m not sure of their weight. I have the destination, they’re going to the Bar S Ranch. Do you know the place?”
“Six, you say?” William turned and moved toward a shelf near the first stall. A strangled chuckle was followed by a loud throat clearing. Ducking his head, he fussed with a newspaper and a couple pamphlets before lifting a pad of paper and grabbing a lead pencil.
Is he laughing? Whyever would he be? She shifted on her feet. What if right this moment Dell stood on the train platform? The possibility pushed her to the doorway so she could keep the depot in view.
“I’m familiar with the ranch. The distance to the Bar S is approximately three miles.” William grinned as he jotted numbers on the pad. “And the contents of the crates are what? Furniture, household possessions, or…?”
“Oh no, nothing like that.” She squared her shoulders and smiled, as she always did when speaking of her precious babies. “The crates hold one male and five female ostriches.”
William’s mouth gaped for several seconds before he snapped it shut. “Ostriches, as in big birds?”
“That’s right.” She spotted a single rider approaching along the tracks and her pulse beat faster.
“And they’re headed for the Bar S?” His dark eyebrows arched high.
At first, this gentleman had seemed to possess an easygoing manner. But his latest responses had been hesitant. “Please, sir, they’re in the sun right now.”
“This I got to see.” Grinning and shaking his head, he strode toward the doorway. When he drew abreast, he angled his elbow to escort her. “To gauge the total weight, of course.”
They walked side-by-side down the boardwalk with William murmuring greetings to those who spoke to him.
Libbie kept her gaze on the rider, holding her breath for the moment Dell would recognize her and change course in her direction. But then he angled to the saloon across the way, and she knew her intended had not arrived. As soon as she and William reached the back side of the depot, she spotted several men gathered near the crates. Some snickered and pointed, other just gawked. The arrival of foreigners—both fowl and human—was something different and novel. She resigned herself that they’d be the object of interest for several weeks until the townspeople got used to them.
“Well, would you look at them?”
William’s admiring tone cut through her worry, and she turned a smile his way. “Wonderful, aren’t they? Maybe not everyone can see their beauty, but I think they’re special.” She hurried forward, almost tripping on her dress hem. “Jomo?”
The bird handler stepped from the shade of the biggest crate and lifted a hand. “Here, miss.”
Within a few minutes, the arrangements were made, rental fees paid, and William headed back to the livery to harness the teams.
Weariness tugged at her limbs, and she relinquished the idea of a grand first impression. She clomped up the steps to the platform and went inside the depot to plunk herself onto a bench. Nothing about this day was working out like she’d thought. Her dress boots pinched her toes, her corset stabbed her ribs, and she was hungry. This morning, she and Jomo had split the last loaf of hard bread and eaten a slice of cheese. Seeing she was alone in the waiting room, she stretched her legs atop the wooden seat and rested her arm along the top of the bench. Dell must be on his way. Surely, he wouldn’t leave her…
From far away came the rhythm of footsteps, hollow and echoey like strikes on a balafon. Then they stopped. To be followed by the scratchy rattle of a shekere. Instruments from home.
“Excuse me, miss.”
Libbie moaned. Blessed sleep held her in its grip, and she flapped a hand like waving away a pesky fly.
Something nudged her shoulder, shifting her position, and her head knocked against the hard wood. “Oww.” She sat upright and shoved damp hair from her forehead. Squinting in the bright light, she looked at who had disturbed her and spotted a shiny silver belt buckle etched with a rearing horse. She angled back her head so her gaze could track a chambray shirt under a light caramel long coat up to a faded cherry-red bandanna hanging under a strong, stubbled chin. A few inches higher, she saw a strong nose and a pair of cinnamon-brown eyes. Maybe she was hungrier than she thought.
The stare the very tall man gave her was direct, alert, and assessing. Her pulse raced at being the focus of this handsome man. Suddenly self-conscious, she ran a hand over her hair, feeling for any spots that poked out.
“Are you Libbie Van Eycken?”
Right now, being seated was not to her advantage. She was used to being the shortest one in her family, but this man was even taller than her brothers. “I am.” She swung her boots off the bench and shot to a stand. Prickles ran up and down her legs, and she cried out then swayed.
Strong arms surrounded her, broad hands bracing her shoulders and the middle of her back—the stranger’s hold kept her upright.
“Everything okay, folks?”
“Just fine, Simon. Go back to your own your business.”
The man’s rich baritone held confidence. For just a moment, she allowed his grasp, glad to have another to lean on. The shirt she’d grabbed was warm with the man’s heat and held the scent of dust and active male. She wrinkled her nose and inched backward, stamping her feet to bring back the circulation. In her heart, she knew this man was Dell, because who else would know her name? But something was very wrong with his appearance. Was this how a caring man arrived for his wedding? She shoved at his chest and moved back from his embrace. “If you’re Dell Stirling, you’re late.”
“I’m Dell, and I’m here now.”
Waiting for the rest of his explanation, she gave surreptitious pinches and tugs to her dress to straighten the bodice, smooth the waistline, and perk up the lace edgings. At the same time, she inspected his scuffed boots and the dirt that layered the creases of his denim pants. Was that mud swiped along his thigh?
“Look, I’m sorry for not meeting the train. Don’t know why the arrival had to be earlier than normal. On today of all days.” He shook his head, glanced upward, and then snatched off his hat, exposing a headful of wavy brown hair.
Yes, on what she’d hoped to be a wonderful day. Unable to stop herself, she tapped the end of the parasol on the tip of her shoe. This man needed to explain himself so she decided to remain quiet until she heard a satisfactory answer.
“Being late was out of my control. Rustlers attacked my ranch last night and made off with some cattle. Naturally, the hands and I had to give chase to retrieve my stock.” He glanced around the empty room and then back at her. His gaze narrowed on the ends of her bobbed hair then he took in her length from top to bottom before meeting her gaze again.
Under his frank perusal, she heated and a flush crept up her neck. Curiosity sparkled in his eyes, but she refused to address his unspoken question about her short hair. If she hadn’t been in such a panic about acquiring transportation for her birds, she would have taken inventory and sold anything else to get the needed sum. A woman with short hair was indeed an oddity in these times, and she’d be smart to prepare a pat response.
After settling his hat on his head, he crossed his arms over his chest and rolled back on his boot heels. “Seeing as how you wrote about growing up around cattle, you ought to appreciate…no, you ought to understand the need to get back the stolen animals.”
Of course, she realized the value of stock and that he had to get them back. But today? Before she allowed pitying thoughts to overtake her, she nodded. “I do understand, sir. I’m peeved by the clash with my expectations.”
“Peeved, eh?” An eyebrow cocked and he flashed a smile. “How does a little snip of a thing like you act when peeved?”
His cajoling tone washed through her and she relaxed. Indifference she couldn’t tolerate, but teasing was familiar. “Don’t get on my bad side and you won’t find out.”
After a long look where their gazes tangled and held, Dell swept an arm toward the room. “I don’t see any suitcases. Didn’t you bring luggage?”
Letting out a breath, Libbie wondered at the fluttering in her chest. “William from First Livery has taken charge of—”
“You’ve already been to the livery?” Dell paced to the door, running a hand over his jaw. “What did he say?”
Had she overstepped her fiancée boundaries by conducting a transaction that normally would have been completed by a male? The problem was, he hadn’t been present to do so. If only Grace were nearby to ask about this nuance of relationships. “Well, we discussed rental of a wa—”
“No need. The Bar S wagon will be outside in a few minutes.”
What had changed the teasing man to this tense one? “What occurs next? Do we go in front of a justice of the peace?” In truth, she had never been to a white person’s wedding. She’d witnessed tribal ceremonies in South Africa where negotiations over the bride price occurred while the elders sipped wine or singing by family members kept the groom outside a locked gate until a dowry agreement was reached. And one where a broom had been circled over the couple’s head to show the wife’s willingness to keep the groom’s courtyard clear. With no family to represent her, she hoped a bride price wasn’t part of Dell’s tradition.
Dell dropped his chin to his chest, set both hands on his hips, and huffed out a long breath. “Again, Miss Van Eycken, I must apologize. I am handling this first meeting all wrong.” Looking up, he gave her a crooked grin, turned slightly, and then extended his hand.
She slipped her hand in his and felt him pull her back toward the bench, letting him clasp her elbow and guide her to sit.
Angling sideways, he sat, leaving several inches between their bodies. “How was the journey?”
“Five-and-a-half days and nights long.” Her answer came out in a hesitant tone, because she wasn’t sure what had changed.
“Did you have any major delays?” He slid an arm over the back of the bench. “I’ve read the track switches in Wichita can be slow.”
“Yes, we were delayed in that city.” The introduction of polite conversational topics almost made her smile. “The first part of the trip went too fast. From Boston, I shared a seat with a delightful woman named Grace Dickinson, and we chatted away the miles. In Chicago, right before I wired you, we said our goodbyes. The second part of her trip took her to Montana, and she was traveling for the same reason I’m here.” After switching to the southbound line, her own journey had been so quiet, and almost lonely, without her friend’s company.
At least it gave Libbie plenty of time to study the recipe book and the household guide Mary packed into her satchel before leaving Aunt Betje’s house. Libbie sat upright and turned to glance at him, a sudden realization widening her gaze. “Her trip was shorter in miles, and by now, she might already be Mrs. Grace Foster. Oh, that would be quite grand.”
“Uh, huh.” Dell’s head dipped downward. A soft whooshing came from under his hat.
Libbie stiffened, disbelief making her jaw drop. She leaned forward and peeked under the brim of his hat. Her soon-to-be husband had just fallen asleep while listening to her stories.
Could this day get any worse?
Chapter Four
Pain stabbed his neck, and Dell shifted against the hard, unforgiving surface, wondering why he’d fallen asleep in his office chair. Faint sounds of conversations… harnesses jingling…footsteps on boards—all filtered into his thoughts. No, he shouldn’t be home on the ranch. Not yet. He was supposed to be somewhere else, someplace important.
Heart pounding, he jolted awake and on instinct, his hand went to his hip. Blinking fast, he focused on the chalkboard listing the train arrival and departure schedule
s that hung on the opposite wall. Train depot…his bride. Jerking to his feet, he made a complete circle to assure himself that the impossible was actually true. Except for him, the room was empty.
Scrubbing both hands over his face, he forced himself to think hard. Had Libbie mentioned anything about leaving or an errand she needed to complete? A visit to the mercantile or a dress shop? Nope. Fool that he was, he’d fallen asleep listening to her conversation. That lilting accent was so soothing.
Dell strode to the ticket window and leaned down to look through the barred opening. “Simon, you in there?”
“Ah, I see you’ve awakened.” The clerk stepped around an interior corner of the small office, several pieces of mail clutched in his hands.
“Did Miss Van Eycken say where she was going?”
Simon bit back a smile. “She said lots of things, but most were grumbled in a language I do not speak.” He shrugged. “But no translation was needed to see that young woman was mighty angry.”
Or the word might be peeved. “Dang it. I’ve been up since three a.m. riding after rustlers and then herding those cattle back to the ranch.” He pounded a fist on the counter. “Can I help it if I dozed off for a few moments?” His protests were weak, and he knew it. No excuse was valid for what he’d done, or the embarrassment his action probably caused.
Lifting a single finger, Simon pointed upward. “More like twenty minutes.”
What the—? Leaning back, Dell glanced up at the Regulator clock that hung above the ticket window. Sure enough—the time read ten minutes after twelve. Less than an hour to give Libbie a tour of her new hometown, introduce her to his family, and then meet the pastor at the Congregational Church at one o’clock.
But first, he had to find his bride-to-be.
Dell smoothed the collar of his duster and straightened his hat. Then he strode through the door and to the edge of the platform. He looked around the immediate area and studied the pedestrians. Maybe she’d be lingering close by, and he’d see a flash of her white dress. Although most unchaperoned women didn’t linger long on town boardwalks, because they were protective of their reputations. A factor about his arrival he should have ranked as a higher concern. Sure was a lot to this acquiring a wife business than just benefiting from more help on the ranch.
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