“What an absurd man you are, Dr. Walker! Very well, just for today I’ll pretend I don’t wish you’d ride out of town and never come back.”
She’d thought her last words would make him flinch, but he only grinned. “If you mean it, you have to agree to dance with me, Miss Matthews. Just one dance.”
Chapter Two
She opened her mouth to reply—to refuse, Nolan was sure—but she was interrupted by Prissy Gilmore, who dashed up to Sarah and tugged at her arm.
“Sarah, come on! Your sister’s going to throw her bouquet!”
Sarah looked back at him, as if she still might toss off a refusal before joining the gathering group of women and girls in the far corner of the church social hall, but he spoke before she could.
“You won’t catch it,” he told her, as if it was an accomplished fact.
His words stopped her, made her go rigid—just as he expected.
“Oh? And why is that, Dr. Walker?” she inquired, giving each word chilly emphasis.
He gestured at the women. “Look at them. Lots of tall ladies there. Besides, you don’t want it badly enough.”
As he’d hoped, she responded to his words as if they had been a dare. Raising her chin, she demanded, “Is that so? Well, we’ll see about that.” She whirled around and caught up with Prissy.
He grinned when the mayor’s daughter, unnoticed by Sarah, smiled conspiratorially at him over her shoulder.
“Prissy” was short for Priscilla, he knew, but what an inaccurate nickname. There was nothing the least bit prim and proper about the cheerful, outgoing girl. She’d been so kind to him after Sarah had taken to him in such dislike the day he came to town, and had helped him save face by letting him escort her to the picnic. He guessed with a little effort on his part, she would have been willing for him to court her instead. But it had been just his luck that the moment he had spotted the willowy golden Sarah, he’d lost his heart.
He wished it wasn’t so. It made no sense. He’d never been one to chase disdainful women just to see if he could change their minds about him, merely because it was a challenge. But he’d begun falling in love with Sarah Matthews when he’d read her letters, and once he’d laid eyes on Sarah, Prissy Gilmore could be nothing more than a friend to him—and he was glad to have her friendship, for he sensed that she’d be willing to do whatever she could to help him win Sarah.
He wasn’t sure anything would work, though. He faced the fact that he might eventually have to give up and admit Sarah would never do more than despise him. And then he’d have a choice to make—stay in town and watch her choose someone else in time, or leave Simpson Creek and go back home to Maine. He had no one there any longer who mattered to him, though.
Did she hate him because he was a Yankee? Was that all there was to it, a rebel Southerner’s reflexive dislike because he’d been part of the Union army?
Nolan had been charmed by her first letter, introducing herself as a representative of the ladies who’d advertised for bachelors for the small Texas town. He knew he ought to have told her which side he’d fought on in one of the letters he’d written from his friend Jeff’s home in Brazos County. But he’d been aware of enough anti-Yankee sentiment in Texas to think he’d have a much better chance of acceptance if Sarah got to know him first through his letters. They were getting along very well as long as they communicated by letter, but as soon as he’d uttered his first syllables in her hearing, she’d backed away in disgust.
He sighed, watching as the guests fell silent, and the bride turned her back to the clump of unmarried ladies of all ages and heights. Sarah had made her way to the front. He thought he saw her dart a glance in his direction, but then the bride made a few feints at throwing her flowers, and Sarah Matthews became all business, staring at the silk bouquet with the intensity of a sheepdog spotting a straying ewe.
Milly flung the bouquet, and Sarah leaped for it, catching it despite the efforts of a taller girl behind her trying to lean forward and snatch the prize while it was still airborne. The bride ran over and embraced her sister, followed by the groom, while everyone cheered and gathered around them. Sarah was soon hidden from his sight—but not before he saw her shoot him a triumphant look.
It was a start, he thought. Even if she’d sought his gaze only to mock him, it was better than the icy way she had ignored him ever since he’d arrived in town. Now she had caught the bouquet, though, and tradition decreed that meant she would be the next to be married.
“And now we’ll have the throwing of the garter,” Prissy announced, cupping her hands to project her voice over the hum of conversation. “Would all the unmarried men please gather at this end of the room?”
Nolan walked toward the gathering throng made up of grinning young boys, a couple of graybeards and men whom he knew were courting various members of the Spinsters’ Club. As he approached, he spotted the new Mrs. Brookfield and her husband leave the social hall, but by the time he had positioned himself behind a short youth not old enough to grow a beard, they had returned. Smiling, Nicholas Brookfield waved a circlet of blue, lace-trimmed ribbon over his head.
“Catch it, Pete!” called one of the bridesmaids, the one who had been standing next to the English lord in the receiving line. “I want us to get married next!”
A dark-haired fellow on the left side of the group called back, “I’ll try, sweetheart!” and everyone laughed.
Nolan surveyed the crowd. Was Sarah watching? She was, and pretending not to care, he noticed with amusement.
The Englishman turned his back to them, just as his bride had done to the ladies. “Good luck, gentlemen!” he cried. “Who’ll be the next lucky groom?”
Nolan dared a wink at Sarah, but before he could see her reaction, Nick Brookfield tossed the garter. It flew through the air, and Nolan launched himself upward as the tiny missile flew straight and true as if the groom had been aiming it precisely at him.
And perhaps he had. Brookfield met his gaze and grinned as Nolan waved the bit of ribbon and lace above everyone’s heads as they applauded and clapped him on the back.
“Thanks,” Nolan murmured, handing the garter back to Brookfield, who returned it to his blushing bride before turning back to him.
“Don’t mention it, old fellow. And don’t give up. Sarah’s a good woman—I think you’ll find she’ll be worth a bit of persistence on your part.”
Nolan’s eyes sought and found Sarah, who was watching him with an unreadable expression on her face. Then she turned away, pretending a great interest in something her sister was saying to her.
It means nothing, Sarah told herself. She wasn’t a believer in omens, so there was no significance to Nolan Walker catching the garter as she had the bouquet. It was all just part of the traditional tomfoolery at weddings. Catching the bouquet or garter guaranteed nothing. Anyone could see that Caroline Wallace and Pete Collier would be the next bride and groom, despite not winning those prizes.
At the opposite end of the room, the fiddlers were tuning up for the dancing. She supposed she would have to dance with the cursed Yankee, if only to spare herself the scene that might follow if she refused.
The first dance, of course, was the bride and groom’s dance, and the musicians struck up a waltz. Sarah forgot all about the Yankee while watching Nicholas Brookfield, her new brother-in-law, whirl her sister ever so gracefully across the floor as if they had been dancing together all their lives.
They were so perfect for each other, she thought, seeing the loving way Nick gazed down at her sister, and she up at him as if no one else existed in the universe. She felt the sting of tears in her eyes. She remembered how he had only had eyes for Milly from the first day he had arrived. Lord, please grant them a long and happy life together, and lots of children.
She felt a twinge of aching sadness,