Sparked By Fire (Dorado, Texas Book 4) Page 6

  The music stopped, and Parson Oswallt set down the bagpipe. He lifted his arms as he faced the gathering. “Welcome to all who have chosen to share this special occasion with Trevor Driscoll and Clarissant Rochester. As you know, we’re gathered to witness the binding together of two lives. If anyone has reason this union should not take place, speak now or forevermore remain silent.” He scanned the group then lowered his hands and picked up his Bible. “I like to start weddings with a reminder of what the Good Lord expects.”

  The pastor’s words faded as Ivey glanced over the seated people, everyone facing forward and attentive to the proceedings. All except Berg, who sat in the last row of pews but watched her. He’s here. Her heart raced a bit. Today, he wore a crisp white shirt with a ribbon tie. His brown hair shone in the sunlight slanting through the windows. Her heart fluttered at the attentive look in his gaze.

  “Now, Trevor, repeat the lines after me.” The pastor glanced down at the Bible. “ ‘By the power that Christ brought from heaven, mayst thou love me.’ ”

  Trevor cleared his throat and gazed at Clari. “By the power that Christ brought from heaven, mayst thou love me. As the sun follows its course, mayst thou follow me. As light to the eye, as bread to the hungry, as joy to the heart, may thy presence be with me, oh one that I love, ʼtil death comes to part us asunder.”

  The pastor winked and smiled then turned to Clari. “Have you memorized the vows, as well?”

  She nodded and squared her shoulders before reciting the same words Trevor had spoken. Her voice trembled, but she completed the statement then sniffled.

  From inside her glove, Ivey pulled out a miniature handkerchief and tapped it on Clari’s left arm.

  Blinking fast, Clari shook her head then passed over her bouquet. She held out her hand, palm up.

  With a tug, Ivey untied the ribbon within her bouquet, releasing the gold band etched with angular designs, and passed it forward.

  Pastor Oswallt extended the Bible first toward Clari and then to Trevor to accept the matching bands. “A ring has no beginning and no end, and as such symbolizes the love within a marriage. The acceptance and wearing of a ring is the outward sign of an inward trust. That you, Clari, and you, Trevor, have now pledged before God and witnesses your fidelity to one another. As you place the ring on your beloved’s finger, repeat this vow. ‘With this ring, I thee wed.’ ”

  Ivey tensed, remembering that Clari had worried about Trevor’s possible embarrassment at exposing his injured hand before so many people. But his gaze never wavered from Clari’s face as she slipped the gold band along his middle finger.

  “After seeing the exchange of rings and hearing your pledges of love, I declare you husband and wife.” The pastor held up his hand over Clari’s bowed head. “May God go with you and bless you, may you see your childrens’ children”—he stretched to hold his hand above Trevor’s head—“May you be poor in misfortune and rich in blessings, may you know nothing but happiness from this day forward. You may now seal your vows with a kiss.”

  Trevor cupped his hands on Clari’s shoulders and drew her close, pressing his lips to hers. They broke apart, but Trevor kept hold of Clari’s hand and tucked it into his crooked elbow before they turned toward the pews to be greeted with applause.

  Ivey pressed the bouquet into Clari’s free hand and gave her a one-armed hug. “See you at the schoolhouse in a few minutes.” She hurried down the aisle, flashing a smile at Berg before she fast-walked the two blocks to make sure everything was ready for the reception.

  Thirty minutes later, all the guests had been greeted, and Claude Rochester made a speech, welcoming Trevor into the family. Trevor’s father and brothers hadn’t made the trip from Oregon, but Clari had shared she’d received a warm letter and couldn’t wait to meet them all. Plates of finger sandwiches and deviled eggs were passed among the guests.

  Dimitri Baklanov, the piano player from the saloon, sat near the blackboard decorated with swags of tulle. His talented hands filled the air with soft fiddle music.

  Ivey caught a nod from Clari, and she moved across the room to where Penn and Berg stood talking. “Time for the special delivery. You remember where it is, right?”

  Penn shook his head and huffed out a breath. “How could I forget? You’ve told me four times already.”

  Berg pressed a hand to her elbow. “Don’t worry. We’ll get it here in one piece.”

  Although his gentle words were comforting, she couldn’t help how she felt. The croquembouche, a French wedding “cake” Clari had been so worried about, turned out to be a pyramid of cream-filled puff pastries. Knowing whipped cream wouldn’t keep well in the July heat, Ivey had experimented with several combinations of custard and cream until she was pleased with the result. To keep it cool, she’d stored it in the root cellar, but to keep it intact, she’d had Mister Shipley build a special lidded box for transporting it. Once the confection was presented to the wedded couple, she could finally relax and enjoy herself.

  The men appeared, carrying the tall box between them.

  Ivey pointed to the empty space at the end of the linen-draped table next to the crystal punch bowl Clari’s mother, Blasa, packed all the way from Racine. She thumbed open the latches on both sides, carefully lifted the lightweight lid, and let out a sigh of relief that it looked unmarred. The golden ribbon bows were the perfect accents.

  As soon as the unusual dessert was revealed, the crowd burst into “ohs” and “ahs.”

  A beaming Blasa stepped close to the table. “My Clarissant is honoring her French heritage with this croquembouche. The tradition is thought to have started hundreds of years ago when guests brought small cakes as their gifts to the marriage couple. Some say the caramel icing was used to stick them together. My opinion is it’s a marvelous and tasty addition.” She extended both her hands. “Come close, my pets.”

  Clari and Trevor obliged and clasped her hands.

  “If the newlyweds can share a kiss over the top of the croquembouche without disturbing the pieces, they will be blessed with prosperity.” She waved toward the pyramid. “Then you all can pass by and select your serving.”

  Cheeks blushing, Clari moved to the opposite side of the table. With her standing on tiptoes and him stretching out his neck, they managed a brief brushing of their lips before quickly stepping back.

  Everyone applauded and laughed.

  Moments later, the fiddler stood and stepped close to the cold stove. “Ladies and gentlemen, please make room for the wedded couple’s first dance.” The thin blond man tucked the instrument under his chin and tapped his foot as he started a waltz.

  With her hand resting on Trevor’s arm, Clari walked at his side to the middle of the room, and then she turned to face him. Smiling, she held out her skirts with her right hand and looked only at her new husband.

  Watching them sway and step in rhythm to the music as if they’d been dancing together forever made Ivey look around for Berg. She wanted that feeling of floating on air while being held in a man’s strong arms. But he was nowhere to be seen. Apprehension flashed through her. Was being with others so hard that Berg elected to remain separate? Even after his experience at the Fourth of July celebration? Could she change her ways to match his?

  The tune changed, and Clari and Trevor moved to choose new partners and dance with her parents. After a few bars, other couples joined in.

  Jake planted himself in front of her and extended a hand. “May I have this dance?”

  After a final look around, Ivey nodded and slipped her hand in his. The gangly man didn’t have much rhythm, but at least he was willing to try. Several tunes later, she headed toward the punch bowl for a drink to quench her parched throat. She felt like she’d danced with every bachelor within ten miles. Just not the one she wanted to be with. As she lifted the cup to her lips, she spotted Berg leaning against the back wall. After pouring a second cup, she bobbed and weaved among the dancers to stand opposite the serious man who greeted her with a
frown. “Thirsty?” She held out the crystal cup with the handle toward him.

  He shook his head. “The cup’s too delicate. I can’t get my finger in that loop.”

  “So don’t use it.” She wasn’t about to let him use his size as an excuse for anything. “Just hold the sides.”

  After narrowing his gaze, he lifted the cup from her hand and quaffed the contents in one gulp. “Fruity, with a little kick.”

  Waggling her eyebrows, she leaned forward. “The punch contains real champagne and the juice from a pineapple. Both traveled all the way from Wisconsin to Dorado in the Rochesters’ luggage.”

  “Sounds hoity-toity. Are they rich?”

  Taking another sip, she shrugged. “I guess. Clari’s father owns a textile mill.” Three weeks of wedding preparations had set Ivey thinking about her own preferences. She suspected that Berg had reverted to his old hesitant self because of being among so many people. “Things should be nice for a person’s wedding. Don’t you think?”

  Shrugging, he leaned over and set the cup on the floor. “Never gave it much thought.”

  Maybe he needed to have her as his focus, like at the picnic, and then he could be more at ease. Ivey stacked her empty cup in his and reached for his hand. “I want to dance.”

  Berg stiffened then crossed his arms, his mouth turned downward. “I don’t dance.”

  Disappointment made her pause, but only for a moment. “Everyone dances.” She pried his hands from his biceps and positioned his left on her waist and she clasped the other with her right hand. How much they moved didn’t matter. She wanted this experience and wouldn’t take his refusal. “I step back, and you step forward then we move to the side—you go left and I go right.”

  Like when she thought he’d burned his hand, she moved, but he didn’t. Undeterred, she took tiny steps and leaned hard with each one to encourage him to move. Under her breath, she hummed to the tune and closed her eyes so she could imagine they covered the entire floor with their flowing moves. Smiling, she swayed her head from side to side in rhythm with the music and inched back and forth.

  A boot scuffed against the wooden plank floor.

  The space between them lessened, and her eyes popped open.

  Frowning, Berg stared at her feet and tried to match her moves.

  “Thank you.” Her throat dried, and she swallowed hard.

  He snapped up his head. “For what?”

  “For making the attempt. For giving dancing a try.” She met his brown-eyed gaze that was filled with tenderness, and warmth invaded her chest. “For doing what pleases me just because I asked.”

  His lips twisted in a smirk. “You looked like you were having fun, and I didn’t want to be left out. Even though I’ll need lots of practice.”

  Practice meant time spent together. Her heart soared. Ivey fought back a triumphant smile. The brute had been tamed.

  ***

  Here’s the opening scene from Book 5, Mail-Order Haven

  December 1, 1877

  Chapter One

  Through the dim afternoon light, Fitzadam Saunders trotted Bridger toward his ranch on the central Texas prairie. He flexed his right hand, fighting the stiffness caused by pruning the bois d’arc hedges that served as perimeter fencing. The presentation by Mr. Ellwood of Washburn and Moen Company at a recent cattleman association meeting came to mind. Fitz might look into the new twisted wire with barbs as a possible way to mark his property boundaries.

  Moving along the packed dirt road, he glanced toward the herd in the corral. His cattle. A new cross-breed he hoped would make his name known and ensure the success of the Star S Ranch. Hardy animals that maintained their weight by the time they’d been driven from Dorado, Texas to the shipping yards in Kansas. Most of the cattle lay under the possumhaw holly trees, warming each other against the cold northern wind. Bright red berries covered the trees, adding a welcome bit of color to the drab day. The sight of the barn and house of his ranch lit a spark of pride in his chest. Two years of hard work and determination were finally paying off.

  As he approached the red-painted structure, Fitz saw the barn’s double door swing wide and held back his pinto gelding until his cattle dog zipped inside. Scout proved himself a hard worker when needed, but the mixed breed took advantage of the warm barn whenever the air outside turned frigid.

  “Spotted you comin’, boss. Getting nippy out there.” Ned Hutchins waited until the horse walked inside then pulled the doors closed. The lean man with gray threading through his brown hair had taken over as stable master and foreman in the late spring and proved his worth.

  “To be expected in December, even in Texas.” Personally, Fitz looked forward to the cold weather. Being raised in the East had taught him a cozy fire and a good book created an ideal setting for waiting out a snowstorm. After a few strokes to the pinto’s neck, he threw his leg over the horse’s rump and dismounted, handing the reins to the stable master. “He’s earned an extra handful of oats today.”

  “Sure thing.” Clicking sounds encouraged the horse forward, and Ned led Bridger toward the tack room in the rear corner.

  Before heading across the year to the house, Fitz glanced around for Scout. But the hound had already curled up in his favorite spot at the front of the first stall. “Looks like Scout’s staying for a spell.”

  Nodding, Ned waved a hand. “I’ll bring him inside at supper time. Oh, you best enter by the front door.”

  Housekeeper must be washing the floors. Fitz stepped outside, hunched his shoulders against the brisk wind, and rested both hands on his hips to squint at the leaden gray sky. A snowstorm might hit during the night. Long strides took him across the dirt yard. Chickens fluttered their wings, hopping and squawking to get out of his way. “Shoo, shoo.” A few waves of his arms sent them toward the coop.

  Approaching the farmhouse, he eyed an unfamiliar horse tied to the hitching rail and spotted the shape of a man sitting on the porch bench. Drawing closer, he noticed the flash of waning sunlight off a set of wire-rimmed glasses and recognized his father’s lawyer, Nigel Wolcott. Fitz bit back a curse. What message would be forthcoming from a man who traveled all the way from Newport, Rhode Island?

  Fitz rested a boot on the lowest wooden step leading to the porch. “Nigel. Been waiting long?” The forty-ish man was bundled up in a long, fleece-lined duster and wore a red knitted scarf wrapped around his neck. Atop his head sat a narrow-brimmed, bowler hat that labeled the man an Easterner.

  “An hour or so.” He rested his back against the wall with a leather satchel perched on his lap. “Your housekeeper was adamant. I was not to be let inside without your permission. The woman simply wouldn’t listen to reason.”

  Fitz bit back a chuckle and slapped his gloves against his leg. Although a recent hire, Mrs. Hutchins was protective, which most often was a good attribute. He shrugged, climbed the four wooden steps, and walked to the door. “Might have let me know you were coming.”

  “You know as well as I, your father requires these surprise inspections.” Nigel stood and pressed a gloved hand to his lower back as he straightened. “I must do as he bids.”

  Muscles tight, Fitz jerked open the door, waved a stiff hand, and waited for the lawyer to enter his house. Even from halfway across the country, his father still did what he could to demonstrate his ultimate control—all because Fitz refused to join the Saunders and Sons shipbuilding business. Let his three younger brothers fulfill the family obligation. That life wasn’t what Fitz had chosen, and he’d be blasted if the old man could convince him otherwise. He hung his hat on a set of elk antlers nailed to the wall, shrugged off his heavy jacket, and settled the coat collar over a lower hook.

  The lawyer disposed of his coat, hat, and scarf in similar fashion, and then turned to survey the room. “You’ve added furniture since my last visit.”

  Giving the room a quick glance, Fitz nodded. He didn’t care much about a proper sitting room, spending most of his evenings in his den. However, Mrs.
Hutchins had coaxed him into purchasing a divan and matching wing chairs from her cousin who built furniture. Fitz had to admit the house now had a finished look, even if he hadn’t yet bothered to search for a painting or two to add interest to the walls. “Let me speak with my housekeeper, and I’ll meet you in the den.” He gestured toward the doorway on his left as he headed down the hallway to the back of the house, his boot heels clunking with a hollow sound on the bare wood floor.

  “Very well, Fitzadam.”

  The sound of his full name always made him stiffen in memory of how many times he’d heard it spoken in a rebuking tone. He rolled his shoulders to ease the tension. As he approached the kitchen, Fitz sniffed at the rich aroma of cooking meat and again sent up thanks he’d hired on Ned and Edlyn several months back. The ranch’s previous cook, Ingrid, had relocated to the outlying Altbusser ranch after gaining a beau at the Fourth of July celebration. His cowhands would quit if the Star S had to survive on the pitiful meals Fitz set on their table immediately after Ingrid’s marriage.

  He turned the knob and entered the room that radiated with warmth and wonderful smells from the stove. Scents of savory meat and yeasty bread teased his nose. “Mrs. Hutchins, please set an extra plate for supper tonight. And make sure the guest room is readied. Mr. Wolcott will return to San Antonio tomorrow.”

  “Oh, he’s staying? The plump brown-haired woman turned from the stove but kept stirring a wooden spoon in a pot. “I’m sorry, sir, but you left no instructions this morning about a visitor.”

  “No apology needed. He’s a surprise to me as well.” He leaned a hand on the wooden bin table in the middle of the room. A sprinkling of white flour remained where she must have kneaded the bread he now smelled baking. “You weren’t working here at the time of his visit in the spring. In the future, he’s to be allowed inside upon his arrival. For now, we’ll be in the den.”

  She glanced at the clock over the back door and furrowed her brows. “Supper is another thirty minutes yet. Shall I bring you coffee?”