Chapter Five

Gusty wind greeted Sarah as she stepped from the train at Tall Timbers station. It snatched a lock of red hair from its clip and sent it flying above her head. She tried unsuccessfully to rein it in while holding her skirts. Her gaze skimmed the bustling town.

The knot in her stomach painfully tightened. She couldn’t do this. Last night she realized that she couldn’t pretend to marry a man—take vows before God and live in sin. She couldn’t perpetrate the fraud. But…she was here, and Walker McKay was expecting a bride.

The platform teemed with activity—mothers and fathers greeting returning children; sweethearts embracing, caught up in the moment of blissful reunion, unashamed of their public displays of affection. Families bumped against cattle ranchers and farmhands apparently waiting for supply shipments.

Stepping from the bottom stair onto the ground, she searched the milling crowd, her heart fluttering like a trapped sparrow. Her eyes swept the area for Walker McKay. Lucy couldn’t provide a physical description of the man beyond the possibility of disfigurement from his recent accident. Sarah’s eyes leapt from face to face, trying to match the features she’d formed in her mind—frail, perhaps in a wheelchair. She would just have to tell the truth about her identity and hope that he understood. Her cheeks warmed. What reasonable man would approve of such a silly act?

A man wearing a gun in a holster slung low and heavy from his belt made his way through the crowd, his eyes searching the platform. His cragged features were ringed in dust, his clothes spattered with—Sarah recoiled—was that horse dung? When his gaze locked on her, he offered a tobacco-stained grin.

Her worst fears were realized. Lucy’s husband-to-be was grizzled and not the most handsome man around.

He paused a foot away. He was four inches shorter than she, and as he removed his hat she saw that he was as old as Papa. She closed her eyes. Backing out might be easier than she thought. Lucy had lied. The wench had needed someone to marry this shriveled old pipsqueak so she wouldn’t have to.

Sarah checked her temper, reminding herself that she had made the choice to switch places. She’d admit what she’d done and be on her way.

“Miss Lucy Mallory?” The tender excitement in his voice softened his countenance but did nothing to ease Sarah’s disappointment. “Is that you, girl?”

“Actually…the agency made a mistake. My name is Sarah Livingston. I’m not Lucy Mallory.”

There. That was easy enough. With the safety of the train and a return trip no more than five quick steps behind her, she didn’t have to admit to anything. But as the days spent traveling to Wyoming territory would certainly have given the detectives ample time to have located Julie’s apartment, traveling to New York now would mean almost certain return to Papa. It didn’t take a crystal ball for her to know that he would banish her to Uncle Brice’s forever. She took a long look at her future and repeated, “Sara Elaine Livingston. I’m not the woman you sent for.”

“Names don’t matter.” The old man’s smile spread across his worn face, deepening the etched lines. “Yer finally here. And yer even purtier than I’d pictured.” He appeared barely able to contain himself as he replaced his hat and reached for her bag. “This way, ma’am.”

It took every ounce of resolve for Sarah to drag her feet across the station, past young, handsome men greeting their wives, past young children on the platform who were engrossed with a dead coyote near the tracks. What would her children look like? Rosy images of a perfect home life with a handsome husband and strong, beautiful children whipped off with the hot wind. How Papa and Wadsy would laugh. Even Abe would tease her about this one, but a bargain was binding.

She berated herself for her foolishness. If she started being picky now, she might as well reconcile herself to being an old maid. He was most likely a very kind soul. Her dream, however bittersweet, was about to be realized and all she could see were flaws—a few missing teeth and some battle scars. A lot more years than she’d anticipated. She studied the man, her heart sinking.

With newfound resolve, she caught up to him as he tried to maneuver himself and her bag into a buggy. She was just gathering up the nerve to ask him how long the ride to his ranch was when a particularly strong gust snatched his hat and sent it skittering into the crowd. Without thinking, Sarah lifted her skirts and ran to catch it, following it as it skipped along.

The hat bounced merrily in front of her, and she quickened her pace to catch up with it. The felt hat paused momentarily as if to tease her and then bounced on. A break in the wind lent her hope and she made an ungraceful lunge, propelling herself forward at the very moment a set of dusty boots appeared on the opposite side of the hat. Unable to break her fall, she lurched forward into the waiting arms of a man who caught her with surprising grace and easiness.

Her face flaming with embarrassment, Sarah mustered her composure and lifted her gaze to meet two of the clearest blue eyes she had ever seen. Her gasping breath caught in her throat, and for a moment she forgot to breathe. Arms—gloriously strong and stout as oak posts—casually lifted her to her feet and then reached down to recover the hat. Her eyes were held captive by his long, denim-clad legs, slim hips, and broad shoulders. This was the man she’d hoped who would meet her at the train, sweep her into his arms, and marry her.

His eyes discreetly skimmed the length of her gown down and back up before he extended the hat. “This must be yours?”

“It’s not mine.” She was amazed at how a brief jog across the station could make her feel so giddy. “It’s his hat,” she said, handing it to the older man, who had caught up with her and was trying to adjust the unruly felt hat back to the shape of his head. “Mr. McKay’s.”

Both men paused, and for a moment she was confused as they glanced at each other and winked. Was there a joke she was missing?

The handsome stranger smiled. “You must be Miss Mallory,” he said in a deep, rich baritone.

“Miss Livingston. The agency made a mistake. Please call me Sarah. And you are?”

“Walker McKay. This is my foreman, S.H. Gibson.”

She swallowed. “You’re Walker McKay?” Her recent thought of backing out collapsed. This incredible man was young and brawny, with strong features and a commanding presence, and apparently in perfect health. Before leaving the train, Lucy had said something about Mr. McKay being a Christian. If this man standing before her was truly all he seemed to be, the mere thought of taking vows with him left her a little breathless. God had abundantly answered her prayers.

S.H. stepped up. “Sorry about the confusion, Miss Mallory.”

“Livingston.” She lowered her tone for fear Mr. McKay might have reservations about the name change. Livingston, she mouthed.

The man bowed, sweeping his hat from his head. “I shoulda introduced myself. S.H. at yer service.”

When she glanced back at Mr. McKay, she noticed that his electric blue eyes were focused on her, but he made no comment.

If this man was Walker McKay, that changed everything. She shook off her shock and reached for his hand, breaking into a wide smile.

“Relieved…I mean, pleased to meet you, Mr. McKay.” She drew a long breath and released it.

He had no idea how pleased.

S.H. courteously extended an arm. “Shall we go?”

Sarah glanced at Walker McKay, her grin widening. “By all means, Mr. Gibson.” She sent one last glance at the handsome rancher who was handling her bag. “By all means.”