The Doctor Takes a Wife
“My dance, I believe?”
“Are you sure you’ve danced with every other female in town, from the oldest to the youngest?” Sarah asked archly.
He raised a brow, and in that moment she knew she’d made a mistake.
“Ah, so you were watching,” he said, grinning.
“I most certainly was not,” Sarah insisted. “I never sat down myself, except when the musicians took a break. I only just realized that you hadn’t made good your threat to claim a dance.”
“’Threat?’” he echoed. “I believe I only requested a dance, as proof of your goodwill. And I was waiting for a waltz, Miss Matthews.”
“Oh? Why?” she asked. Was this girl asking the daring questions really her?
Again, the raised brow. “If you have to ask that, Miss Sarah Matthews, then it’s no wonder the South lost the war.”
LAURIE KINGERY
makes her home in central Ohio, where she is a “Texan-in-exile.” Formerly writing as Laurie Grant for the Harlequin Historical line and other publishers, she is the author of eighteen previous books and the 1994 winner of a Readers’ Choice Award in the Short Historical category. She has also been nominated for Best First Medieval and Career Achievement in Western Historical Romance by RT Book Reviews. When not writing her historicals, she loves to travel, read, participate on Facebook and Shoutlife and write her blog on www.lauriekingery.com.
Laurie Kingery
The Doctor Takes a Wife
But God has not given us a spirit of fear,
but of power and of love and of a sound mind.
—II Timothy 1:7
To the wonderful people of San Saba County, Texas, and in memory of the real settlement of Simpson Creek, and as always, to Tom
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
Letter to Reader
Questions for Discussion
Chapter One
“You look very lovely today, Miss Matthews,” said the voice in an accent that was as far from the usual drawl Sarah heard around her as Maine was from Texas. She stiffened, schooling herself to assume a polite expression as she looked up into the blue eyes of Dr. Nolan Walker.
A lady, she reminded herself sternly, did not make a scene in public, and most certainly not while standing in the receiving line at the wedding of her sister. Even if the speaker was a Yankee outsider who had no business being here.
“Thank you, sir,” she replied in a carefully neutral voice, and did not quite meet his gaze. “May I present Lord Edward Brookfield, Viscount Greyshaw, the groom’s eldest brother, come all the way from En gland?” She watched out of the corner of her eye as the Yankee doctor shook hands with the English nobleman next to her.
The men exchanged greetings.
“And may I also present—” she began, intent on passing the Yankee on down the line away from her.
Nolan interrupted her. “Miss Matthews, I was wondering if we might sit together while enjoying the refreshments?” He nodded toward the punch bowl and the magnificent quadruple-tiered wedding cake that Sarah considered the crowning achievement of her baking career. “I…I’d really like to get to know you better.” He had dropped the “g” on “wondering,” while “together” and “better” came out “togethah” and “bettah,” and yet his accent was wholly unlike a Southern drawl.
The utter effrontery of the man! Hadn’t she already made it clear back in October, when he’d come to town to meet her that she Was Not Interested in being courted by a Yankee and a liar? He’d written her a handful of letters telling all about himself, except for the one fact that made him Unacceptable—that he was Yankee. She’d only found out when he’d come to meet her on Founders’ Day—right before the Comanche attack.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” she said crisply. “I’ll be busy helping to serve the cake and the punch. Now—”
“Perhaps a dance, then? I understand there’ll be dancing later.”
She glared at him. “Out of the question,” she snapped. “Now, if I may be permitted to continue, you’re acquainted with Miss Caroline Wallace, aren’t you, the bride’s best friend?” She gestured to the bridesmaid standing next to her.
She didn’t miss the surprised look Lord Greyshaw gave her, nor the sympathetic one he bestowed on the Yankee. Perhaps there would be a chance later, after the wedding, to explain to Nick’s eldest brother why a properly brought up young lady of the South did not encourage familiarity with pushy northern interlopers?
Mercifully, the doctor now allowed himself to be handed on down the line. The next person to approach was Mrs. Detwiler, an elderly widow, resplendent today in deep purple bombazine. Sarah hoped the woman had not heard what had passed between her and the Yankee doctor, for Mrs. Detwiler was sure to have an opinion on it, likely one contrary to Sarah’s.
But luck was with Sarah—the older lady had indeed missed hearing the Yankee’s words and Sarah’s tart replies.
“You girls all looked lovely up at the altar,” she proclaimed. “Was it dear Milly’s idea to have her attendants decked out in different fall hues? She certainly picked colors that looked good on each of you.”
Sarah smiled and glanced down at the gold Gros de Naples fabric she wore, knowing it complimented her blond coloring just as the mossy green cloth complimented Caroline Wallace’s brunette hair and as the rust color played up Prissy Gilmore’s strawberry-blond tresses. “Yes, and she sewed them all, too, as well as her bridal dress,” Sarah said, gazing at Milly who was at this moment sharing a happy smile with Nicholas Brookfield, her English groom.
“My, her fingers must have been busy!”
Mrs. Detwiler didn’t know the half of it, Sarah thought. Milly had not only had all that sewing to do, but had also determinedly learned how to cook under Sarah’s tutelage. While she wasn’t yet the confident cook and baker that her sister was, Sarah thought it wasn’t likely Nick and the rest of the men would starve with Milly minding the ranch kitchen once Sarah moved in to town. Now that Milly was a bride, Sarah had wanted her sister to be free to manage her house, and she had wanted to try her own wings, too. So when Prissy had begged Sarah to teach her cooking and the other housewifely arts, Sarah found a way to kill one bird with two stones and had agreed to move in with her.
“I declare, it’s the wedding of the decade for Simpson Creek,” Mrs. Detwiler gushed.
Sarah nodded. At the very least, it was the first wedding since the war ended, as well as the first which had resulted from Milly’s founding of the Society for the Promotion of Marriage—or, as it was more commonly known, the Spinsters’ Club. Milly deserved to be the very first bride, and the happiest, Sarah thought, growing misty-eyed with love and pride. “Now it’s your turn,” the old woman announced, cupping Sarah’s cheek affectionately.
Sarah cringed inwardly, hoping no one else had heard. “Oh, I don’t think so, ma’am. Several others in the club have made matches and are engaged to marry, and I don’t have a beau at the moment. But I’m in no hurry,” she added in the most carefree tone she could manage. She wouldn’t want Mrs. Detwiler to guess that her words had made Sarah remember Jesse, her fiancé who hadn’t returned from the war.
“Pshaw,” the older woman retorted. “A pretty girl like you? You should have beaux by the dozen. Why don’t you see if you can catch the bouquet when your sister throws it, hmm?”
“I—I’ll see what I can do,” Sarah mumbled, feeling the crimson blush creeping up her neck and into her cheeks. “Um…may I present Viscount Greyshaw, the groom’s eldest brother?”
Mrs. Detwiler allowed herself to be distracted, and gazed up at the Englishman. “I’ve never met a real lord before,” she burbled. “Am I ’sposed to curtsy?”
Edward Brookfield smiled graciously. “We could just shake hands if you like.”
Everywhere she went during the post-wedding festivities, Sarah felt Dr. Walker’s gaze upon her—when she helped Milly cut and serve the bridal cake, while she ladled out cups of punch, during her chats with other guests, such as Nicholas’s visiting English brothers, the viscount and the vicar.
“So you’re going to move into the cottage with Prissy when we come back?” Milly was asking. She and her groom were spending their wedding night in the hotel, then leaving in the morning for a week’s honeymoon in Austin.
“Yes, Prissy’s very excited about it,” she said, seeing her friend laughing and talking across the room with some of the others from the Spinsters’ Club. “Well, we’ll see how it works out. You’ll take me back if I don’t like it, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Milly and Nick said at once, then Milly added, “The ranch will always be your home, too—but I think this will be good for you. Sarah, you will write down all your recipes as you promised before you go, won’t you? You know them all by heart, but it’s not so simple for me.”
“You’ll do fine,” Sarah assured her. “And don’t you worry about a thing while you’re gone, you two,” she said. “I’ll keep Josh and the rest of the hands well fed and looked after, I promise you.”
“I’d never doubt it,” Milly said. “Sarah, who do you keep glaring at?” she said, following the direction of her sister’s gaze.
“That…that Yankee!” Sarah sputtered. “He keeps staring at me. He’s got nerve, coming here just as if he belonged!”
“We did invite the entire town,” Milly pointed out mildly, looking surprised and somewhat disappointed at her sister’s outburst.
Sarah couldn’t blame Milly for her reaction. Sarah had always been the meek one, the quiet one. She’d never exhibited such a dislike of anyone, so her open dislike of the doctor was bound to attract her sister’s attention. “And he is the new town doctor,” Milly added.
Sarah sighed. If Dr. Harkey hadn’t been one of the few casualties during the Comanche raid on Founder’s Day, when everyone was gathered in town to celebrate, Nolan Walker might have ridden right back out of town after she refused to talk to him. But now it looked as if he was going to stay forever.
“He does rather look like a hungry lion who’s spotted a lonely gazelle,” Nick said with a grin, after glancing at the man. He turned back to Sarah. “Would you like me to go have a word with him?” he asked, assuming a fierce expression and clenching fists. “You’re my sister now, and I won’t have blackguards bothering you.”
Sarah tried not to laugh at his mock-menacing features and failed. “No, thank you. I’ll take care of it,” she muttered, rising to her feet.
“Sarah—be nice, please,” Milly said in a warning tone. “Just for today, at least.”
“I won’t challenge him to a duel, I promise,” Sarah said, and stalked across the floor full of milling guests.
She saw him watching her advance, as he leaned negligently against the wall in his black frock coat and trousers, sipping a cup of punch.
“I won’t have you staring at me,” she announced. “Stop it immediately!”
A slow smile spread over Nolan Walker’s angular, high-cheekboned face, making him even more handsome than he had been a moment ago, blast the man. “But you’re the most beautiful woman in the room, Miss Matthews. You even outshine the bride. So why wouldn’t any normal man want to look at you?”
She blinked in astonishment at his audacity, hating the flush that crept up her neck again. “In the South, we’re taught staring is ungentlemanly and rude. So I’d like you to desist—please.” She resented having to add that polite word.
“Tell me, Miss Matthews, just why do you dislike me so much? You hated me on sight.”
Not on sight, she thought. On hearing. She’d been more than pleased with her first sight of him, happy and relieved that he had proven to be every bit as appealing in person as he had seemed in his letters. Then he’d spoken, dashing her hopes with the evidence of his deception. He was worse than just a Yankee—he was a Yankee who had almost tricked her into caring for him. And yet his outlandish accent was curling around her heart in such a dismaying way. “I don’t hate you,” she argued. “It’s wrong to hate. But it ought to be very obvious why you’re not welcome here.”
A spark flared in those blue eyes. “I’m not? Your sister invited me here today. The other single ladies speak to me. Townspeople with ailments and injuries have shown no hesitation to come to my office. The South is a hospitable region, I’ve always been told, and so I’m finding it here. Only you, Miss Matthews, have been openly hostile to me. Why? Or are you too cowardly to tell me?”
Sarah felt her fists clenching at her sides. She took a quick look around her, to make sure no one else was watching them, but the other conversations buzzed on, unabated. Even Milly’s face was turned away from them, however Sarah suspected that to be a deliberate act on Milly’s part rather than lack of curiosity.
Sarah drew herself up. “This is neither the time nor the place,” Sarah said, falling back on her dignity.
“So you will tell me, some other time?” he challenged, his blue eyes dueling with hers, and finally, making her look away first.
“If it’s so important to you.”
“Oh, it is, I assure you, Miss Matthews, or we would not be having this conversation. But I have a suggestion to make to you.”
“And that is—?” she asked, wary. He was leading her into a trap.
“Why don’t we make a truce, just for today, at this special occasion? Your sister’s been giving us these worried little glances the whole time we’ve been talking.”
Sarah jerked her head around, only to see that Milly was in deep conversation with Nick’s middle brother, Richard. Was Dr. Walker lying about Milly, in an effort to make Sarah feel guilty?
“Why don’t we agree to be civil, even pleasant, to one another today?” Dr. Walker went on. “We can go back to being best enemies tomorrow, if you like.”
“‘Best enemies?’” she repeated, and sternly smothered an impulse to laugh. “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, too. Milly’s happiness also meant changes for Sarah’s life. It would never again be Milly and Sarah, two sisters alone against the world. Milly now had a husband to tell her deepest hopes and secrets to. Please, Lord, if You see fit, find me a husband, too, a good man who also loves You. I know that if it’s Your will for me to marry, You’ll send a man who’s neither a liar nor a Yankee!
Almost against her will, her eyes searched the hall for Nolan Walker, but she didn’t see him. Had he left? Good, she thought fiercely. She could relax and enjoy herself if she knew he wasn’t here to plague her any more.
Then someone tapped her on the shoulder. She started, giving an involuntary cry that came out soundng remarkably like a mouse’s squeak, thinking Dr. Walker had managed to circle his way around to her without her noticing his approach and was now claiming his dance. But it was only Edward, Viscount Greyshaw. “Oh, I do beg your pardon, Miss Sarah,” he said, looking as startled by her reaction as she felt. “I—I didn’t mean to take you unaware. It’s time for us to join in, I believe,” he said, nodding toward the pair still waltzing in the middle of the hall.