Western Spring Weddings: The City Girl and the Rancher / His Springtime Bride / When a Cowboy Says I Do. Kathryn Albright

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      She would? Clarissa studied her reflected image more closely. Well, maybe she would look dressed-up enough to suit the bartender. It was really a lovely gown, except for the bosom, of course. The green dress was cut way too low in front. She tried hiking it up, but the fabric wouldn’t budge.

      “Stop that!” Mary pulled her hands away. “Y’all look splendid. Don’t fuss with things and spoil it. And take this shawl with you.” She folded up Clarissa’s bombazine travel suit and thrust it and a green paisley shawl into her hands. “Can’t sashay up Main Street exposed like that—Sheriff’s liable to arrest you.”

      Downstairs in the front parlor again, Serena nodded approvingly at the green taffeta dress. “Perfect. You’re a real looker, dearie. If Tom don’t want you, just come on back to Serena’s and I’ll put you to work here.”

      “I am grateful, Miss—Serena. I will pay you for the gown out of my wages.”

      “No, you won’t, my girl. Tom sits high on my list. And besides, he’s workin’ off a debt of sorts and the cost of the loan of a dress is neither here nor there. He’ll pay for the gown.” She extended her hand. “Been a pleasure doin’ business with you, Miss Seaforth. Wrap up good in that shawl, now, and don’t talk to any men.”

      Clarissa knotted the green shawl tightly around her shoulders and walked as briskly as she could back to the hotel. A cold, hard lump was settling in her stomach.

      When she entered the restaurant, where Emily sat chatting with Rita, her daughter flung her arms around her. “Ooh, Mama, you look beautiful! And you’re so rustly—like lots of dry corn husks.”

      It was the first time Clarissa had laughed in the past twenty-four hours. After a quick supper in the dining room—a boiled egg for Clarissa and macaroni and cheese for Emily—she tucked her daughter into bed in their hotel room, gathered up her courage and made her way to the Golden Partridge saloon.

      Tom, the bartender, installed her in a back room until her scheduled appearance; she paced around and around the tiny space until her feet ached and finally sat down. At half past nine he rapped on the door.

      “You’re on, Miss Seaforth. Knock ’em out of their boots!”

      Very slowly she rose from the straight-backed chair, walked uncertainly to the door and, with a whispered prayer, twisted the doorknob. When she appeared, the piano player, a round black man, half rose off his stool. “Lordy, Mister Tom, what you plannin’ tonight?”

      “Meet your accompanist, Miss Seaforth. Baldwin Whittaker.”

      The pianist swiped off his threadbare cap and blinked up at her. “Ma’am.”

      She tried to smile. “Good evening, Mr. Whittaker.”

      He rolled his soft brown eyes at Tom. “You, uh, do much singing before, miss?”

      “Well, mostly in church. But I know a number of songs from when I was a girl.”

      “Hmm. Well, what you gonna sing, Miss Seaforth?”

      “‘Greensleeves.’ Do you know it?”

      “Shore do. How ’bout you stand sorta to one side, facing the bar. That way folks can see you and I can pick up on your cues.”

      Clarissa took her position, steadied her erratic breathing and unknotted the shawl around her shoulders. “Like this?”

      The man’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, yes, ma’am, just like that! I can hardly wait to see the reaction when the gentlemen clap their eyes on you.”

      Well, she could certainly wait! Every bone in her overexposed body wanted to turn tail and run.

      Mr. Whittaker turned to the piano keyboard, played a chord and looked up at her expectantly. Clarissa drew in a breath and opened her lips, but nothing came out. The pianist played the chord again, this time rippling it into an arpeggiated introduction.

      Dear Lord, let me not faint dead away before I have sung a single note.

      * * *

      Gray pulled his tired body out of the saddle, tied the gelding up at the hitching rail and stumbled into the saloon. He wasn’t too clear about why he was back in town after a restless night and a grueling day digging a well and putting up new fencing at the ranch, but here he was, and he was plenty thirsty.

      Tom reached over the bar to shake his hand. “Welcome back, Gray. I was starting to wonder if you’d got religion in Abilene and turned into a teetotaler.”

      “Not hardly. Just been busy.”

      Tom snorted. “Yeah? What else is new?” He splashed a shot glass full of red-eye and set the bottle on the bar.

      “Nuthin’s new except I finally hit wet sand at the bottom of my new well.”

      Tom leaned toward him. “Got a surprise for you tonight, Gray.”

      “What is it? Nuthin’ much would interest me but a few barrels of fresh water.”

      “Nah. Something better.”

      Gray looked up at the stocky man and froze at what he saw reflected in the gold-framed mirror over the bar. A vision in green with long, dark wavy hair tumbling to her shoulders and an expanse of creamy bosom the like of which he hadn’t seen for a long time. Jehoshaphat, that’s Clarissa Seaforth! What the hell is she doing half dressed in Tom’s saloon?

      The piano rippled out some notes and a voice like smoky silk rose in a familiar melody.

      Alas, my love, you do me wrong,

      To treat me so discourteously,

      For I have loved you so long...

      Gray slammed his shot glass down on the bar top and swiveled around to stare at her. She sang the whole verse while dusty cowboys and card-playing ranchers sat goggle-eyed and respectful. Then she started on the second verse, but suddenly the batwing doors banged open and Caleb Arness lurched in.

      She didn’t recognize him. She just kept singing in that low, silky voice while Caleb stumbled to the bar. “Tom!” he yelled. “Wanna drink.”

      “Shut up!” someone called from one of the tables. “Can’tcha hear the lady’s singing?”

      Arness obviously didn’t recognize her, either. He kept pounding his fist on the polished mahogany surface and yelling for whiskey.

      Tom leaned over the bar and said something to him.

      “Singer?” Arness shouted. He swiveled around to peer at Clarissa. “A female singer? Why, hell an’ damn, that’s one helluva pretty—”

      Gray’s fist stopped the word. It also stopped the song, and an uneasy silence descended.

      “Whadja hit me for, ya skunk?” Arness mumbled from the floor where he lay.

      “No reason,” Gray said quietly. “Just practicin’. Now, either shut up or get out.”

      Arness СКАЧАТЬ