Miss Murray on the Cattle Trail(43)
She tightened her arms around his neck and he pressed her head into the curve of his shoulder. There was no escaping it now; she had to say it.
“The second question was, well, what did I want for the rest of my life? Did I want a career as a newspaper reporter more than I wanted a life that included a...a pink apron?”
He said nothing for a long minute, just held her. Then he started walking toward his unfinished ranch house. “You could wear that pink apron in Chicago, Dusty. That’s why I sent it. You said it was something you’d always wanted.”
“Yes.” She sighed, tipping her head back to look into his eyes. “But it made me ask the second question. What do I really want for the rest of my life?”
“And? Make it short and simple, Dusty. Like I said, I don’t like long phil—”
“I’m not sure I can explain it short and simple.”
“Try,” he said.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Well, I decided there might be more to life than writing for the Chicago Times. There might be something that I would sorely miss when I am an old lady and I’m looking back on my life.”
He stopped walking. “Like?”
“Well, like...maybe helping you, um, build your ranch house?”
“What?”
“I said—”
“Dammit, I heard what you said. I just don’t know what you mean.” He frowned. “You mean you might stay out here in Oregon?”
“Maybe.”
His frown deepened. “On...on my ranch?”
“Well, yes, maybe.”
“With me? Dusty, are you saying... Dammit, are you saying you’d be willing to... ?”
“Yes, Zach. That is exactly what I’m saying.”
“Hell’s bells, now I know for sure that I’m dreaming, honey, but for God’s sake, don’t wake me up. You mean you’d actually come out to Smoke River and...and...” He took in a gulp of air. “Marry me?”
She laughed with delight. “My stars, Zach, I thought you’d never ask!”
He said something else then, but she paid no attention because he spoke the words against her mouth. Then he set her on her feet, took her hand in his, and guided her over to his unfinished house. He poked his forefinger at the space he’d left for a front window.
“Big kitchen?” he asked.
She kissed him.
He pointed again. “Big bedroom?”
She kissed him again.
“Three bedrooms? Four?”
She kissed him four times, once for each bedroom.
And then he lifted her into his arms, ruffly pink apron and all, and carried her out to the hayloft.
Epilogue
After three days of feverish planning by Alice Kingman, frantic hours of sewing and fitting by dressmaker Verena Forester, and long hours spent in the Rocking K kitchen by Consuelo and her brother Roberto, on a beautiful crisp January day, eight ranch hands, four on each side, escorted a smiling Dusty Murray, swathed in yards and yards of ruffled pink challis, down the aisle of the Smoke River community church and handed her into the care of Zachariah Strickland, owner of the Z-Bar-S ranch.
After vows and rings and kisses were exchanged, the eight men gathered in the bright sunlight outside the church and formed an arch of crossed rifles—not loaded, of course—under which Zachariah and Dusty walked to start their new life.
The very first wedding gift was a telegram from Chicago Times owner Nigel Greene.
Readers clamoring Stop Please send future columns from Oregon Stop Congratulations Stop
When the wedding guests were all gathered in the Rocking K front parlor, José produced his guitar and sang a song dedicated to Zach and Dusty. The words brought tears to their eyes.
I will lay me down to bleed awhile,
then I will rise and fight for you.
Later, while Alice Kingman and Consuelo sniffled into their handkerchiefs and Charlie Kingman poured double shots of aged whiskey for the guests, Zach and Dusty cut slices of a four-tier wedding cake and toasted each other and everyone else who was assembled in the Rocking K ranch house. Then they climbed into a buggy festooned with strings of popcorn and cranberries and drove off to no one knew where and stayed for an entire week.
Alex continued to write newspaper articles about life on the Western frontier, which she sent by telegraph to Nigel Greene at the Chicago Times office.
And in the spring of that year, Alice and Consuelo began to knit tiny garments in shades of pink and blue, and all summer long the ranch hands made bets. As it turned out, both colors were needed.
Twins Mariana and Roberto Strickland grew up to be the most unusual and best-respected ranchers in the state of Oregon. Outside of their father and mother, of course.
But that is another story.
* * * * *
If you enjoyed this story, you won’t want to miss these other great Western tales from Lynna Banning:
THE HIRED MAN
BABY ON THE OREGON TRAIL
HER SHERIFF BODYGUARD
PRINTER IN PETTICOATS
Keep reading for an excerpt from FROM GOVERNESS TO COUNTESS by Marguerite Kaye.
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New York Times bestselling author Julia London brings you the latest novel in an unforgettable series with The Highland Grooms.
Devil in Tartan
Peril and passion on enemy seas...
Lottie Livingstone bears the weight of an island on her shoulders. Under threat of losing their home, she and her clan take to the seas to sell a shipload of illegal whiskey. When an attack leaves them vulnerable, she transforms from a maiden daughter to a clever warrior. For survival, she orchestrates the siege of a rival’s ship and now holds the devilish Scottish captain Aulay Mackenzie under her command.
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From Governess to Countess
by Marguerite Kaye
Prologue
Hampstead, near London—summer 1815
The village of Hampstead enjoyed an enviable location on the fringes of the capital. Though its popularity as a spa retreat had declined somewhat, the fresh, clean air and its proximity to London had encouraged a number of well-heeled new residents to settle there. Passing through fruit farms and dairies on her journey from the city, the woman known only by her enigmatic epithet The Procurer had enjoyed the rustic charm and tranquil atmosphere of her surroundings, a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of London where she plied her clandestine trade. Reining in her greys, she brought her phaeton to a halt before summoning a small boy standing idly nearby. She handed him the reins and proffered a sixpence. ‘I am looking for a Miss Galbraith.’
The child’s eyes widened, though he accepted both the reins and the coin. ‘Me mam says she’s one as don’t want to be found,’ he answered in a hushed voice. ‘She don’t answer the door to no one.’
The Procurer’s face tightened at this tangible evidence of the woman’s fall from grace. If it was at all possible, she was determined to provide this most deserving of cases with the means to redeem herself. No one deserved to be vilified by the gutter press in the manner she had been. Provided, of course, Miss Galbraith was a satisfactory match for her client’s requirements. The Procurer approved of altruism but drew the line at charity. ‘Then it is as well that I am someone,’ she said crisply to the boy. ‘Rest assured, she will answer the door to me. Now, point me in the direction of her abode, and no more of your lip.’