He hadn’t seen Marianne yet today. Maybe that was just as well. He hadn’t been able to eat a single forkful of his scrambled eggs, and his breakfast toast had tasted like a buttered pot holder. At the moment he figured he wasn’t the best of company.
He followed the minister into the small church, and the two middle-aged women sitting in the first pew twisted their heads to stare at him. He nodded at the waitress, Rita, and she sent him an encouraging smile. The other woman pinned him with hard blue eyes and a sour look.
Reverend Pollock guided him to the front of the church and turned to him. “Your bride seems to be a little late,” he intoned.
Lance groaned inwardly. Had Marianne chickened out at the last minute? Maybe she’d decided she didn’t want to stay in a pokey little town like Smoke River. Maybe she’d decided she didn’t want to marry him after all. Maybe...
He closed his fists convulsively, then concentrated on slowly opening his fingers one by one. Before he was aware of it he’d tightened his hands into fists again.
The two women bent their heads together and began talking in low tones. Their voices sounded like a hive full of honeybees. Lance closed his eyes involuntarily, then opened them when Reverend Pollock jostled his arm. He pointed to the pew across the aisle from the witnesses. “Sit.”
“Can’t,” he murmured. “I’m scared I won’t be able to stand up again.” To his credit the minister nodded, then took up a position beside him. It seemed like hours crept by while Lance sweated and tried not to think.
“Want to change your mind about this, son?”
He jerked. No, he didn’t. That thought had never occurred to him. He shook his head, and the minister smiled and ran his pale hands over the Bible.
Lance watched him for a few minutes, then began to pace back and forth in front of the wooden altar. The two witnesses followed him with their eyes, moving their heads from left to right and back again. At one point he thought he saw the waitress, Rita, smile, but when she caught him looking at her, her face went carefully blank.
He established a route from Reverend Pollock on one side to Rita and the dressmaker on the other, and every time he made a turn he glanced toward the back of the church. Where is Marianne?
He thought only brides got left standing at the altar, not grooms. Well, here he was, standing at the altar feeling like a lost puppy.
Where is she?
He made one more circuit and had just started another when suddenly he saw a movement. Marianne.
At the sight of her his eyes widened. She wore a simple yellow dress, the hem just brushing the tops of her shoes, and the late afternoon light bathed her in a warm golden glow. She looked like a shaft of summer sunshine.
His mouth went dry. Both witnesses stood up, and Reverend Pollock drew him into position in front of the altar. Marianne started down the aisle toward him, hesitated and then resolutely stepped forward. All at once Verena Forester moved into her path and held out a bouquet of yellow roses.
Marianne paused to accept the flowers, then watched Verena’s gaze run over the yellow gingham wedding dress she had cobbled together in such a hurry. The woman’s narrow face beamed.
At the altar, Lance was staring at her as if he’d never laid eyes on her before. She gripped her bouquet of roses and continued on down the aisle toward him. Dear God, was she really doing this? Marrying a man she had blackmailed into taking her as his wife? She should feel a huge measure of guilty shame, but for some strange reason she didn’t. Instead she felt as if she had just swallowed a bolt of lightning.
She caught Lance’s gaze and her heart stopped. Goodness, he looked so serious! Not a hint of a smile touched his mouth. His usually unruly dark hair was neatly combed, and as she watched, his smoky blue eyes went wide.
Was he as scared as she was? Worse, did he regret agreeing to marry her?
Her heart thumped erratically. Why was she so frightened? This man, Lance Burnside, meant nothing to her, wasn’t that true? She was simply using him for her own ends, wasn’t she? Why should she be frightened?
The answer brought her to an abrupt halt halfway down the aisle. I am frightened because this really does matter!
She took another step toward the man waiting at the altar, and he moved toward her and held out his hand. He had the strangest look on his face, as if he’d just seen a ghost. He enfolded her hand in his, and she noticed that his eyes looked shiny and they never left hers.
Verena Forester came to stand on her left; Rita positioned herself beside Lance. Then the minister stepped forward and opened his Bible.
“Dearly beloved...”
She could feel Lance trembling. Even so, his grip on her hand remained steady and his eyes continued to look into hers. All at once the reverend’s words leaped into her consciousness.
“Lawrence Burnside, do you take this woman...?”
Lance gave her hand a little squeeze. “I do.” His voice was steady, but she noticed that his shirtfront was fluttering.
Then the minister’s question was directed to her.
“Marianne Jane Collingwood, do you take this man...?”
Merciful God in heaven, can I really promise to love a man I scarcely know? She closed her eyes.
Lance waited. Did he understand her hesitation?
The gentle pressure of his fingers told her that he did understand, but he was waiting for her answer anyway.
Her mind cleared and she opened her eyes. No, she did not really know this man. But she had worked side by side with him for four years. She had watched him. For some reason she trusted him. And, she had to admit, she liked him.
“I—I do,” she breathed.
Reverend Pollock looked from Lance to Marianne and smiled. “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” Then his smile broadened into a grin. “Mr. Burnside, you may kiss your bride.”
Lance gulped. He released the hand he held in his own and reached to curve his fingers about Marianne’s shoulders. Damn, she was shaking like an aspen leaf in a summer breeze. He tried to smile at her, but his mouth wasn’t working right.
She was still staring up at him, a dazed expression on her face. Maybe she was waiting for him to kiss her, like the reverend said. She didn’t look scared or apprehensive; she was just waiting.
Outside the open sanctuary door he could hear some crazy bird singing its heart out. He became aware of his breath pulling in and out of his lungs, and then all at once he was aware of everything, the long silence, Reverend Pollock drumming his fingers on the Bible, even the occasional sniffing of Rita and the dressmaker. Good God, those two ladies were actually crying!
He felt like crying, too.
Marianne was still staring at him, waiting for him to kiss her, he guessed. Okay, he’d better do it and get it over with. He tightened his hands on her shoulders and drew her toward him.
She lifted her face to his, and in that instant he saw that her eyes were wet. His heart soared up and then thunked into his stomach. He pulled her close enough that the ruffle around the neck of her yellow dress touched his shirtfront, bent his head and brushed his lips against hers.
She closed her eyes, but she didn’t move. Her lips were soft, and she smelled faintly of roses, and unexpectedly his heart gave another thump as he moved slightly away from her. She felt sweet and unguarded in his arms, and suddenly he wanted to really kiss her.
And then she did something he would remember for the rest of his life. She opened her eyes, smiled at him and rose up on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his.
A locomotive