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 herself?
Again, the raised brow. “If you have to ask that, Miss Sarah Matthews, then it’s no wonder the South lost the war.”
She felt herself flushing so hotly that it took all her strength of will not to open the fan that dangled from her wrist and start using it. “If we stand here arguing all through the dance, Dr. Walker, we will miss it altogether.”
The couples had just arranged themselves on the floor, and the fiddlers had struck only the first notes, but he took her hand without another word and led her onto the floor. In a moment they were gliding over the floor with the rest of the dancers.
Sarah saw Milly, waltzing with Nick, watching her, her smile even brighter than before because her sister was dancing with the Yankee doctor. Good for you, Milly mouthed. She probably thought Sarah and Dr. Walker had agreed to bury the hatchet. Sarah smiled back, not wanting Milly to worry that she’d only agreed to postpone the battle, not call it off.
She found to her surprise Nolan Walker was an excellent dancer, better even than the Brookfield brothers, who had probably been taught to waltz in their English nursery. His steps were so smooth he made it easy to follow him, so she was never in any danger of treading on his toes.
“Thank you, Miss Matthews,” he said when the last notes died away and the other couples drifted off the floor. “I enjoyed that very much.”
She couldn’t say she’d enjoyed it as well; she’d been too conscious of his nearness and his gaze trained on her the whole time. “You’re welcome, Dr. Walker. You…you’re an accomplished dancer,” she said, determined to give credit where it was due.
“Surprised?” he asked. “I assure you, Miss Matthews, we Yankees do not all live in caves, coming out only to devour raw fish.”
Before she could catch it, her mouth fell open at his gibe. “Are you making fun of me, sir?”
He grinned. “Not at all. I was only teasing you, my thorny Southern rose.”
How could one man be so infuriating? “I’m not ‘your’ anything, Dr. Walker. And now that you’ve had your dance with me, you must excuse me while I go see if my sister needs any help before she leaves.”
“Very well, but don’t forget about that talk we’re going to have.”
His blue eyes dared her to claim she didn’t remember what he was talking about, but Sarah was not a dishonest person and she remembered all too well that he’d demanded she tell him sometime why she was so hostile to him.
“Oh, I won’t. I’ll look forward to it,” she said.
He bowed, but Sarah felt his gaze on her as she walked away.
The next morning, Sarah met Nick’s visiting brothers outside the church. The newlyweds were not with them, but Sarah hadn’t really expected them to be up this early. They were to meet after church in the hotel’s restaurant for Sunday dinner. After that, the newlyweds would depart for Austin in a specially hired coach, accompanied by Edward and Richard, who would pay their respects to the embassy branch in the Texas capital before journeying back to the coast and boarding a ship for home.
“A pity my wife’s so near her time,” Lord Greyshaw remarked as they walked up the steps that led into the church. “She’d have loved your Texas, Sarah.” Amelia, Viscountess Greyshaw, was only a couple months from delivering their second child. It had been felt the ocean voyage and overland travel would be too risky for her, and Richard’s wife, Gwenneth, had remained at Greyshaw to keep her company in their husbands’ absence and to watch over Violet, their younger sister.
“Yes, such mild weather, for late autumn, to be sure,” Richard agreed, looking up appreciatively at the blue sky. “At home we’d be gathered around the hearth complaining of the dank cold.”
“Oh, it’ll get colder closer to Christmas,” Sarah replied. “Every few winters, it actually snows. You gentlemen must come again and bring your wives and children.”
“Eddie’s already taken me to task for not bringing him,” Lord Edward said, grinning as he mentioned his son. “He’d like to meet a wild Indian. Oh, dear,” he murmured, seeing the shudder Sarah hadn’t been able to suppress. “I do apologize. I had forgotten all about the attack. How dreadfully clumsy of me.”
“That’s all right,” Sarah said, gazing behind the church where, on Founder’s Day, the Comanches had come galloping across the creek and into the town. “Hopefully, now that we have the fort, it won’t happen again. There’s a cavalry regiment that patrols the area regularly and in any case, the Comanches are in their winter quarters now, up on the Llano Estacado, the Staked Plains. We’d better go in, gentlemen,” Sarah said, as the bell began to toll from the steeple above them. She played the piano for the services every Sunday and knew Reverend Chadwick would be waiting on her to begin the service.
She was relieved to see that once more, Dr. Nolan Walker did not grace a pew. She had never seen him attending services since his arrival in Simpson Creek. He must be an unbeliever. Just one more reason not to be friendly to him.
Sarah would have been surprised to know that Dr. Walker was seeing a patient in his office at this very hour.
“Th-thank you for seeing me at this time, Doctor,” said the pale, mousy little woman who’d entered his waiting room. “I—I wouldn’t want to come when you had other patients coming and going….”
She’d knocked so softly at his door he almost hadn’t heard her from his quarters behind the office. He had only just arisen from bed, the tolling of the church bell having awakened him from the sleep he’d finally achieved at dawn.
“And why is that, Miss Spencer? Surely you have a right to consult a physician as much as anyone else in Simpson Creek.”
“I…I don’t want anyone to know I’m seeing a doctor,” she whispered, eyes downcast. “They might wonder why. I—I’m expecting a child, you see.”
He looked at her quickly. If Miss Ada Spencer was pregnant, it was not obvious, as yet. But that explained the reason for the furtive visit, if it was true.
“Are you certain? That you’re…ah, with child?” he said, wondering for the thousandth time why women in this day and age spoke of it in hushed tones or euphemisms and couldn’t use the correct term for something which was, after all, a natural thing and should be a happy event—unless, of course, a woman was unmarried.
“Yes, I’m sure,” she insisted, and told him all the symptoms she had been having.
“I’ll
