Country Bride: Country Bride / Woodrose Mountain

She knew her emotions were written on her face. She’d never been more scandalized in her life, which was saying a great deal, considering the fiasco with Eric Wilson.

In fact, the blow her dignity had been dealt by Luke Rivers during that incident paled in comparison with this latest outrage. There was only one thing for her to do. She’d have to move away from Nightingale.

“This is all your doing, isn’t it?” she demanded in a shaking voice. She held her head high, although it was a struggle to preserve her composure. Her pride was all she had left, and that was crumbling at her feet.

Luke advanced several steps toward her. “What are you talking about?”

She ground her fist into her hip. “I just got back from the feed store. Does that tell you anything?”

“No.”

“I’ll bet.”

He frowned. “Kate, I swear to you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She made a doubting noise that came out sounding and feeling like a sob. Yet he appeared so bewildered. She didn’t know how any man could cause her such life-shattering embarrassment and maintain that look of faithful integrity.

The tears wouldn’t be restrained any longer, and they fell from her eyes, running down her face. They felt cool against her flushed cheeks.

“Kate? What’s wrong?”

Kate turned and walked rapidly away from Luke rather than allow him to witness her loss of control. She hurried into the house and slumped in a chair, hiding her face in her hands as she battled the terrible urge to weep hysterically. The painful sensation in the pit of her stomach grew more intense every time she took a breath.

The door opened and she said, “Go away.”

“Kate?”

“Haven’t...you...done...enough?” Each word rolled from her tongue on the end of a hiccuping sob.

He knelt in front of her and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, but she pushed him away, refusing the comfort he offered.

Kate’s shoulders still heaved. With an exasperated sigh, Luke got up. He stood back on his boot heels and buried his hands in his pockets. “All right, tell me about it.”

“Pastor...Wilkins...bet...twenty...dollars...on...December,” she told him between sobs. Her fingers curled into fists. “Even...Clay...put in a...wager.”

Seeing his name on that huge blackboard had hurt more than anything.

“Kate, I swear to you I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Furiously she wiped the tears from her face and tried to marshal her self-control enough to speak clearly. “The...feed store,” she managed.

“What about the feed store?”

“They’re taking bets—it’s a regular lottery,” she cried, all the more furious with him because he was making her spell out this latest humiliation.

“Bets on what?” Luke’s frown was growing darker, and Kate could tell that he was dangerously close to losing his patience.

“On us!” she wailed, as if that much, at least, should be obvious.

“For what?”

“When we’re going to be married!” she shouted. “What else? Half the town’s gambling on the date of our wedding.”

Luke moaned, closing his eyes, as if he couldn’t quite believe what she was telling him.

“You honestly didn’t know?”

“Of course not.” He was beginning to look perturbed as only Luke could. His dark eyes took on a cold glare that would intimidate the strongest of men. “How’d you find out?”

“Sally Daley said something about it after school, and then in the school car park one of the mothers told me March is a lovely time of year for a wedding. March sixteenth, she said. Then...then I made the mistake of stopping in at the feed store on my way home to...to check out what was going on.”

Luke nodded, but Kate had the impression he was only half listening to her.

“As far as I’m concerned, there’s just one thing for me to do,” she said, gaining strength from her decision. “I’ll offer my resignation to the school board tomorrow morning and leave the district this weekend.”

Luke sent her a quick, angry look. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll take care of this my own way.”

Seven (#ulink_62f41572-c546-57f3-add9-2a5c3ef99867)

At one time Kate spent as many hours at Elk Run, the Franklin stud farm, as she did at the Circle L. But when she arrived Tuesday night for dinner, Elk Run no longer felt familiar. It seemed like years instead of weeks since her last visit. Kate’s enthusiasm for this dinner with Clay and Rorie had never been high, but now she felt decidedly uncomfortable.

“Kate, welcome.” Rorie flew out the door the minute Kate pulled into the driveway. She stepped from the car into Rorie’s hug.

Clay Franklin followed his wife and briefly held Kate close, smiling down on her the same way he always had from the time she was thirteen. Back then, she’d worshipped him from afar, and she’d worshipped him more with each passing year. Kate paused, waiting for the surge of regret and pain she’d been expecting; to her astonishment, it didn’t come.

“We’re so glad you could make it,” Rorie said as she opened the door.

Recognising Kate, Clay’s old dog, Blue, ambled over for his usual pat. Kate was more than happy to comply and bent down to scratch his ears.

Mary, the Franklins’ housekeeper, bustled about the kitchen, dressed in her bib apron, hair twisted into thick braids and piled on top of her head. Kate could scarcely remember a time she hadn’t seen Mary in an apron. The scent of freshly baked pie permeated the room, mingling with the hearty aroma of roast beef and simmering vegetables.

“I hope that’s one of your award-winning pies I’m smelling, Mary,” Kate said. “I’ve had my heart set on a piece all day.”

“Oh, get away with you,” Mary returned gruffly, but the happy light that sparked from her eyes told Kate how gratified the housekeeper was by her request.

“When are you going to give me your recipe?” Kate asked, although she didn’t know whom she’d be baking pies for now that her father had remarried. “No one can bake an apple pie like yours.”

“Mary won’t share her secret with me, either,” Rorie said, giving a soft laugh. “I don’t think she’s willing to trust a city slicker yet.”

“I never wrote down any recipe,” Mary grumbled, casting Rorie a stern look. “I just make my pies the same way my mother did.”

“I wish I could bake like Mary does,” Rorie said, slipping her arm around her husband’s waist. They exchanged a meaningful glance. Clay’s smile showed he couldn’t care less whether or not she could bake a pie.

Once more Kate braced herself for the pain of seeing them together, gentle and loving, but to her surprise she didn’t feel so much as a pinprick of distress. She relaxed, wondering at what was happening—or rather, wasn’t—and why.

“Where’s Skip?” she asked suddenly. She missed Clay’s younger brother almost as much as she did Clay. They’d been friends for years.

“Football practice,” Clay explained. “He’s quarterback this year and proud as a peacock. He’ll be home later.”