Page 9 of May I Kiss the Bride
Without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked back to the pie counter.
“Thank you, miss,” Gerald said, his voice having an added squeak to it.
“I want that too,” the next man in line said.
His name started with a W, Viola remembered. She quickly averted her gaze. Making eye contact with him might only encourage him to be more brazen.
“I want the cherry pie, and I’ll paytwoextra dollars if the miss brings me the pieandkisses me on the cheek.”
Laughter roared through the bakery, and Viola’s cheeks flamed. She kept her gaze on the crust she’d been rolling out. Anger churned in her stomach, spinning hot. Aunt Beth had better kick the man out, or she would.
Aunt Beth did no such thing because another voice boomed over the laughter. “That’s enough. No special favors. Wallace, you’re out of here, and don’t come back.”
Violaknewthat voice.No. No. No.Not here—not like this. When her hair probably matched the bird’s nest of Aunt Beth’s. Not to mention being covered in flour and bits of dried pie crust. She dragged her gaze upward to see Wallace sputter. Red-faced, he spun toward the man who’d dared issued the orders.
Viola already knew who’d walked into the bakery.
All laughter died, and only one set of boots walking forward could be heard.
She couldn’t keep her gaze off the tall cowboy. His size made the bakery shrink like a dollhouse. His eyes were the same—green beneath the cowboy hat he’d asked her to hold. He wasn’t wearing his leather jacket, but his shoulders filled out the denim shirt he wore just as nicely. Viola’s gaze skated to his torso, seeing a bulk probably from bandaging, and she wondered how his injury was healing. He could obviously walk and order people out of the bakery … if that was any indication.
When she’d first seen him, he’d been shaved, and now dark whiskers outlined his jaw. Coupled with his scar, he looked more like an outlaw than an honorable sheriff. In this moment, Viola saw him as Sidney and Della must—the handsome, strong, tragic widower. A man of authority and stoicism. Honorable to the bone. Respected by all.
“Sheriff?” Wallace blubbered. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
Rey’s hand clamped on to the smaller man’s shoulder. “Out.”
Wallace nodded, his face even redder. He pushed through the other men, nearly stumbling in the process. When he made it out the door, Rey set a hand on his holstered gun.
“Any other knuckleheads want to be banned from Beth Cannon’s bakery?”
Heads shook, andno’swere mumbled.
Rey’s gaze swept those standing in the bakery line, lingering on a couple of the men. Then he turned to face Aunt Beth. “I hear you have a niece in town helping out.”
Beth’s smile curved wide. “That’s right. She’s all the way from San Francisco. Welcome back yourself, Sheriff. Heardyougot shot saving a train full of people. Looks like you’re up and in fine form now.”
“Missed my heart by a mile,” Rey’s deep voice rumbled.
Something flipped in Viola’s stomach. Oh, who was she fooling? Everything inside her was flipping and flopping like a fish on the San Francisco wharf.
Because right then, Sheriff Reynold Christensen finally looked at her.
IF SOMEONE HAD TOLD REY last week that looking at a woman could take a man’s breath away, he would have laughed and said those were words of a fanciful poet. Not that Rey was an expert in poetry, but he heard the way men talked about women. He also knew the way men fought over women. And he remembered what it felt like to love a woman with your whole being so that you’d do anything for her. Even if it took mortgaging the ranch to send away for some fancy city doctor, only to have the miracle cure fail.
He also knew that his heart, which had been doing just fine—healing slowly and being content with his life as sheriff, dad to one little girl, and keeping law and order in Mayfair—had suddenly been jolted. Yet there was no lightning coming through the bakery roof that he knew of.
But that’s what felt like had happened when he turned his gaze upon Beth Cannon’s niece. Who happened to be the woman from the train.Miss Viola Delanyherself. Risen from the train-car floor and restored to her senses. Changed from her prim white blouse of ruffles. Now she wore a sky-blue dress and light pink apron, dusted with flour. Gone was her smart hat angled over her gray eyes. The stormy Pacific was clear in her gaze now,her face framed by wisps of blonde hair that had escaped the bun tied at the nape of her neck.
Her dark brows and dark lashes were just as he remembered them though. Nothing had changed there. But her cheeks were flushed pink, likely with the heat of the ovens and certainly had nothing to do with seeing him—a jaded cowboy who’d been through a thing or two in life.
It was probably a good thing that Viola Delany spoke first, because for the first time in his life, Rey had no words. Maybe the proverbial cat had really stolen his tongue and buried it beneath a mound of hay in the farthest reaches of a barn somewhere.
“Sheriff Rey.” Viola’s cool gray eyes skated over his person as if she could see the outline of his tighter-than-a-lasso bandaging. “You have recovered. The whole town has been praying for you.”
Rey’s throat bobbed. Now, why didn’t this woman seem surprised to see him? And how did she know what the whole town was doing? This washistown. Wait … He’d told her where he was from, and she hadn’t returned the favor, which meant she’d known all along they’d run into each other.
He took off his hat. First, because he felt like he was standing in front of a blacksmith’s kiln, and second, because it gave him another moment to collect his thoughts. But he reached up too fast for his hat—clean forgetting about his healing wound—and hissed out a wince.
