Page 1 of May I Kiss the Bride

VIOLA CONSTANCE DELANY GRIPPED THE handle of her hatbox as the train jerked into motion. The shrill whistle of the engine was almost deafening, but Viola’s proper upbringing stopped her from covering her sensitive ears like a four-year-old child.

Steam roared past the window where Viola sat as she watched her beloved San Francisco fade away.

Not that she loved the train station or the industrial buildings close to it, but the green hills and weeping willows and scarlet flowers would all be missed.

Especially once she arrived at her destination: the desolate, arid, windy, hot, bleak, colorless—did she mention desolate ? —Wyoming.

“For the summer,” Father had told her.

Viola had known better than to argue. Her parents had wrung their hands of her.

She was frustrated. They were frustrated.

And the only solution to this frustration seemed to be sending Viola to work in a small bakery owned by her mother’s sister, Beth Cannon, who, until this past week, had been deemed one of their “unfit relatives.”

Oh, Viola had argued. Begged. Even cried real tears.

Nothing had swayed her father. He was a banker, after all, and oversaw the fortunes of the very wealthy. That took a certain stoicism and a hardy constitution.

So when Viola’s engagement of the year had turned out to be the flop of the year, Father refused to let the high society on Nob Hill have the last word about his daughter. As a result, she was heading on a noble mission of mercy to aid her poor dear aunt who ailed with rheumatism.

All right, so the details were accurate, but the sentiment behind them … None of this would have even been considered if Percy Johnson III hadn’t been discovered visiting a brothel in Chinatown. The papers had been full of the incident. Cartoons had even been drawn.

Mother had written the letter to Percy, signed by Viola, formally breaking off the engagement.

Viola hadn’t cried as much as she thought she might over her broken engagement.

Oh, she did cry. But after the first day, she decided she felt relieved.

She’d started courting Percy because his father was her father’s boss.

They’d been a natural match. Sure, Percy was handsome and charming, dressed at the height of fashion, had impeccable manners …

but Viola couldn’t say she was head over heels with him.

“Sir! You cannot go into first class!”

The door at the end of the train car thumped open, and Viola snapped her gaze up to see a man stride into the first-class car. A cowboy.

Viola blinked, then blinked again. Was she seeing a mirage? The man looked like he’d stepped off the Cowboy Wear page of a Sears catalog.

“Sir!”

The cowboy kept walking, his gaze shifting from one bench to another.

His eyes skimmed over Viola. She tried to make herself small—invisible if possible.

The only problem was, she was the single occupant on her bench, and the bench across from her was empty.

Every bench throughout the rest of the car had at least two occupants on them.

The cowboy’s gaze landed on her again.

Despite the shadow of his brim, his hazel eyes seemed to penetrate right through her.

Viola tried not to stare at the cowboy, who was clearly out of place in a refined first-class compartment. Meals would be served on real chinaware, for heaven’s sake.

She turned her chin sharply toward the window, but she saw his reflection there anyway. Tall man wearing a cowboy hat, woven shirt fraying at the collar beneath a rawhide jacket that had seen better days—or years—black trousers, and black boots that needed a good polishing.

Viola wrinkled her nose as he plopped down on the bench across from her.

She waited for the unpleasant scent of dirt, hay, or cattle, or all three, to reach her.

But she only caught the faint whiff of green grass and fresh air.

Not so bad. His long legs would have bumped hers if he’d sat directly across, but he’d at least sat at the far end of the bench, closest to the aisle.

“Sir!” The shouting attendant finally came into view, and Viola took a peek at the blustering man with his twitching mustache and strawberry-red face. “You … cannot … sit … here.” His breath heaved. “First-class passengers only, sir.”

The entire car had gone silent; even the sounds of the train’s wheels chugging upon the tracks seemed to dim.

“You’ll thank me later.” The cowboy tugged something silver and metal out of his breast pocket. “Sheriff of Mayfair.”

Viola stopped breathing for two reasons. First, Mayfair was where her aunt’s bakery was, and second, the cowboy took off his hat and looked directly at her.

The man had been imposing with his hat on, striding through first class like he owned the place, but with it off …

The eyes she thought were hazel were, in fact, green.

A deep green that reminded her of pine trees on a rainy day.

And his dark brown hair fell over his forehead like it had just been waiting to escape.

But what caught her attention the most was a scar that traveled from the edge of his eyebrow all the way to his ear.

Instead of a disturbing disfigurement of his face, it only made him look stronger, more dangerous, and if possible, more confident.

“Now,” the cowboy said in his deep, slow tone, “if this fine lady is all right with me sharing her space until we reach Cheyenne, then I’ll stay right here.”

The cowboy’s eyes remained on her, apparently waiting for her answer. Viola wondered if her throat could open enough to speak at all.

“I, u-uh, y-yes, you may sit there.” Her voice stuttered, but at least she got the words out.

The attendant opened his mouth, then closed it again. His gaze locked on the cowboy’s impressive scar. “I need to speak with the conductor.”

The cowboy set his hat upon his head. “You do that, sir.”

The attendant nodded, then took a step back, his throat bobbing up and down. Another step back, then the attendant turned, hands fisted, as he strode off.

People went back to their conversations after the attendant left. Weren’t they bothered that this huge cowboy had sat himself down among them without paying for first-class passage?

A moment passed, then two, and Viola kept her gaze on the passing scenery outside the widow.

They were moving through a valley, and the green hills were bright and green in the sunlight beneath the wispy, clouded sky.

Oh, how she would miss California. She could only hope that the summer in Wyoming would speed by, and when she returned home, all the gossip pages would have moved on.

“Ma’am?”

She turned her head at the cowboy’s low rumble.

“Might I store that hatbox for you? It’s a long ways to Wyoming.”

Viola drew it closer. “No, thank you. I don’t want it jostled or stepped on.”

The cowboy’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in his eyes. Almost imperceptible. Amusement? If he was laughing at her, or thought she was too protective of her hat, then he was an impertinent man.

She rerouted her gaze. She didn’t need to worry. From the reflection in the window, he’d tugged down the brim of his hat, stretched his long legs forward, folded his arms, and promptly fell asleep.

Viola waited a good five minutes before she looked over at him again. How could he fall asleep like a fly knocked out of the air and instantly dropped? His breathing deepened and he might have even been snoring softly. It was hard to make out above the noise of the train.

She released a sigh and returned to her window-watching.

As each mile passed, she wondered if it was possible to die of boredom working at a bakery in middle of nowhere-Mayfair.

Starting to bake cakes and pies, and mixing bread dough from before sunup sounded like a slow death.

Didn’t her mother, or Aunt Beth, for that matter, know that Viola couldn’t cook, or bake, a lick?

She could, she supposed, do things with a lot of instruction. Hopefully, she and Aunt Beth wouldn’t butt heads too much, although one small spark of interest flickered in her mind. What had taken Aunt Beth to Wyoming in the first place? And why was it such a family secret?