Western Spring Weddings. Lynna Banning

singing. He gave me a job singing at the saloon tonight, but...I have nothing to wear. He said my travel dress wouldn’t be quite right.”

      Serena eyed her travel suit. “Got a good eye, does Tom. Well, now, dearie, you just come right on in and we’ll see what we can do.”

      “Thank you kindly, Miss—”

      “Just Serena. Well, come on, honey! No need to be shy.” She closed the door with a soft click. “Mary?” she called over her shoulder. “Mary, come on down here. Got a dove that ain’t soiled yet, and she needs yer help.”

      A slim girl with very blond ringlets appeared in the parlor. She was clad in something with fluffy pink feathers around the shoulders and a slit up one side. She smelled of something over-sweet, lily-of-the-valley, perhaps.

      “Mary, take Miss—what’s yer name, dearie?”

      “Seaforth. Clarissa Seaforth.”

      “Tom sent her over from the saloon,” Serena explained. “Mary, take Miss Seaforth upstairs and find somethin’ with some sass to it. She’s gonna sing at the Golden Partridge.”

      Clarissa followed the girl up the thickly carpeted staircase and into a pleasant bedroom with blue flowered wallpaper and white lace curtains. A narrow bed sat in one corner and a carved walnut armoire stood on the opposite wall.

      “Y’all look pretty small to me,” Mary remarked. She rummaged through a welter of gowns and finally extracted a handsome crimson velvet creation. “Here. Try this one.”

      While Clarissa unbuttoned her bodice and stepped out of her gored skirt, the blonde girl circled around, studying her. Before Clarissa could step into the velvet gown, Mary snatched it back. “Oh, no, that won’t be right on you, honey. Try this one instead.” She slipped a dark green moiré taffeta creation off its hanger and held it out.

      “Oh, I couldn’t—”

      “Yes, you could, honey. Don’t argue.”

      Mary buttoned the gown up the back and stepped away with an assessing look. Then she folded back one door of the armoire and spun Clarissa around. “Hmm. Here, take a look at yourself in the mirror.”

      A stranger with huge green eyes in a very pale face stared back at her. “Oh,” she breathed. “Surely that isn’t me!”

      Mary laughed. “Sure is, honey. Green suits you.”

      “But the neckline is so...so...”

      “Low? S’posed to be low, honey. Why do you think Tom sent you to us?”

      “Well, he expects me to sing tonight, and he did not care for my travel suit.”

      Mary frowned. “Where y’all from, honey?”

      “Boston.”

      “Huh! That explains everything. Bet you’ve never been within a city block of a place like Serena’s, have ya? Didn’t think so. And y’all aren’t fixin’ to move in here, are ya?”

      “Well, no. I have secured employment as a singer at the Golden—”

      “So you said.” Mary reached out and tweaked the neck of the green gown lower. “Well, honey, no matter what you sound like, you’ll sure look pretty enough.”

      She would? Clarissa studied her reflected image more closely. Well, maybe she would look dressed-up enough to suit the bartender. It was really a lovely gown, except for the bosom, of course. The green dress was cut way too low in front. She tried hiking it up, but the fabric wouldn’t budge.

      “Stop that!” Mary pulled her hands away. “Y’all look splendid. Don’t fuss with things and spoil it. And take this shawl with you.” She folded up Clarissa’s bombazine travel suit and thrust it and a green paisley shawl into her hands. “Can’t sashay up Main Street exposed like that—Sheriff’s liable to arrest you.”

      Downstairs in the front parlor again, Serena nodded approvingly at the green taffeta dress. “Perfect. You’re a real looker, dearie. If Tom don’t want you, just come on back to Serena’s and I’ll put you to work here.”

      “I am grateful, Miss—Serena. I will pay you for the gown out of my wages.”

      “No, you won’t, my girl. Tom sits high on my list. And besides, he’s workin’ off a debt of sorts and the cost of the loan of a dress is neither here nor there. He’ll pay for the gown.” She extended her hand. “Been a pleasure doin’ business with you, Miss Seaforth. Wrap up good in that shawl, now, and don’t talk to any men.”

      Clarissa knotted the green shawl tightly around her shoulders and walked as briskly as she could back to the hotel. A cold, hard lump was settling in her stomach.

      When she entered the restaurant, where Emily sat chatting with Rita, her daughter flung her arms around her. “Ooh, Mama, you look beautiful! And you’re so rustly—like lots of dry corn husks.”

      It was the first time Clarissa had laughed in the past twenty-four hours. After a quick supper in the dining room—a boiled egg for Clarissa and macaroni and cheese for Emily—she tucked her daughter into bed in their hotel room, gathered up her courage and made her way to the Golden Partridge saloon.

      Tom, the bartender, installed her in a back room until her scheduled appearance; she paced around and around the tiny space until her feet ached and finally sat down. At half past nine he rapped on the door.

      “You’re on, Miss Seaforth. Knock ’em out of their boots!”

      Very slowly she rose from the straight-backed chair, walked uncertainly to the door and, with a whispered prayer, twisted the doorknob. When she appeared, the piano player, a round black man, half rose off his stool. “Lordy, Mister Tom, what you plannin’ tonight?”

      “Meet your accompanist, Miss Seaforth. Baldwin Whittaker.”

      The pianist swiped off his threadbare cap and blinked up at her. “Ma’am.”

      She tried to smile. “Good evening, Mr. Whittaker.”

      He rolled his soft brown eyes at Tom. “You, uh, do much singing before, miss?”

      “Well, mostly in church. But I know a number of songs from when I was a girl.”

      “Hmm. Well, what you gonna sing, Miss Seaforth?”

      “‘Greensleeves.’ Do you know it?”

      “Shore do. How ’bout you stand sorta to one side, facing the bar. That way folks can see you and I can pick up on your cues.”

      Clarissa took her position, steadied her erratic breathing and unknotted the shawl around her shoulders. “Like this?”

      The man’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, yes, ma’am, just like that! I can hardly wait to see the reaction when the gentlemen clap their eyes on you.”

      Well, she could certainly wait! Every bone in her overexposed body wanted to turn tail and run.

      Mr. Whittaker turned to the piano keyboard, played a chord and looked up at her expectantly. Clarissa drew in a breath and opened her lips, but nothing came out. The pianist played the chord again, this time rippling it into an arpeggiated introduction.

      Dear Lord, let me not faint dead away before I have sung a single note.

      * * *

      Gray pulled his tired body out of the saddle, tied the gelding up at the hitching rail and stumbled into the saloon. He wasn’t too clear about why he was back in town after a restless night and a grueling day digging a well and putting up new fencing at the ranch, but here he was, and he was plenty thirsty.

      Tom reached over the bar to shake his hand. “Welcome back, Gray. I was starting to wonder if you’d got religion in Abilene and turned into a teetotaler.”

      “Not hardly. Just been busy.”

      Tom