Page 14 of A Star in the West

“Who you share your life with is more important than where you live it,” her father said in a low voice, his mouth close to her ear. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this. I look ridiculous!” Muir huffed a disgusted breath as he peered down at the three inches of trousers that showed beneath the hem of his tunic.

Goldstein adjusted his papier-mâché turban so it no longer covered his right eye like a pirate patch. “Trust me. No one will be looking at your ankles, Randy.” He bent down to pick up his small wooden chest filled with rocks covered in gold paint. The turban slid forward again, covering both eyes this time. “Fiddlesticks! How am I supposed to see where I’m going with this thing sliding around on my head like a runaway toboggan?”

“Here.” Frank set aside his urn prop and straightened Goldstein’s headgear. An intricately wrapped scarf had been attached to the papier-mâché base to give it a more realistic look, but Goldstein’s head was obviously a size smaller than whoever had worn the costume in the past. Frank angled the turban toward the back of Goldstein’s head, uncovering his eyes.

“Oh dear.” Stella rushed over to help. “Did no one explain about the woolen cap?”

Goldstein shared a look with Frank, then shrugged. “We saw a knit cap in the costume box, but it didn’t seem to match the rest of the gear. We assumed it had fallen in the box by mistake.”

“Hold on. I’ll be right back.” She disappeared inside the church for a moment, then came out with the brown knit cap clasped triumphantly in her hand. “If you wear this under the turban, it will keep it from sliding around. I’m sorry I didn’t think to tell you about it sooner.”

Goldstein smiled as he accepted the cap. “No harm done, Miss Barrington. Randy will help me get it situated properly.” He shot a glance at Muir. “Won’t you, Randy?”

Muir grunted.

“See?” Goldstein chuckled. “As agreeable as ever.” He strolled over to the frowning Muir, giving Frank a moment of privacy with Stella.

“Maybe I should help.” She started to follow Goldstein, but Frank stopped her by taking hold of her hand.

She spun around to face him, her eyes round. Even dressed in head-to-toe black, she made his pulse thump a lively beat.

“They’ll be fine.” Frank tugged her closer, his chest constricting beneath a tourniquet of erupting nervousness. “Stella, I . . .”

Now was not the best time for this. A couple hundred people milled about the churchyard, waiting for the production to begin, and he was dressed in a Middle Eastern tunic and robe with a dish towel banded to his head. However, with the symposium concluded, he had little time left. He’d lacked the courage to broach the subject earlier in the week, and now his departure loomed. Muir had purchased tickets for the three of them to leave on tomorrow’s train. This might be his only opportunity to speak his heart.

“Yes?”

Frank peered into the face he saw in his dreams each night. “I . . . I love you, Stella. And I want to marry you. I know we still have a lot to figure out about where we might live and what my professional life will entail, but I believe we can find a mutually beneficial solution.”

He squeezed her fingers, then drew them upward and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. Her skin felt even softer than he’d imagined, and if it weren’t for being surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, he’d gladly experiment with her lips as well.

The catch in her breath and slight tremble in her hand encouraged him to continue.

“I’ve analyzed the data and proven the hypothesis I came here to test: that sharing my life with you means more to me than accruing academic acclaim. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make things work between us. That is . . . if you . . . are similarly inclined.”

Her beautiful brown eyes glimmered in the pre-dusk light as liquid pooled along her lower lashes. She blinked and pressed her lips together, and for a torturous second, he thought he had made an irredeemable blunder. But then her head bobbed in silent affirmation, and a broken whisper found its way into the air between them.

“I’m very much inclined.”

His elation multiplied at a staggering rate until he was certain it exceeded the bounds of quantification.

His arms ached to pull her tightly against him, and his gaze seemed incapable of looking anywhere other than her lips. How he longed to press his mouth to hers, to seal their understanding with something more tangible than words. As he watched, her lips parted, and without conscious thought, his body leaned closer to hers, hungry to hear whatever she wished to say.

Unfortunately, her would-be words were drowned out by the booming tones of the minister as he announced the start of the production.

Stella startled and twisted away from him, stealing her hand from him in the process. “We had better take our places.”

She swiped at her eyes with the back of one hand, then lowered the netting of her black veil over her blushing cheeks. Frank collected his urn and lined up with Muir and Goldstein behind the church, where they would be hidden from view until their cue to enter the scene. Ignoring Muir’s knowing look and Goldstein’s waggling eyebrows, he positioned himself at the front of their line and locked his gaze on the woman standing in front of him.

Stella. His star. He had no idea where loving her would lead him, but just like the wise man he portrayed, he had faith that the journey would culminate in something glorious.

Chapter 8

Stella tightened her grip on the black broom handle that served as the base of her celestial prop, her insides trembling so violently she feared she’d drop the Star of Bethlehem.

Frank loved her. He wished to marry her. His words replayed over and over in her mind, daring her to believe them. To believe that a woman no one else wanted had finally been chosen. Chosen and cherished. For that was how she’d felt when Frank touched his lips to her hand. Cherished. Desired. Loved.