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A Bravo Christmas Wedding
Christine Rimmer


“Damn it to hell, Rory …”
She stepped up nice and close. She smelled of that perfume she always wore, of roses and oranges and a hint of some dark spice. He’d always liked her scent. But now, tonight, it seduced him, made his head spin. She pulled her hand back.
Walker felt the loss of her touch as a blow, sharp and cruel.
But then she tipped up her sweet mouth to him.
It was the best offer he’d had in a very long time. And yet it felt all wrong. “I’m supposed to be looking out for you, not stealing kisses at bedtime.”
She took a soft, slow breath. “Because you’re my bodyguard.”
“That’s right.”
“Didn’t I try to warn you that being my bodyguard was not a good idea?”
Oranges. Spice. What would she taste like on his tongue? She really was killing him. “Uh, yeah. I believe that you did.”
“You should have listened to me.”
“Maybe so. Too late now, though.”
* * *
The Bravo Royales: When it comes to love, Bravos rule!
A Bravo Christmas Wedding
Christine Rimmer


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHRISTINE RIMMER came to her profession the long way around. Before settling down to write about the magic of romance, she’d been everything from an actress to a salesclerk to a waitress. Now that she’s finally found work that suits her perfectly, she insists she never had a problem keeping a job—she was merely gaining “life experience” for her future as a novelist. Christine is grateful not only for the joy she finds in writing, but for what waits when the day’s work is through: a man she loves who loves her right back, and the privilege of watching their children grow and change day to day. She lives with her family in Oregon. Visit Christine at www.christinerimmer.com (http://www.christinerimmer.com).
For my readers. I’m wishing you a beautiful, richly blessed holiday season.
Contents
Cover (#uadadaefe-ac72-5e3b-853d-81e398872b38)
Introduction (#u1171951b-d2e8-52e6-aeed-74be4c580964)
Title Page (#ua6cd7c08-cd8e-5e60-9042-7b6f168ddd46)
About the Author (#ue10fcc69-33a0-5776-b1f2-02e6e75f6764)
Dedication (#u346cf857-91de-50f8-b420-cd477ea29ad1)
Chapter One (#ulink_0bb83b08-f015-5cb5-a610-9be07da8544c)
Chapter Two (#ulink_fad78e24-5fc0-5e04-91a2-3fb941e060c9)
Chapter Three (#ulink_88c4869e-798a-5b60-800e-17043c7c9517)
Chapter Four (#ulink_61b15ab6-0128-5f62-b441-6fc1570c15d4)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_076d89c8-5eab-5de7-b351-44fb8f6c2a93)
Strings had been pulled.
Aurora Bravo-Calabretti, Princess of Montedoro, knew this because Walker McKellan was waiting for her right there on the tarmac when the private jet her mother had insisted Rory use taxied in for a landing at the Denver airport.
Irritation at the sight of him—and at her mother, too—had her chewing her lower lip. God forbid she should be allowed to get off a plane and walk all the way to customs without some big, strong man watching over her, making sure she got there safely.
Tall and lean, wearing old jeans, battered boots and a heavy shearling coat, Walker had his arms folded across his broad chest, and he was leaning against his camo-green SUV. In the thin winter sunlight, he looked so American—a rancher fresh off the range, or maybe a mountain man taking a short break from wrestling grizzlies and taming bobcats. As frustrated as she was with the situation, Rory couldn’t resist whipping out her trusty Nikon D700 and snapping several shots of him through a passenger window.
Walker was a great guy. Rory adored him. He’d been a very good friend to her over the seven-plus years she’d been visiting Colorado on a regular basis. People should not take advantage of their very good friends. Rory would never have done such a thing by choice.
But her mother, who usually had the sense to mind her own business, had gone over to the dark side for no comprehensible reason and taken advantage of Walker for her. And Walker had let Rory’s mother do it.
The more Rory thought about that, the angrier she became with both of them—with her mother, for roping Walker into being responsible for her. And with Walker, too, for not allowing Rory to back out of the unfair arrangement gracefully.
She pulled on her coat, stuck her camera in her tote and headed for the exit, pausing to thank the flight steward and the pilots as she left.
When she started down the airstairs, Walker straightened from the SUV and strode toward her. “My favorite princess. Lookin’ good.” Those blue eyes with the manly crinkles at the corners swept over her red peacoat, long sweater and thick winter leggings tucked into a nice, warm pair of Sorel boots. He reached for a hug.
“Hey.” She went into his arms for maybe half a second before ducking free.
His eyes narrowed briefly at her sullen greeting, but then he only asked, “Good trip?”
“It was fine,” she said without even trying to sound as though she meant it. He gave her another swift, questioning glance. She ignored it. “There will be customs,” she said. “But it should be quick.”
A half an hour later, her luggage had been checked and loaded into the back of the SUV. They set out for the small town of Justice Creek, where her Bravo cousins lived.
As they sped down the interstate, he tried to get her talking. He teased her about the number of suitcases she’d brought and then about how he planned to put her to work cooking and cleaning out at his ranch, the Bar-N. She returned brief responses and stared out her side window at the high, flat land rolling off toward the distant gray humps of the mountains.
Eventually he gave up, turned on the radio and hummed along in his slightly off-key baritone to country-western Christmas music.
* * *
Walker waited.
Her sulky act wouldn’t last. Rory came at life full out, and nothing got her down for long.
He let her sit there and stew until they turned off the main highway onto the state road, heading northwest. When she still refused to snap out of it, he switched off the radio. “Come on. It’s not all that bad.”
She made a low, unhappy sound and slid him a grumpy glance. “Did you at least take the money she offered you?”
“I turned the money down.”
A gasp of outrage. “Now, that’s just wrong.”
“She sent a big check anyway.”
“Don’t you dare send it back.” Rory leveled a stern glance on him. “It’s bad enough that you have to babysit me. No way are you doing it for free.”
“I like babysitting you.”
A scoffing noise escaped her. “The way you say that? Doesn’t lift my spirits in the least. You know I hate it when you treat me like a baby.”
“Whoa. Was I the one who called it babysitting?”
She let out a grouchy little grunting sound and stared straight ahead.
He kept after her. “What I mean is I like hanging with you.” When she only gave him more of the silent treatment, he added, “And it doesn’t seem right to take money just for keeping an eye on you.”
“But I don’t need anyone keeping an eye on me. And what if some camper gets lost in the mountains?” He headed up the Justice Creek search-and-rescue team. “Or if there’s a forest fire?” He also volunteered with the fire department during emergencies. “What are you going to do then?”
He shrugged. “Camping’s more of a summer activity. And forest fires are down in the winter, too. But if something happens, we’ll work it out.”
Next, she tried threats. “I mean it, Walker. You put that check she sent you in the bank or I may never speak to you again.”
Two could play that game. “Keep acting like this and I won’t care if you never speak to me again—and I have to ask. Is it my fault your mother insists that you have security?”
“No, and I didn’t say it was.”
“So why are you blaming me?”
“Walker, I’m not blaming you.”
“Then cut this crap the hell out.”
“Great.” She threw up both hands. “Now you’re acting like you think you’re my big brother. The last thing I need is one of those. I already have four, thank you very much.”
Enough. “Okay, Rory. I’ve about had it. Knock it off.”
She pinched up her full mouth. “See? What did I tell you? ‘Knock it off.’” She faked a deep voice. “Just like a know-it-all, fatheaded, domineering big brother.”
By then, she was really starting to get on his nerves. “Fine. I give up. Sulk all the way to the Bar-N if that’s your pleasure.”
They subsided into mutually pissed-off silence. He didn’t even bother to turn on the radio and pretend that her bad attitude didn’t bug the hell out of him.
It took ten minutes of both of them staring out the windshield, acting as if the other wasn’t there, before she couldn’t take it anymore. She swiped off her red wool beanie and scraped her fingers back through her long brown hair. “I mean, the whole point of my coming alone was that I get to look out for myself. I’m an adult, but my mother won’t stop thinking of me as the baby of the family. It’s not right.” She had the beanie in her lap and she was alternately twisting and smoothing it. “I really thought I was getting through to her, you know? She finally admitted that maybe, just possibly, my having a bodyguard everywhere I go outside Montedoro was overkill. Think about it. How many of us need that kind of security? It has to stop somewhere. I have eight siblings ahead of me in line for the throne, not to mention all my nieces and nephews, who are also ahead of me. I want to go where I need to go for my work.” Rory was a talented photographer. “A normal life—it’s all I’m asking for. I just don’t need all that protecting. Not only is it unnecessary and a waste of money, it seriously cramps my style.”
He suggested, “Look at it this way. It’s a step. You are here without a bodyguard.”
More scoffing sounds. “Because you’re my bodyguard.”
“We’ll be spending a lot of time together, anyway. Isn’t that what the best man and the maid of honor usually do?”
She blew out a hard breath and slumped her shoulders. “You’re not going to cheer me up, Walker. Stop trying.”
“Have it your way.”
She said nothing. For about five minutes.
Then she shook her head. “I don’t know...”
So far, she’d jumped his ass every time he tried to cheer her up, so he considered not trying again. But then, why prolong a stupid fight any longer than necessary? “Okay. I’ll bite. You don’t know what?”
“About Ryan and Clara getting married. I can’t believe it’s actually happening—and out of the blue this way. It’s weird, seriously weird.” His younger brother and her favorite Bravo cousin had surprised everyone just two weeks before with the news that they would tie the knot on the Saturday before Christmas. “I keep wondering what’s really going on with them, you know?”
So, then. It looked as if she’d finished with the sulking. About time. He hid his grin of satisfaction. And then he thought about Clara and Ryan and he was frowning, too. “Yeah. Rye’s been pretty cagey about the whole thing.” Walker’s brother had been claiming he was in love with Clara since high school. And Rye had proposed more than once in the past nine or ten years. Clara kept turning him down, saying how she loved him and always would, but not in that way.
“What changed all of a sudden?” Rory asked, her mind evidently moving on the same track as his. “And do you really think Ryan’s ready to settle down?” Rye always claimed he loved Clara, but he hadn’t exactly waited around, pining for a chance with her. He liked women and they liked him. The girlfriends never lasted long—a month, maybe two, and Ryan’s latest ladylove would move on. A few more weeks would go by and he would turn up with someone new on his arm.
Walker said, “I don’t know what changed. And I’m with you. I hope he’s ready.”
“It’s just...not like Clara to suddenly decide Ryan’s the guy for her after all these years of saying he’s not. On the phone, she told me she was wrong before, that she really loves him and she knows they’ll be happy together.”
“She told me the same thing. She said she finally got smart and decided to marry her best friend.”
Rory scrunched up her nose. “Well, I can see that. I guess...” And then she shook her head again. “No. I don’t get it. If I can find the right moment, I’m going to try to talk to her some more, try to find out if she’s sure about this.”
“Better talk fast. It’s two weeks until the wedding.”
She dropped her head back and stared at the headliner. “Ugh. You’re right. I don’t want to make that kind of trouble. Ryan’s always wanted to marry her, so no big surprise there. And Clara’s no flake. She’s strong and steady. If she’s doing this, it must be what she wants.”
They were climbing up into the mountains, the highway twisting through rocky moraine, pine-covered slopes rising to either side. Here and there, wide patches of snow from last week’s storm caught the sunlight and sparkled like sequins on a pretty girl’s white party dress.
“You want to stop at Clara’s?” he asked as they began to descend into the Justice Creek Valley.
“It’s after four.” The sun had already slipped behind the mountains. “It’ll be dark soon. Let’s just go on to the ranch. I’ll see her in the morning.”
* * *
Rory admired the view as they approached the Bar-N.
Nestled in its own beautiful, rolling valley with mountains all around, the Bar-N had been a working cattle ranch for five generations. The N stood for Noonan, which was Walker’s mother’s maiden name. The place had come down to Walker and Ryan from their mother, Darla, and their uncle, John Noonan. Four years ago, Ryan had sold his interest to Walker and moved into town.
Walker still kept a few horses, but the cattle were long gone. Nowadays, the Bar-N was a guest ranch. The homestead, in the center of the pretty little valley, contained a circle of well-maintained structures. Over the past couple of decades, Walker and his uncle before him had built five cozy cabins. There were also four full-size houses. The houses, constructed over the generations, had once served as homes for various members of the Noonan clan. Walker offered two of the houses, the cabins and the fully outfitted bunkhouse as vacation rentals.
Of weathered wood and natural stone, the main house had a wide front porch. Walker’s German shorthaired pointer, Lonesome, and his black cat, Lucky Lady, were waiting for them when they arrived.
Rory laughed just at the sight of them. They were so cute, sitting patiently at the top of the steps, side by side. When Walker got out, the dog came running and the big black cat followed at a more sedate pace. He greeted them both with a gentle word and a quick touch of his hand. Then he started unloading her things.
Rory grabbed her tote and went to help, taking a suitcase in her free hand and following him into the house and up the stairs. He led her to a room in front. She hesitated on the threshold.
He set down the suitcases on the rag rug and turned to her. Rory met his eyes—and felt suddenly awkward and completely tongue-tied. Bizarre. She was never tongue-tied.
“There are hangers in the closet and I emptied out the bureau,” he said. “I’ll just get that last big bag for you.” He eased around her and headed back toward the stairs again.
Once he was out of sight, Rory entered the room that would be hers for the next two weeks. It had a big window on the front-facing wall and a smaller one on the side wall. There was a nice, queen-size bed with a patchwork quilt, a heavy bureau of dark wood, a small closet and a bathroom.
The bathroom had two doors.
She opened the outer door and found herself staring across a short section of hallway into another bedroom, a small one with a bow window overlooking the backyard. Not Walker’s room, she was reasonably sure.
Curiosity had its hooks in her. She zipped across the hall to have a quick look around that other room.
Definitely not Walker’s. Walker liked things simple and spare—but this room was too spare, too tidy. Not a single item on the dresser or the nightstand that could be called personal.
She went back to the bathroom and stood frowning at her reflection in the mirror over the sink. Seven years of knowing Walker and this was the first time she’d been upstairs in his house. She wondered if this might be the only upstairs bath.
Would she and Walker be sharing? That could get awkward—well, for her, anyway. If Walker saw her naked, he’d probably just pat her on the head and tell her to get dressed before she caught a chill.
The front door opened downstairs. Rory shut the outer door, ducked back into her bedroom and got busy putting her things away.
Walker appeared in the doorway to the hall. “Alva left dinner, so that’s handled.” The Colgins, Alva and her husband, Bud, helped out around the ranch and lived in the house directly across the front yard from Walker’s. He rolled in the last bag. “Where do you want this?”
“Just leave it—anywhere’s fine.” Was she blushing? Her face felt a little too warm. Would he guess that she’d been snooping?
If he guessed, he didn’t call her on it. “Hungry?”
“Starved. I’ll finish unpacking and be right down.”
He left and Rory continued putting stuff in drawers—until she heard his boots moving across the floor below. Then she shut the door to the hallway and zipped back into the bathroom.
She opened the medicine cabinet and the cabinet under the sink. There were the usual towels and washcloths. Also, bandage strips and a tube of antibacterial ointment, a bottle of aspirin long past its use-by date and a half-empty box of tampons.
Tampons left there by a girlfriend?
Walker with a girlfriend...
He didn’t have girlfriends. Or rather, if he did, Rory had never met any of them.
He did have an ex-wife, Denise. Denise LeClair was tall, blonde and smoking hot—and long gone from Justice Creek.
Denise had moved to Colorado from Miami six years ago. She’d met Walker and it had been one of those thunderbolt moments for both of them. Or so everyone said. According to Rory’s cousin Clara, Walker’s ex-wife had sworn that she loved him madly and she only wanted to live her life at his side right there at the Bar-N.
One Rocky Mountain winter had obliterated that particular fantasy. They’d been married less than a year when Denise filed for divorce and headed back home to the Sunshine State, leaving Walker stunned at first, and later grim and grumpy.
Rory had actually met Denise only once, a few months after the wedding—and hated her on sight. And not because Denise was necessarily such an awful person...
Yes. All right. The embarrassing truth was that Rory had crushed on Walker from the first time she’d met him, seven years before. Even way back then, when she barely knew the guy, Rory’d had kind of a thing for him.
But it had never gone anywhere and it never would. There were issues, the debacle of Denise among them. True, they were all issues that could be overcome, if only Walker wanted to overcome them. But he didn’t. And Rory accepted that.
Walker was her very good friend. End of story.
He seemed to have more or less got over Denise in the past couple of years. But there hadn’t been anyone else for him since his marriage. He claimed that there never would be, that he was like his uncle John, a solitary type of man.
Rory stepped back and stared into the wide-open cabinets. Linens, bandage strips, ointment, aspirin. And the tampons. And four still-wrapped bars of plain soap. No men’s toiletries.
So, then. Walker had his own bathroom. Mystery solved.
Rory sank to the edge of the tub. She felt like a balloon with all of the air let out, droopy with disappointment that she and Walker didn’t have to share.
Bad. This was bad. She was long over that crush she used to have on him. Long past dreaming up possible situations where she might see him naked. She needed to pull it together.
For two weeks, she would be living here. Walker would provide the security her mother insisted she have. Nothing would happen between them. She would get through the days until the wedding without making a fool of herself. And then she would return to Montedoro and get on with her life.
Because she and Walker were friends. Friends. And nothing more. They were friends and she liked it that way.
She jumped to her feet and glared at herself in the mirror to punctuate the point.
And she ignored the tiny voice in her heart that said she did care, she’d always cared—and that was never going to change.
Chapter Two (#ulink_02467543-0c33-5b56-8a3d-fcfaeed63d7b)
“It’s a little strange,” Rory said when they sat at the table in the big farm-style kitchen, eating Alva Colgin’s excellent elk stew with piping hot drop biscuits, which Walker had whipped up on the spot. “Staying here, in your house...”
He sipped his beer, the light from the mission-style fixture overhead bringing out auburn lights in his brown hair. “You have complaints?”
She split a biscuit in half. Steam curled up from the center. Those blue eyes of his were trained on her. She thought he seemed a little wary. “Relax,” she told him. “No complaints. And I know I was a bitch before. Sorry. Over it.”
He set down his beer. “Weird, how?”
“It’s just not what we do, that’s all.” She’d always stayed at the Haltersham, Justice Creek’s famous, supposedly haunted luxury hotel built by a local industrialist at the turn of the last century. “You know how we are...”
“How’s that?” He forked up a bite of stew and arched an eyebrow at her.
Annoyance jabbed at her. Seriously? He didn’t know how they were? With a great show of patience, she explained the obvious. “Well, we meet up at Ryan’s bar.” His brother owned and ran McKellan’s, a popular neighborhood-style pub in town on Marmot Drive. “Or we hang out at Clara’s house. Or we head up into the mountains.” They both enjoyed hiking, camping and fishing. So did Clara and Ryan. The four of them had camped out together several times—just four good friends, nothing romantic going on. But now Clara and Ryan were getting married. And Rory was sleeping in Walker’s house. “I’ve been here at the ranch maybe six times total in all the years we’ve known each other—and tonight is the first time I’ve seen the upstairs. Wouldn’t you say that’s a little bit weird?”
He was looking at her strangely. “You really don’t want to stay here. That’s what you’re saying, right? That’s why you’ve been so pissed off about having me handle your security.”
Wonderful. Now she’d succeeded in making everything weirder. She set down half of the biscuit and picked up her butter knife. “No, Walker. That’s not what I’m saying.”
“It’s not what you’re used to, is it? Too far out in the sticks, no room service, iffy internet access.”
“Not true. Wrong. It’s beautiful here. And very comfortable. I promise you, I’m not complaining.”
He went on as though she hadn’t spoken. “I admit it’s just easier for me, if you stay here at the ranch rather than the hotel. But if you want, we can—”
“Will you stop?”
“I want to work this out.”
“There’s nothing to work out. I just said it was a little weird, that’s all. I was only...making conversation.”
“Making conversation.” His mouth had a grim set.
“Yes. I talk. You answer. I answer you back. Conversation. Ring a bell?”
He set down his fork. It made a sharp sound against the side of his plate. “Something is really bugging you. What?”
“Nothing,” she baldly lied. “There’s nothing.”
But of course, there was.
It was the two doors to the bathroom. Because of those two doors, she’d thought about seeing him naked and that was not the kind of thing a girl was supposed to be thinking about her very good friend.
For years, they’d had everything worked out between them—for him, everything was still worked out.
But for her, well...he kind of had it right, though she would never admit it no matter how hard he pushed. She didn’t really want to stay here—and not because it wasn’t a luxury hotel.
Uh-uh. There was just something about staying in his house, something about having him as her bodyguard, something about Ryan and Clara suddenly getting married, something about everything changing from how it had always been. It had her mind going places it shouldn’t go.
It had her heart aching for what it was never going to get.
He sat back in his chair, tipped his head sideways and studied her with a look that set her nerves on edge. “Whatever it is, you need to go ahead and tell me.”
She played dumb. Because no way was she having the I want to jump your bones, but hey, I get that you’re just not that into me conversation. Not tonight. Not ever again. “What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
Yes, she did. So what now? Truth or lie?
Lie, definitely. “No, really. There’s nothing.” She faked a yawn and hid it behind her hand.
He fell for it. “Tired?”
She lied some more. “Exhausted. It’s—what? One in the morning in Montedoro. I’m just going to finish this amazing stew and go on up to my room...”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I am. Really. Just a little tired is all.”
And that was it. He let it go.
After the meal, she helped him straighten up the kitchen. Then she went upstairs, had a nice bath and called Clara’s house. Clara wasn’t there, so Rory left a message saying she’d arrived safely after an uneventful flight and would see her in the morning for the final fittings. They were all—bride and bridesmaids—meeting at Wedding Belles Bridal on Central Street at ten.
Rory hung up and climbed into bed. She was certain she would lie there wide-awake for hours stewing over her inappropriate interest in her very good friend Walker. But she turned out the light and snuggled under that old quilt and smiled because the pillowcase smelled like starch and sunshine.
And the next thing she knew, thin winter sunlight was peeking between the white cotton curtains. She sat up and stretched and realized she felt great. Lucky Lady sat at the end of the bed, lazily licking her paw.
Rory beamed at the big black cat. All those weird emotional knots she’d tied herself up in the night before? Untied.
Honestly, if she still had a little bit of a crush on Walker, so what? She didn’t have to get all eaten up over it. It just wasn’t that big a deal.
* * *
Walker drove her into town. He found a parking space right on Central Street in front of Wedding Belles, under a streetlamp all done up for the holidays with an evergreen wreath covered in bright colored Christmas ornaments and crowned with a red bow.
Rory unhooked her seat belt. “I’ll call you when we leave the shop.”
He didn’t fall for it. “I’ll see you inside.” He went to feed the meter.
Still hoping that maybe he’d give up and go hang with Ryan or something for a while, Rory entered the shop.
Wedding Belles was everything the name implied. Big, beautiful dresses in a delicious rainbow of colors hung on racks along the walls. More dresses tempted the buyer from freestanding displays. It was a truly girlie kind of place, and the final fitting was just supposed to be Clara and her attendants.
Best man not included.
Walker came in anyway. He assumed the bodyguard position, out of the way, near the door.
Clara was already there. She stood in the center of the shop, all in white, on a round white fitting platform in front of a silver-trimmed cheval mirror, her brown hair loose on her shoulders. She had her head tipped down at first, a pensive expression on her pretty face. Her dress was a gorgeous thing, with a layered organza skirt, three-quarter length lace sleeves and a fitted lace-and-beadwork bodice. Clara looked adorable in it. Another woman, probably the shop’s owner, was busy fussing with the layers of fluffy organza hem.
As always, Rory had a camera with her. She whipped it out and snapped a few quick shots of the bride, who seemed lost in a world of her own, and the seamstress kneeling at her feet.
Clara looked up, her faraway expression vanishing as if it had never been. She beamed and held out her arms. “Rory!” The other woman stepped aside so Clara could hike up those acres of skirt and jump down from the platform for a hello hug.
Rory stuck her camera back in her tote and ran over to wrap her arms around her favorite cousin, who smelled of a light, flowery perfume—with just a hint of coffee and pancakes. Clara must have been at her restaurant, the Library Café, already that morning. “God,” Rory said. “It’s so good to see you.” They grinned at each other.
Clara kissed her on the cheek and jumped back up on the platform. “This is Millie. She owns the place. Millie, my cousin Rory.”
“Hey,” said Rory. “We’ve met. Sort of.” She’d talked to Millie on the phone a couple of times, giving the shopkeeper her size and measurements so her dress could be made up and ready for today.
The woman dipped a knee in a fair approximation of a curtsy. “Your Highness. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you in person. It’s an honor.”
Clara laughed. “Just call her Rory. She gets cranky when people treat her like a princess.”
Millie gave Rory a questioning look.
And Rory said, “That’s right. Just Rory.”
“Fair enough. Rory.” The shop owner straightened her pincushion bracelet and knelt again at Clara’s hem.
Clara was watching Walker, who remained by the door. “I hate to break it to you, Walker. But this is a no-groomsmen-allowed kind of thing we’re doing here.”
He shrugged—and didn’t budge. “You look beautiful, Clara. My brother’s a lucky man.”
“Thanks. You can go.”
“Sorry. Can’t do that. Pretend I’m not here.” He stared out the window—on the lookout for kidnappers, no doubt.
Clara muttered to Rory, “What is going on with him?”
Rory grumbled, “My mother hired him to be my bodyguard for this trip.”
Clara blinked. “No kidding.”
Rory shook her head. “And as you can see, so far, he’s taking his new job very seriously.”
“I guess I should have noticed that you’re minus security.”
“Oh, but I’m not. I’ve got security. And his name is Walker. I’m staying out at the Bar-N, so he can protect me even when I’m sleeping.” She gestured grandly toward the man in question. “Wherever I go, Walker goes.”
“Hmm.” Clara’s green eyes gleamed and she pitched her voice even lower. “This could get interesting...”
“Don’t even go there,” Rory threatened. Clara knew too much. She was Rory’s favorite cousin, after all. And a couple of times over the years Rory had just happened to mention that she had a sort of a thing for Walker. She really wished she’d kept her mouth shut—but both times there had been wine involved, and girls will be girls.
Clara flashed her a way-too-innocent smile. “Don’t go where, exactly?”
Right then, the little bell over the door chimed, distracting Clara, so that Rory didn’t have to answer any more of her annoying Walker-related questions. Elise Bravo and Tracy Winham breezed in.
Elise was Clara’s sister and Tracy might as well have been. When Tracy’s parents died fifteen years ago, Elise and Clara’s mother, Sondra, took Tracy into the family and raised her as a daughter. Together, Tracy and Elise owned Bravo Catering. The two were not only in the wedding party, they were handling the reception and providing all the food. They waved at Walker and hurried over to grab Rory in hugs of welcome.
The first thing out of Elise’s mouth after “How are you?” was “Is there some reason Walker’s lurking by the door?”
And Rory got to explain all over again about the bodyguard situation.
Then Joanna Bravo, Clara and Elise’s half sister, arrived. Things started getting a little frosty about then.
Joanna hugged Rory, kissed Clara on the cheek and then said crisply, “Elise. Tracy.” She gave them each a quick nod that seemed more a dismissal than a greeting.
And Elise said, “Clara, we really need to revisit the issue of the reception centerpieces.”
Joanna, whom they all called Jody, spoke right up. “No, we don’t.”
Tracy popped in with, “Yes, we do.”
Clara said softly, “Come on. We’ve been through this. Let’s not go there again.”
That shut the argument down momentarily.
But Rory knew they would definitely be going there again. If it hadn’t been about the flowers, it would have been something else, because the Justice Creek Bravos shared a convoluted history.
Clara’s father, Franklin Bravo, had raised two families at the same time: one with his heiress wife, Sondra Oldfield Bravo, and a second with his mistress, Willow Mooney. All nine of his children—four by Sondra, five by Willow—had the last name Bravo.
When Sondra died, ten years ago, Frank Bravo had mourned at her funeral. And then, the next day, he’d married Willow and moved her and her two youngest children, Jody and Nell, into the family mansion, where Elise and Tracy still lived. Three years ago, Frank had died of a stroke. By then, there was only Willow, living alone in the big house that Frank had built with Oldfield money when he first made Sondra his bride.
Frank’s five sons and four daughters by two different mothers were all adults now, all out on their own. Clara had told Rory more than once that they’d given up their childhood jealousies and resentments. Clara always saw the best in people and tried to think positive.
But maybe she should have thought twice before hiring Jody to do the flowers for the wedding—and Tracy and Elise to cater it.
As the caterers, Tracy and Elise thought they should be in charge of the reception flowers and should be answerable only to the bride. “We just want to be free to coordinate the look of your reception without having to check with Jody every minute and a half,” groused Elise.
“We’ve already settled this.” Jody pinched up her mouth and aimed her chin high. “I’m doing the flowers. All the flowers. It’s as simple as that. And I will make sure that you get exactly what you want, Clara.”
Rory moved around the edges of the room, snapping a bunch of pictures of them as they argued, feeling grateful for her camera, which gave her something to do so she could pretend to ignore the building animosity.
Tracy started in, “But the reception needs a consistent design. Elise and I really should be freed up to give that to you.”
Clara pleaded, “Come on, guys. You all need to work together. Jody’s doing the flowers. We’ve talked about this before and we’ve all discussed what I’m after.” She glanced from a frowning Tracy to an unhappy Elise to a smug Joanna. “Jody will come up with something that works with your table design. I know it’s all going to be just what I’ve hoped for.”
Elise opened her mouth to give Clara more grief. But before she could get rolling, Nell Bravo, Willow’s youngest, arrived.
Nell was one of those women who cause accidents just by walking down the street. She looked like a cross between the sultry singer Lana Del Rey and a Victoria’s Secret model. Her long auburn hair was wonderfully windblown, her full lips painted fire-engine red and her enormous dark green eyes low and lazy. She wore a hot-pink angora sweater. Black leggings hugged her endless, shapely legs. The leggings ended in a pair of Carvela Scorpion biker boots.
Instead of harping at Clara again, Elise turned to the newcomer. “Nell. How nice that you finally decided to join us.”
Nell’s pillowy red upper lip twitched in a lazy sneer. “Don’t start, Elise. I’m not putting up with your crap this morning.” Nell glanced Rory’s way and actually smiled. “Rory. Hey.”
Rory peeled her camera off her face long enough to give Nell a hug. “Good to see you.”
“Nellie, you look half-awake,” Tracy remarked in full snark mode. “Have you been taking advantage of our permissive marijuana laws again?”
Nell smoothed her gorgeous hair with one languid stroke of her red-nailed hand. “It’s a thought. I really should do something to relax when I know I’m going to have to put up with you and your evil twin here.”
Elise sniffed. “Don’t let her bother you, Trace. She was just born rude—and then badly brought up.”
Nell covered a yawn. “Better rude and runnin’ wild than the biggest bee-yatch in town.”
Tracy and Elise gasped in outraged unison.
Rory had stopped taking pictures. Her gaze tracked toward the door and collided with Walker’s. He was looking as worried as she felt. Elise and Tracy had been ganging up on Nell for as long as Rory could remember. And Nell had no trouble at all fighting back. The only question now was, how far would they go today? When they were teenagers, according to more than one source, the three of them used to go at it no-holds-barred, with lots of slapping and hair-pulling.
Poor Clara had begun to look frazzled. She patted the air with both hands. “Seriously, everyone. Could we all just take a deep breath—and will you put on the dresses so Millie can pin the hems and mark up any final alterations?”
Nell purposely turned her back on Tracy and Elise—and they did the same to her. Rory breathed a small sigh of relief. Nell said, “Millie, do I smell coffee? I would kill for a cup.”
“Help yourself,” said Millie. She had a table set up in the corner with a silver coffee service, cups, cream, sugar, everything—including a plate of tempting-looking muffins from the baker across the street.
“I love you,” Nell told Millie in her husky bedroom voice as she filled one of the cups. Jody, who hadn’t said a word since Nell entered the shop, had already poured herself a cup and taken a seat near the wall.
Clara tried again, “Put on your dresses, everyone, please. Millie’s hung them in the dressing rooms.” Millie had three dressing rooms. Clara pointed at the center one. “Rory, you’re in there with me. Elise and Tracy on the left. Jody and Nell to the right.” Assigning the dressing rooms was a smart move on Clara’s part. It was one thing to try to pretend that her battling sisters had no issues with each other. But God knew what might happen if Nell ended up alone in a confined space with Tracy or Elise.
They went to their assigned rooms and put on their bridesmaids dresses, which were each a different style, but all floor-length and in a vivid eggplant-colored satin. Then they drank coffee and nibbled on muffins while taking turns getting up on the platform so that Millie could pin up the final alterations.
The process took until a little past noon. A few sharp remarks were tossed around. But on the whole, they all managed to behave themselves. By the end, Clara almost seemed relaxed.
After the fitting, Clara had lunch reservations for all of them at the Sylvan Inn. Everybody loved to eat at the inn. They had fabulous hammer steaks and wonderful crispy fried trout. The inn was a few minutes’ drive southwest of town. Tracy and Elise said they would go together. Clara offered to drive everyone else.
Rory made a stab at getting Walker to allow her to go to lunch on her own.
He said, “Let Jody and Nell go together. I’ll drive you and Clara. That way, if Jody or Nell gets into it with Elise and Tracy, there are viable escape options.”
“Walker. You make it sound like a battle plan.”
He grunted. “Because it is. More or less.”
She wanted to argue that everything would be fine and he really didn’t have to keep her in sight every minute of every day. But actually, knowing the Bravo sisters, it might not all be fine. And he seemed so determined to watch over her. It really was kind of sweet that he took the job of providing her security so seriously.
So she went back to her cousins and shared Walker’s suggestion as to who should ride with whom—minus the part about battle plans and escape options. They all agreed Walker’s way would be fine.
In Walker’s SUV, Rory sat in the front seat next to him and Clara hopped in back. Once they were on the way, Clara said she wanted him to join them for lunch when they got to the inn.
He laughed. He really did have the greatest laugh, all deep and rough and sincere at the same time. “You’d probably make me sit between Nell and Elise.”
And Rory kidded, “Well, you might as well make yourself useful. You can play referee.”
“Not a chance. I’ll just stay out of the way. You won’t even know I’m there.”
“Of course we’ll know.” Clara reached over the seat and poked at his shoulder.
Rory tried, “And it doesn’t seem right for you not even to get some lunch in this deal.”
But he just wouldn’t go for it. “I’ll get something later. Don’t worry about me.”
So she and Clara let it be.
At the inn, Walker had a private word with the hostess—no doubt to explain why he would be lurking and not eating. Then he took up a position near a window painted with a snowy Christmas scene. The spot was out of the way of the waiters and busmen, but with a clear line of sight to the table where Rory sat with her cousins. By then, they all knew that Walker was her stand-in bodyguard. Nell teased her about it and they both laughed.
Christmas favorites played softly in the background, and Clara had a bottle of champagne waiting on ice for them. It was nice. Festive. They each took a glass of bubbly, and Clara made a sweet little toast. She took a tiny sip and set the flute down and never touched it again. They ordered.
At first, it all seemed to go pretty well. At least everyone was civil. But then, shortly after the waitress brought their food, Tracy started in again about how she and Elise ought to be doing the reception flowers.
Jody said, “Oh, come on, Tracy. Give it up, already. It’s been decided.”
Elise scoffed, “That’s what you think.”
And then Nell said to no one in particular, “Because some people just can’t stand not getting everything their way all of the time.”
Tracy snapped, “Stay out of it, Nell. This has nothing to do with you.”
“Come on, guys,” Clara piped up hopefully. “Let it go. Let’s have a nice lunch as a family. Please.”
“Yeah, Clara.” Nell mimed an eye roll so big, she almost fell over sideways. “Good luck with that.”
“I’m not kidding,” Elise muttered under her breath. “So freaking rude.”
To which Nell replied with saccharine sweetness, “And what about you, Leesie? You’re just a big ole plate of harpy with an extra-large helping of shrew on the side.”
Elise glowered, teeth clenched. “Why you little—”
Clara cut her off. “Stop. This. Now.” She sent a furious glare around the table. Clara never lost her temper, so to see her about ready to start kicking some sisterly butt shocked the rest of them so much they all fell silent.
Walker left his position by the window and started toward them, ready to intervene. Rory met his eyes and shook her head. There was nothing for him to do in this situation. Nothing for either of them to do, really.
He took her hint and went back to his observation point at the window.
And Clara’s angry outburst actually seemed to have worked. They’d all picked up their forks and started eating again. Everyone but Clara. She sat there with her hands in her lap, sweat on her brow, her cheeks and lips much too pale.
Rory leaned close to her. “Are you all right?”
Clara gulped and nodded. “Fine, yes. Just fine...”
Clearly a complete lie. But Rory let it go. She feared that keeping after her might push her over whatever edge she seemed to be teetering on.
So they ate, mostly in silence. It was pretty awful. So bad that no one wanted anything off the famous Sylvan Inn dessert cart when the waitress wheeled it over. Tracy and Elise were the first to say they had to get going. They thanked Clara and left. Jody and Nell followed about two minutes later.
As soon as her two half sisters disappeared down the short hallway to the door, Clara shoved back her chair and leaped to her feet. “Be right back,” she squeaked. And then she clapped her hand over her mouth and sprinted toward the alcove that led to the restrooms.
For a moment, Rory just sat there gaping after her. Normally, Clara was hard to rattle. She took things in stride.
But she was certainly rattled now. And obviously about to toss what little she’d eaten of her hammer steak and cheesy potatoes.
Rory jumped up and went after her.
In the ladies’ room, she found poor Clara bending over one of the toilets, the stall door left open in her rush to make it in time. She was already heaving.
“Oh, darling...” Rory edged into the best-friend position, gathering Clara’s hair in her hands and holding it out of the way as everything came up.
Clara was still gagging, Rory rubbing her back and making soothing noises, when the outer door burst open. “Rory?” It was Walker.
Between heaves, Clara shouted, “Walker, out!”
Rory locked eyes with him. “I’m fine. Go.”
“I’ll be right out here if you—”
“Walker, go!” Clara choked out. He backed away.
“And don’t let anyone in here,” Rory added.
“Uh. Sure,” he said, ducking out, the door shutting after him.
“It’s all right, all right,” Rory reassured Clara gently. “He’s gone. It’s just us...”
Clara heaved a couple more times and then stayed bent over the bowl, breathing carefully as they waited to see if there would be more.
Finally, Clara let out a slow, tired sigh. “I think that’s it.”
Rory hit the flush. They backed from the stall and turned to the big mirror over the two sinks. Clara rinsed her mouth and her face. Rory was ready with the paper towels. Clara took them and blotted her cheeks. They’d left their purses at the table, so Clara smoothed her hair as best she could.
And then they ended up just standing there, staring into each other’s eyes in the mirror.
Finally, Rory asked in a whisper, “Clara, what is going on?”
And Clara gave a tiny, sad little shrug. “I’m pregnant. Four months along.”
Rory choked. “No...”
“Yeah.”
“Shut the fridge door.” Rory had already kind of figured it out. But it was still a surprise to hear Clara say it.
A weary little chuckle escaped Clara. “I haven’t had morning sickness in a month. But today was too much.” She pressed her hand against her belly, which was maybe slightly rounded, but only if you stared really hard. And even then, maybe not. “I might have to kill my sisters—all three of them. And Tracy, too.”
Rory was still trying to get her mind around this startling bit of information. Clara. Pregnant. “So you actually had sex with Ryan?” The words just popped from her mouth of their own accord. She really hadn’t meant to say them out loud. Clara winced and then looked stricken. And Rory felt so bad she started backpedaling like mad. “Well, I mean it’s only that you always said you didn’t see Ryan that way—but then, hey, what the hell?” She bopped her own forehead with the heel of her hand. “I mean, nobody can deny Ryan is hot. And you two are getting married, right? I mean, there’s nothing to be surprised about, because even if there hadn’t been a baby involved, you two would have had sex or be planning to have it. Because, well, sex is one of those things married people tend to do and—”
“Rory,” Clara cut in softly.
Rory gulped. “Uh. Yeah?”
“You’re just making it worse.”
Rory let out a small whimper. “You’re right. I am.”
“Come here.” Clara wrapped her arm around Rory’s shoulders and drew her closer. Rory slid her hand around Clara’s waist. They bent their heads to the side until they touched and they stared at each other in the mirror some more, both of them looking a little bit shell-shocked.
Finally, Rory said, “Four months? Seriously? You don’t even look pregnant.”
“I know.” Clara did the pregnant-lady move, lovingly pressing her palm to her belly for the second time. “Not showing yet. I’ll probably be like my mother. She once told me she would go for six months with nobody knowing. And then, all of a sudden...” Clara stretched her arm out in front of her. “Pop. Out to here. Like from one day to the next.”
“God, Clara. Four months? Since August?”
Clara dropped her hand from Rory’s shoulder, eased away and dampened a paper towel under the faucet. “Well, I didn’t know until about five weeks later when I took the first test.”
Rory couldn’t help looking at her reproachfully. “You should have called me. You should have told me. I mean, who have you told?”
Clara blotted her flushed face with the wet towel. “Ryan.”
“Only Ryan?”
Clara tossed the wet towel in the trash. “And he has been wonderful. Right there for me, you know? Best friend a girl could have.”
Best friend. Clara still talked about Ryan as a friend, a best buddy. She just didn’t sound like a woman in love.
Rory turned so she was face-to-face with Clara and took her firmly by the shoulders. “Is everything all right, with you and Ryan?”
“Of course. It’s wonderful. Couldn’t be better.”
“And the baby?”
Clara sighed. “No worries. Truly. The baby’s fine. I’ve been to the doctor. Clean bill of health.”
“Oh, my darling...” Rory gathered her close. Clara let out a little whimper and grabbed on. Tight. Rory murmured, “I’m here—you know that...” She rubbed Clara’s back and stared at the row of toilet stalls without really seeing them.
Until she happened to catch a flicker of movement from the corner of her eye. One of the stall doors was closed. And the movement had occurred in that tiny sliver of space between the door and frame.
Rory paid attention then, her gaze tracking lower, to the opening between the bottom of the door and the black-and-white tile floor. No shoes or legs showing.
But then, there it was again: a shadow moving between the frame and the door.
Someone was standing on the stool, listening in.
Chapter Three (#ulink_9dad7027-340c-5cfe-9e40-d53c53565ef2)
Rory let go of Clara and put a finger to her lips. Clara frowned at her, confused. So Rory turned her around and pointed at the stall.
Clara asked miserably, “Really?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Wonderful.” Clara marched right over there and tapped on the door. “Come on out. We know you’re in there.”
Below the door, a pair of black Dansko duty shoes and two black trouser legs lowered into sight.
The door swung inward. Rory recognized the face: one of the Sylvan Inn waitresses, though not the one who’d waited on their table.
Clara knew her. “Monique Hightower. What a surprise.” And not in a good way, considering Clara’s bleak tone. She said to Rory, “Monique and I went to Justice Creek High together.”
The waitress gave a sheepish giggle. “Hey, Clara.”
Clara didn’t smile. “How much did you hear?”
“Um, nothing?” Monique suggested hopefully.
“Liar.”
Monique giggled some more. “Well, all right. Everything. But I swear to you, Clara. I would never say a word about your private business to anyone.”
* * *
Walker stood in the parking lot, waiting, watching Clara and Rory, who whispered to each other about fifteen feet away.
After whatever had gone down in the ladies’ room, Clara had settled up in the restaurant, and then Rory had asked him to give her and Clara a few more minutes alone. So there they stood, the two of them, between his SUV and a red pickup, both wrapped in heavy coats, their heads bent close together, their noses red from the cold winter air, talking a mile a minute, both of them intense, serious as hell.
Something very weird was going on. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what.
Finally, Rory hugged Clara and then raised her hand to signal him over. They all got in the SUV. He started the engine, turned the heater up and pulled out of the parking space.
Clara asked, “Can you let me out at the café?”
“Will do.”
Neither of the women said a word during the short drive into town.
When Walker pulled to a stop in front of Clara’s restaurant, she said, “Thanks, Walker. See you both tonight. Seven?” She’d invited him, Rory and Rye over for dinner, just like old times. Kind of.
“We’ll be there,” Rory promised.
“See you then,” said Walker.
Clara got out, pushed the door shut and turned for the café.
He’d figured Rory would tell him what was going on as soon as they were alone.
But all she said was “I’ll bet you’re starving. Do you want to go in and get something to eat?”
“Naw. I’ll get something at home.” He headed for the Bar-N. Rory stared out the window, apparently lost in thought, through the whole drive.
At the ranch, she went straight upstairs to her room. He was kind of hungry, so he heated up some of last night’s stew and ate it standing by the sink, staring out at the snow-covered mountains that rimmed the little valley where he’d lived all his life. He’d just put his bowl in the dishwasher when Rory appeared dressed in jeans and knee-high rawhide boots, carrying a camera as usual.
He asked, “What now?”
“I’ve never had a chance to get many pictures around the ranch. I’d like to take some shots of the horses and of the other houses and the cabins—and you don’t have to go with me.”
“I’ll just get my hat and coat.”
“Oh, come on. Take a break.”
“I can’t do that, ma’am.” He laid on the cowboy drawl. “I take my bodyguardin’ seriously—and do you really want me to keep that money your mother sent?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then don’t you think you’d better let me do the job?”
So they put on their winter gear and he followed her out. It was no hardship really, watching Rory. She was easy on the eyes, with that shining, thick sable hair and those pink cheeks and that look of interest she always wore. Rory found the everyday world completely fascinating. He watched her snap pictures of everything from a weathered porch rail to an old piece of harness someone had left on a fence post.
He thought about how she sometimes resented the way being a princess hemmed her in, but even she would have to admit that her background had helped her in a highly competitive field. Because of who she was, she had a higher profile and an intriguing byline. Add that to her talent and drive: success. Her pictures had already appeared in National Geographic and a number of other nature, gardening and outdoor magazines.
The horses were waiting for them by the fence when they reached the corral. She took pictures of him petting them and feeding them some wrinkled apples he’d brought out from the house. They went into the stables. He mucked the main floor while she got more pictures. And then she put her camera in its case, hung it from a peg, picked up the other broom and worked alongside him.
She knew how to muck out a floor. One of her sisters was a world-famous horse breeder and Rory had grown up around horses.
They returned to the house at quarter after five to clean up. He was feeding Lucky and Lonesome when she came down at six-thirty, looking good in tight black jeans, tall black boots and a thick black sweater patterned across the top with white snowflakes.
On the way to Clara’s, he couldn’t resist asking, “So are you ever going to tell me what went on at the restaurant?”
She sent him a look—as if she was trying to figure out what he was talking about. Right.
He elaborated, “You remember. When Clara bolted to the ladies’ room and chucked up her lunch and then yelled at me to get out and then you said not to let anyone in? And then eventually you two came out with Monique Hightower, who must have been in there with you the whole time? Yeah. That’s what I’m talking about.”
She coughed into her hand, a stall so obvious a toddler would have seen through it. “Clara got sick.”
“Yeah. I figured that part out all by myself.”
“I think it might have been the cheesy potatoes.”
He sent her a speaking glance. One that said, Give me a break. “So, all right. You’re not going to tell me.”
She winced and slunk down in her seat a few inches and didn’t even bother to try to deny that she’d lied.
He said, “You should know I’ll find out eventually—whatever the hell it is.”
Rory puffed out her cheeks with a hard breath. “I just don’t know what to tell you.”
“Clara swore you to secrecy, huh? Good luck with that. Because if Monique knows, everybody’s going to know. Gossip is her life. She’s been that way at least since high school.”
“Yes. Well, Clara mentioned that—about Monique. But still. I don’t know what to tell you. I mean—it’s Clara’s business, that’s all.” She sent him another pained glance. He took pity on her and left it at that.
For now, anyway.
Clara’s house was around the block from her café, a sweet blue Victorian with maroon trim and a deep front porch. Rye greeted them at the door. He hugged Rory. And when he took Walker’s hand and clapped him on the back with brotherly affection, his gaze slid away.
No doubt about it. Something was going on and it was not good.
Rye waited while they hung their coats on the hall tree. Then he led them through the dining room to the kitchen.
Clara stood at the counter tearing lettuce into a salad bowl. She greeted them with a too-broad smile. “Ryan, pour Rory some wine and get your brother a beer. I thought, since it’s just us four, that we’d eat right here at the breakfast nook table.”
While Clara pulled the meal together, they all stood at the counter, talking about the weather and the wedding, about Clara’s out-of-control sisters and Walker’s new job as Rory’s bodyguard. Then they moved to the breakfast nook and sat down to eat.
On the surface, Walker thought, everything seemed okay. But it wasn’t okay. The evening was just...off, somehow. Over the years, the four of them had hung out a lot. They always had a good time. That night should have been the same.
But Rory was too quiet. And both Clara and Ryan seemed tense and distracted. Clara had Rye pour her a glass of wine—and then never touched it. The food was terrific, as always at Clara’s. But Clara ate no more than she drank. Maybe she really was sick.
But then why not call off the evening and take it easy?
Midway through the meal, she jumped up, just the way she had at the restaurant that afternoon. With a frantic, “Excuse me,” she clapped her hand to her mouth and ran for the central hallway.
Rye and Rory jumped up and went after her.
A minute later, Rye returned by himself. He dropped back into his chair, those brown eyes of his full of worry, his charming smile no longer in evidence.
Walker had had enough. It was just too ridiculous to keep on pretending he hadn’t guessed what was going on. “Clara’s pregnant, right?”
Rye picked up his beer, knocked back half of it and set it down. “What makes you say that?”
“Damn it, Rye. Don’t give me the limp leg on this. She threw up at lunchtime, too. In the restaurant toilet. Rory went in to help out. And whatever she and Rory said while they were in there, Monique Hightower heard, because she was in there with them—hiding in a stall, is my guess. If you were planning on keeping the news a secret, you need a new plan.”
Rye swore under his breath—and busted to the truth at last. “We were trying to get through the wedding before we said anything. Clara’s got enough to do, dealing with her crazy family and all.”
“So she is pregnant?”
Ryan fiddled with the label on his beer bottle.
“Answer the question, Rye.”
“Yeah.” He lifted the beer and drank the rest down. “She’s pregnant.”
“And that’s it...that’s why you’re getting married?”
“Hell, Walker. What kind of crap question is that?”
“Let me rephrase. Is that the only reason you’re getting married?”
“Of course not.”
Walker waited for Rye to say the rest. When Rye just sat there staring at his empty beer bottle, he prompted, “Because you’re also in love with her?”
Rye scowled. “That’s right and I always have been.”
“So you’re always saying.”
“Because it’s the truth—and why are you on my ass all of a sudden?”
It was a good question. Getting all up in Rye’s face wasn’t the answer to anything. “You’re right. Sorry, man. Just trying to figure out what’s going on. I mean, you’re stepping up, and that’s a damn fine thing.”
“What?” Rye bristled. “That surprises you—that I would step up?”
Walker looked him square in the eye. “Not in the least.”
“Well, good.” Rye settled back in his chair—and then stiffened at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. “They’re coming back...”
The two women came in the way they’d gone out—through the great room. Rye got up, went to Clara and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You okay?”
She put on a smile and gave him a nod. They all three sat down again and Clara shot a glance at Walker. “Sorry. I’ve been queasy all day. Must be some minor stomach bug.”
Walker just looked at her, steady on.
And Rye said, “It’s not flying, Clara. He’s figured out about the baby.”
Clara drooped in her chair. “Oh, well.” She reached back and rubbed her nape. “I have to admit, I’m starting to wonder why I even care who knows.”
Walker reassured her. “Don’t worry about me. I won’t say a word.”
And Clara actually laughed. “Yeah, there’s Monique for that.”
“Are you all right, really?” Walker asked her.
And Rory piped up with, “Do you want to lie down?”
Clara shook her head and picked up her fork. “All of a sudden, I’m starving.” She started eating.
And she wasn’t kidding about being hungry. They all watched her pack it away.
Rory said, “At least your appetite’s back.”
And Walker remembered his manners. “Congratulations, both of you.”
Clara gave him a weary smile and then held out her hand to Rye. He clasped it, firmly.
After that, Walker started thinking that everything was good between his brother and Clara, that the two of them and the baby would have a great life. Rye got them each another beer and a little more wine for Rory and the conversation flowed. No more weird silences. They all laughed together, just like old times.
Yeah, Walker decided. Everything would be fine.
* * *
Rory was too quiet on the way back to the ranch. But it had been a long day with way too much drama. She was probably just beat.
Inside, they hung up their coats. He said good-night and turned for the stairs.
She reached out and pulled him back. “I need to talk to you.”
He looked down at her slim fingers wrapped around his arm. She let go instantly, but somehow it seemed to him that he could still feel her woman’s touch through the flannel of his sleeve.
Woman’s touch? What the...?
He shook it off.
It was just strange, that was all. To be there in his house alone with her at night—and to know that she wouldn’t be leaving in an hour or two for her suite at the Haltersham Hotel. That they would both go upstairs to bed. And in the morning, at breakfast, she would be there, at his table.
And wait a minute. Why should that suddenly strike him as strange—not to mention, vaguely dangerous?
But it doesn’t, he argued with himself. They were friends and he was looking after her. Nothing strange or dangerous about that.
She asked, “Are things seeming weirder and weirder with Clara and Ryan, or is it just me?”
He didn’t really want to talk about Clara and Ryan—not now that he had it all comfortable and straight in his mind. Talking about it would only raise doubts.
No need for those.
But then she tipped her head to the side, her dark hair tumbling down her shoulder. “No response, huh?” Her sweet brown eyes were so sad. “Okay, then.” She tried to sound cheerful, with only minimal success. “Never mind. See you in the morning.”
He couldn’t just leave her standing there. “Hold on.” Lonesome was whining at the front door. He went over and opened it. The dog wiggled in, thrilled to see him. He scratched him behind the ears as Lucky came in behind him.
The cat went straight to Rory, and Rory picked her up and buried her face in the silky black fur. She asked, “Well?”
“Come on.” He turned for the great room at the back of the house, the dog at his heels. “You want something? Coffee?”
Still holding Lucky, she followed. “No, just to talk.”
He stopped by the couch. She put the cat down and dropped to the cushions. He went and turned on the fire, which he’d converted to gas two years before. The cat and the dog both sat by the hearth, side by side. When he went back to her, she’d lifted her right foot to tug off her tall black boot.
“Here,” he said. A boot like that was easier for someone else to get off. “Let me.”
“Thanks.” She stuck out her foot in his direction.
He moved around the end of the coffee table, took the boot by the toe and the heel, eased it right off and handed it to her. She tucked it under the end table and offered the other one. He slid that one off, too. And then he stood there, above her, boot in hand, staring at her socks. They were bright red with little white snowmen on them. Cute. He had the most bizarre urge to bend down and wrap his hand around her ankle, to take off that red snowman sock, to run his palm over the shape of her bare heel, to stroke his hand up the back of her slim, strong calf...
He was losing it. No doubt about it.
“Here.” She took the left boot from him, stuck it under the table with the right one and patted the sofa cushion beside her. Apparently, she had no clue as to his sudden burning desire to put his hands on her naked skin.
And that was good. Excellent. He sat down next to her.
She turned toward him and drew her knees up to the side. “There’s tension between them—and not the sexy kind. Did you notice?”
Tension between who?
Right. Rye and Clara. And he had noticed. “Yeah, but only until Clara finally busted to the truth about the baby. After that, everything seemed just like it used to be.”
She flipped a big hank of silky hair back over her shoulder. “Exactly.” He thought about reaching out, running his hand down that long swath of dark hair, feeling the texture of it against his palm, maybe bringing it to his face, sucking in the scent of it, rubbing it over his mouth. “Walker?”
He blinked at her, feeling dazed. “Huh?”
Her pretty dark brows had drawn together. “You still with me here?”
“Uh. Yeah. Of course I am. You said things were tense with Clara and Ryan. I said that by the end of the night, it was just like it used to be.”
“Walker. Think about it. ‘Like it used to be’ is that they were friends. We were friends, the four of us.”
He wasn’t following. Her shining hair and soft pink lips weren’t helping, either. “Yeah. We were friends. And we still are.”
“But I mean, with Clara and Ryan now, shouldn’t there be more?” She paused, as though waiting for him to speak. He had nothing. She forged on. “I do understand that with a baby coming, marriage might be an option. But is it really the right option for them? Lots of people have babies now without thinking they need a wedding first. I can’t help but wonder why the two of them are racing to the altar—and seriously, I...well, I don’t know how to say this, but...”
He knew he shouldn’t ask. “Say what?”
“Well, frankly, I just can’t picture Clara and Ryan having sex.”
Through the haze of ridiculous lust that seemed to have taken hold of him, he felt a definite stab of annoyance—with the direction of this uncomfortable conversation in general, and with Rory in particular. “Just because you can’t picture it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
“It’s only...” She stared off into the fire.
“What?” he demanded.
And she finally turned and looked at him. “I don’t feel it between them.”
“What do you mean? Because they’re friends, is that what you’re saying? You can’t picture two lifelong friends suddenly deciding there’s more than friendship between them?”
“Well, no.”
“No?”
“I mean, yes. I could picture that, picture friends becoming lovers.”
Why were they talking about this? “So what’s the problem?”
“It’s just that Clara and Ryan, they’re not...that way with each other.”
“You’re overcomplicating it.”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Yeah. You are. She’s a woman. He’s a man. They’re together a lot—you know, being friends and all. It happens. I don’t see anything all that surprising about any of it. And as for them getting married, well, Rye’s a stand-up guy and Clara’s having his baby. And he was only a baby when our loser of a dad took off never to be heard from again. He’s always sworn no kid of his will grow up without him. He just wants to do the right thing.”
“But that’s what I’m saying. Maybe for Clara and Ryan, it just isn’t the right thing. They’re great together, as pals. But as husband and wife? I’m not seeing it. And you know how Ryan is.”
“Now you’re going to start talking trash about my brother?”
She flinched and sat back away from him. “Whoa. Where did that come from?”
He glared at her, feeling agitated, angry at her and knowing he really had no right to be, all stirred up over her snowman socks and her shining hair, every last nerve on edge. “What exactly do you mean, ‘how Ryan is’?”
“Walker.” Her voice was careful now. “It’s not talking trash about Ryan to say the truth about him.”
“Right. The truth. That he’s a dog, right? That it’s one woman after another with him.”
“I did not say that.”
“It’s what you meant, Rory. You know it is.”
“I meant that he likes women. In a casual kind of way. He’s a great guy, but he’s also a player. Will he really be capable of settling down? Especially with Clara, who doesn’t seem all that thrilled to be marrying him?”
Okay. Now she was just plain pissing him off. “What are you saying? You think Clara’s too good for Rye, is that it?”
“No, I most definitely am not saying that.” Now she was getting pissed. She always sounded more like a princess when she was mad, everything clear and clipped and so damn superior.
“It sure does sound like it to me.” He got up so fast she let out a gasp of surprise.
“Walker, what...?”
He glared down at her, with her shining eyes and her silky hair and those damn cute snowman socks with all that bare skin underneath them. “I’ve had about enough.”
She gaped up at him, bewildered. “But—”
“Good night.” And he turned on his heel and got the hell out of there.
Chapter Four (#ulink_8cb5d887-0570-522a-9c32-f64178308b83)
Walker felt like about ten kinds of idiot by the time he was halfway up the stairs. But he just kept on going to the top and onward, along the upper hallway to his room across from hers.
Inside, he shoved the door shut and headed for the bathroom, where he stripped off his clothes and took a cold shower. He stood under the icy spray, shivering, wondering when it was, exactly, that he and his rational mind had parted company.
But then, he knew when it was: the moment he saw those snowman socks. He’d looked at those socks and they’d taken him somewhere he never planned to go—not with Rory. Uh-uh. She was his friend, for God’s sake. And too young for him. And about a thousand miles out of his league.
And was that what had happened with Clara and Rye, then? Some kind of snowman-sock moment, when everything changed and they ended up in bed together, resulting in Clara’s pregnancy, making it necessary for Rye to step up, messing with their friendship—and worse, with their lives and the lives of an innocent kid.
No way was he letting that happen to him and Rory.
He turned off the freezing water and groped for a towel, rubbing down swiftly with it and then wrapping it around his waist. And then just standing there in the middle of the bathroom, staring into space, thinking...
It was both really great and damn confusing, having Rory around all the time. Great because he liked her so much and she was low-maintenance, ready to help out, flexible and fun. Confusing because he wasn’t used to having someone else in the house round the clock, not for years, not since Denise walked out on him. He wasn’t used to it, and he couldn’t afford to get used to it.
Rory would be gone in a couple of weeks. She was leaving right after the wedding. Her brother Max was getting married in Montedoro a few days after Rye and Clara.
She would go. And he would be alone again. That was just how it was—how he wanted it.
And was any of what was eating at him her fault?
Absolutely not.
She was probably calling her mother about now, asking to have a real bodyguard sent ASAP so that she could move back to the Haltersham, where nobody jumped down her throat just for saying what was on her mind.
He dropped the towel and reached for his jeans.
* * *
When he opened his bedroom door and stuck out his head, Lonesome was there waiting on the threshold. The dog eased around him and headed for his favorite spot on the rug by the bed.
Walker stared at Rory’s bedroom door, which was shut. It had been open before.
She must have come upstairs.
He stepped across the hall and tapped on the door. And then he waited, more certain with each second that passed that she was in there packing her bags, getting ready to get the hell away from him. He was just lifting his hand to knock a second time when the door swung inward, and there she was.
In a white terry-cloth robe with her hair piled up loosely and the smell of steam and flowers rising from her skin.
“Uh,” he said.
She looked so sweet and smelled so good...and whoa. He should have thought twice before knocking on her bedroom door in the middle of the night.
And then her soft lips curled upward in a slow smile, and that cute dimple tucked itself into her round cheek. Pow. Like getting hit in the chest with a big ole ball of wonderful, watching her smile. It was bad, worse than seeing her snowman socks, to be standing there staring at her fresh from a bath.
She said, “Ready to apologize for being such a jackass?”
He nodded and made himself get on with it. “That’s right. I’m sorry.” It came out gruff, not smooth and regretful as he meant it. But it was the best he could do at the moment, given the smell of her and the sweet, pink smoothness of her skin that he was having a real hard time not reaching out and touching. “I’m sorry for being a complete douche bag.”
She smiled wider. “Why, yes. You were quite the douche.”
“You’ve got on your princess voice.”
“Excuse me?”
“When you’re pissed off, you always sound...” What in hell was he babbling about? “Never mind. And you didn’t have to agree, you know? You could tell me I wasn’t that bad.”
“I just call it like I see it.”
He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the door frame. Better. With his arms folded, he was less likely to do something stupid like try to touch her, and leaning against the door frame made him almost believe he felt easy and casual. He said, “Well, this is the deal. The real truth is, I’m a little worried about Rye and Clara, too.”
Her bright, hard smile turned softer. “Yeah. I kind of thought that you were.”
“I don’t think there’s much we can do about it, though.”
She stared up at him, so earnest now, so sweet. “It’s just good to know I’m not the only one who’s got doubts about this wedding.”
He thought back over the evening at Clara’s. “A couple of times tonight, they seemed...I don’t know, good together, tight with each other.”
She nodded. “Like when I brought her back into the kitchen after she got sick, when Ryan jumped up and went to her. He put his arm around her and asked her if she was all right...”
“Yeah, then. And also when she took his hand, a little later, at the table.”
“So you’re thinking it could be that we’re worried for nothing?”
“It’s possible.”
She nodded again. “Yeah. You’re right. And I really, truly, did not mean to be insulting to Ryan. He’s a great guy and I love him.”
“I know that you do.” Say good-night, warned the voice of reason inside his head. He peeled himself off the door frame. “Well...”
She gave a little chuckle and the sound made a hot pass along his nerve endings, tempting him to want things he had to keep remembering he was never going to get. “I know,” she said softly. “It’s late. And there’s Rocky Mountain Christmas in town tomorrow.”
“How could I forget?” All the local crafters and clubs set up booths in the town hall. Then at night, there was a Christmas show put on by the schoolkids in the newly renovated Cascade Theater. He used to go to it every year. But about a decade ago, he’d realized that when you’d been to one Rocky Mountain Christmas, you’d pretty much been to them all. “I take it we’re going.”
“Oh, yes, we are.”
Say good-night, you fool. Do it now. “’Night, Rory.”
“’Night, Walker.” She stepped back and shut the door.
He stood there for several seconds before turning away, staring at that closed door, arms wrapped extra tight across his chest, his pulse hard and hungry in his own ears.
* * *
In the morning before dawn, Rory got up and splashed cold water on her face. She put on a pair of comfy long johns and thick wool socks. Over the long johns, she wore jeans and a warm shirt. She pulled on sturdy boots. And then she put on her heavy jacket and a watch cap. Grabbing her winter riding gloves, she went out to help Walker and Bud Colgin with the horses.
An hour later, Bud went back to his house. Rory and Walker tacked up a couple of the horses and rode out toward the mountains as the sun was coming up. It was great, just the two of them and the horses in the freezing winter dawn, with Lonesome trailing along in their wake.
They got back to the house at a little after nine, both of them really hungry. He fried eggs and bacon. She made the coffee and toasted the bread.
“This isn’t bad at all,” she told him when they sat down to eat.
He grunted. “What isn’t bad?”
“This. Ranch life. When I move to Justice Creek, I might just get my own spread.”
“Princess Aurora, Colorado rancher?” Was he making fun of her? If so, at least he was doing it good-naturedly.
“Smile when you say that.”
He ate a piece of bacon and played along. “So, you planning on running cattle, too?”
“Just a few horses. I want a big, old house and a dog and a cat. Kind of like the Bar-N. But with chickens.” She sipped her coffee. “Yeah. I see my ranch with chickens.”
He shook his head. “What about your career as a world-famous photographer.”
“I can do more than one thing, you know. I’m guessing I could fit fiddling with my cameras in somewhere between grooming the horses and feeding the chickens.”
He mopped up the last of his eggs with the toast. “You’re never really going to move to Justice Creek.” He kept his eyes focused on his plate when he said that.
She studied his bent head, his broad shoulders, those strong, tanned hands of his. “My sister Genevra? She’s a year older than me. Married an English earl last May. They live at his giant country house, Hartmore, in Derbyshire.”
He lifted his head and looked at her then, those eyes so blue—and so guarded. “I know who Genevra is. And what has she got to do with your moving to Justice Creek?”
“Genny loves Hartmore. She says that from the first time we visited there, when we were small, she knew it was meant to be her home. Justice Creek is like that for me.”

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