Bridget said, “I didn’t think a lot about it other than if Grandma had a boyfriend, then good for her. At least one of us was dating.”
“Apparently, he’s a lot more than a boyfriend. They’re getting married!” Without Molly and her sister and their family in attendance. She tried to ignore the sharp stab of hurt. “What about the grand opening? Grandma’s our hostess. And who’s going to marry people?”
Grandma Em had originally suggested they hire Homer to wed those couples without their own officiant. It had seemed like a sensible solution at the time. The O’Malleys were in need, and Homer was available since retiring from his position as minister at Valley Community Church.
“Grandma says in her note replacements for her and Homer are on the way. That everything’s been handled.”
“What kind of replacements?” Molly fought for control. She didn’t fare well with blows from left field.
“Guess we’ll find out.” Bridget returned to the counter. “Look, I need to start the bread or it won’t rise in time.”
“Bread? Really? We’re in crisis.”
Molly dug her fingers into her forehead where an ache had started to throb. Grandma leaving hours before their grand opening and marrying a man no one had had any idea she was even serious about was nothing short of insane.
Setting down the coffeepot, she grabbed her phone and dialed her grandmother’s number again, only to disconnect when the recorded greeting kicked in.
“They must be out of range.” Bridget dumped an oblong of bread dough onto the mat and began kneading. “You should have left a message.”
“And said what? The two of you had better get yourselves back home right now? We have a business to run. Guests to accommodate. Couples to unite in wedded bliss.”
Photographers. Live video streaming. Floral arrangements. Music. Decorations. Molly realized with some dismay she wasn’t as familiar with her grandmother’s job at Sweetheart Ranch as she should be. In addition to the books, Molly oversaw cabin reservations, customer service, housekeeping, marketing and the various amenities they offered. That left her too busy to participate much in the wedding planning.
“Give her a chance to explain,” Bridget advised. “Love makes people do crazy things.”
“I think we should cancel the open house.”
“Absolutely not! Our first guests arrive this afternoon, and our first wedding is at seven tonight.”
“Assuming we have a minister.”
“Relax. Take a deep breath.” Bridget followed her own advice. “Panicking will only make matters worse.”
How could her sister not panic? Their world was collapsing around them. Worst of all, Molly was about to fail at the fourth job she’d held in seven years. And this time she wasn’t to blame.
“I’m serious. We should cancel.”
“Grandma has too much money invested.” Bridget rhythmically worked the dough. “And are you willing to tell the happy couple their wedding’s off? They’re expecting to honeymoon tonight as man and wife.”
“But what if—”
“Have some faith. Grandma won’t let us down. If we haven’t heard from her by midafternoon, we’ll hire Reverend Crosby.”
“He charges a fortune.”
“Better than turning the couple away on our first day of business.”
Molly made a decision. “I’m calling Mom.”
“What’s she going to do?”
Nothing, as it turned out. She didn’t know about Grandma Em’s elopement, either, and had no advice for Molly other than to move forward as best as she and Bridget could.
“I’d love to help you,” she said. “But Doug has a touch of the flu and can’t fend for himself.”
“Thanks anyway, Mom. I’ll talk to you later.”
Left with little choice, Molly buried herself in work, her usual coping mechanism. While Bridget continued baking delicacies for the open house and a cake for that night’s reception, Molly arranged champagne flutes, crystal punch glasses, china plates and silver flatware in the parlor.
On impulse, she set out cinnamon-scented candles flanking the festive fall cornucopia in the center of the table, certain the delicious aroma would stir feelings of Christmas for their guests the same as it did for her. It was never too soon to start celebrating.
Fortunately for Molly and Bridget, the ranch’s launch wedding was on the smaller side—only twenty-seven people including the bride and groom. The most their chapel could accommodate was forty-five. The veranda held thirty for those who preferred an outdoor ceremony. For larger weddings, folding chairs could be set up on the lawn.
Over the next hour, whenever the ranch phone rang, Molly dove for the polished mahogany counter in the foyer that served as her workstation and registration desk. She answered the callers’ questions about the open house, praying that she and her sister could indeed pull off the event without their grandmother.
Expecting a delivery from the florist, Molly didn’t think twice when the front door opened. Hearing the tat-tat-tat of running feet on the foyer’s wooden floor and a child’s squeal, she paused. This was no floral delivery.
A little girl no older than three burst into the parlor at the exact moment Molly entered from the kitchen. She was quickly followed by a boy of possibly five. Hair disheveled, cheeks flushed and clothing askew, the pair skidded to a halt and stared at her.
“Oh.” Molly stared back. “Who are you?”
The next instant, the boy reached out with both arms and shoved the girl from behind. She tumbled face-first to the floor, landing half on and half off the braided rug. Instantly, a high-pitched wail filled the room. The boy, her brother given their resemblance, simply stood there, his expression a combination of victory, contrition and dread.
Molly started forward. She didn’t have a lot of experience with kids, but she could tell the girl wasn’t hurt. Not really. A bruised knee, perhaps. Molly and her sister had regularly engaged in these types of scuffles during their childhood.
“Are you okay?”
She was halfway to the girl when the arched doorway separating the parlor from the foyer and the chapel was filled by a pair of broad shoulders, a tall lanky form and a dark brown Stetson.
Molly came to a halt. She’d seen plenty of attractive cowboys since moving to Mustang Valley, but this one in his pressed jeans and Western-cut suede coat rated right up there. The fact that he balanced a third child in his left arm, this one a toddler, diminished none of his good looks.
Assuming they’d arrived early, Molly produced a smile and said, “I’m sorry. The open house doesn’t start until noon.”
“Actually...” He bent and assisted
