wearing gauzy hats and floral dresses packed in tightly on either side, risked a glance up at the church ceiling, just to make sure it wasn’t fixing to fall on his head. He resisted a nervous urge to loosen his tie—for him, like churchgoing, tie wearing was reserved for funerals and weddings. This occasion, fortunately, fell into the latter category.
The small sanctuary seemed charged with excitement; folks chatted in whispers, the organist was tuning up for the wedding march, and the groom, Sheriff Boone Taylor, stood tall up front, just to the right of the simple altar, looking eager and scared shitless, both at the same time. Like the majority of men around Parable, Montana, Boone lived in jeans, cotton shirts and boots most of the time, and he looked a few degrees past uncomfortable in his rented tux.
Hutch Carmody and Slade Barlow, half brothers and Boone’s closest friends, stood up with him, hardly recognizable in monkey suits of their own. Both married men, and cowboys to the core, they kept an eye on Boone, as if ready to catch him by the elbows if his knees buckled, but wry grins twitched at the corners of their mouths, too. They were enjoying this, most likely figuring that if they’d had to get up in front of the whole county and plight their troths, Boone shouldn’t be spared the ordeal, either.
Walker fixed his gaze on Hutch, remembering the last time he’d set foot in this tiny church—a June day, much like this one, with birds chirping in the trees and warm breezes sweeping up the aisle from the open doors of the entryway—and felt the hinges of his jaws lock down. Back then, almost two years ago now, Hutch had been the bridegroom, not best man. And Walker’s kid sister, Brylee, the only blood kin he could—or would—rightly claim, had been the bride, shiny-eyed and full of bright hopes, wearing the kind of gown women start dreaming about when they’re little girls.
Just when the organ cue sounded, on that other day, the bridesmaids having already taken their places up front, as endlessly rehearsed, and Walker had swung one foot forward to march Brylee between the rows of pews jammed with people, Hutch had suddenly broken rank with Boone and the minister and walked midway down the aisle, where he stopped.
“Hold it,” he’d said in a sheepish but nonetheless determined tone.
He’d stopped the wedding, called it off, right then and there, shattering Brylee’s fairy-tale dreams and maybe souring her forever on the subject of marriage.
While a part of Walker had been relieved—he’d never thought Brylee and Hutch Carmody were a good fit—the memory of his sister’s humiliation still stung like a thistle stuck in his hide. If he hadn’t been so busy trying to keep Brylee from doing something stupid, he’d have punched Carmody in the mouth, church or no church.
Which was part of the reason he didn’t trust the rafters to hold. He tossed another wary glance toward the ceiling.
The Reverend Walter Beaumont was officiating, and he took his place, book in hand, resplendent in maroon robes and a long gold scarf of some kind. Most times, the preacher dressed Western, like most everybody else, but today he looked as serious as an Old Testament prophet about to lower the boom on a gathering of unrepentant sinners. He looked like Morgan Freeman and sounded like James Earl Jones, so everybody got ready to listen.
Beaumont cleared his throat.
The organist struck the first rousing chord, and the congregation settled in to watch the show. Walker suspected some of them were, like him, wondering if history was about to repeat itself. The thwarted Carmody-Parrish wedding was, around Parable County, anyhow, the stuff of legend.
Tara Kendall’s twin stepdaughters, now living with her, were barely teenagers and served as flower girls, happily scattering rose petals in their wake as they fairly danced up the aisle, both of them beaming and obviously enjoying the attention of the guests.
Joslyn Barlow, married to Slade and in a noticeably advanced state of pregnancy, soon followed, wearing an elegant lavender maternity dress and carrying a bouquet of multicolored flowers in both hands.
Walker noted the electric look that passed between Joslyn and her husband as she took her place opposite the three men dressed like tall, rangy penguins.
Kendra Carmody, Hutch’s beloved—the woman he’d thrown Brylee over for—came next, sleek and classy in pale yellow and also carrying the requisite flowers. Hutch winked at her when she came to a stop beside Joslyn, and a fetching blush pinked her cheeks.
Next to join the march were Boone’s two young sons, wearing suit jackets and slacks and little bow ties. Each of them carried a satin pillow with a gold wedding band nestled in the hollow, and the smaller boy stopped a couple of times along the way, seeming to forget the procedure. He showed the ring he was carrying to Opal Dennison, and she smiled and gently steered him back on course.
This brought an affectionate twitter from the assembly, and the clicks of several phone cameras slipped in between the notes of organ music.
Walker grinned as the older boy finally backtracked and herded his little brother the rest of the way.
Then it sounded, the loud, triumphant chord signaling the imminent approach of the bride. Walker felt a pang, again reminded of Brylee’s ill-fated wedding, but the truth was, he was glad for Boone and glad for Tara Kendall, too.
Widowed several years before, Boone had been one of the walking wounded for a long time, doing his job but clearly unhappy. He was a good sheriff and a fine man, and Walker liked him.
The bride, a glamorous city slicker hailing from the Big Apple, had come to Parable some time before, reportedly to reinvent herself after a nasty divorce. It had been a while before Boone and Tara got together, considering that they’d evidently disliked each other on sight, but they’d finally gotten past all that. And, wisely, Walker thought, they’d agreed on a fairly long courtship, just to make sure.
And now their big day was finally here.
There was a churchwide shuffle as the guests rose, turning to watch the bride start what probably felt like the longest short walk of her life.
Boone’s brother-in-law, Bob, escorted Tara, but he was pretty much lost in Tara’s glow. She looked like an angel bride in her billowing lacy dress, and her smile was clearly visible behind the rhinestone-studded netting of her veil, as were the happy tears sparkling in her eyes.
Walker felt a catch in his throat, wishing her and Boone well without reservation, but at the same time wanting that kind of joy for his disillusioned kid sister. She’d been invited to this shindig, right along with him, but Brylee stayed away from weddings these days. She stayed away from too many things, in his opinion, working crazy hours, too worn-out to say much when she did turn up, long after all her employees had called it a day and gone home. Even then she immediately retreated to her apartment in the main ranch house, her rescued German shepherd, Snidely, following devotedly at her heels.
Realizing he’d gone woolgathering, which was unlike him, Walker was a little startled when Casey Elder appeared beside the organist, music sheet in hand. She wore a blue choir robe and almost no makeup, and her shoulder-length red hair, usually tumbling around her face in spirals, had been pinned up into a sedate knot at her nape.
Inwardly, Walker allowed himself a grim, silent chortle.
This was a side of Casey he’d rarely if ever seen, despite the tangled and chaotic history they shared. She could still pack arenas and major concert halls, even after fifteen years as a professional entertainer, and she’d never recorded a song that hadn’t gone straight to number one on all the charts and ridden there for weeks on end. Her videos were legendary, full of fire and smoke and color,
