had giggled throughout toasts to the happy couple. She and Quentin had fed each other wedding cake. They’d danced. They’d eaten a dinner of venison medallions and chanterelles prepared by a master chef. They drank champagne and gazed into each other’s eyes.
Now Connie had turned the dream into a nightmare by bringing in a reporter. To make matters worse, Dizzy Hunter and her photographer acted like a magnet, drawing the wedding guests near. They were the cream of Colorado Springs society: judges, high-powered attorneys, doctors and CEOs. Dainty purses unsnapped as women checked their lipstick and hair; men straightened ties and smoothed jackets. Dawn feared the quiet, dignified celebration she’d promised Quentin was about to turn into the media circus he had feared.
Dawn did not understand Quentin’s aversion to media attention, but she did realize he was serious about it. She stood abruptly, waving both hands at Connie and Desdemona.
“Stop taking photographs right now!”
Glaring suspiciously at Dawn, Desdemona made a curt hand signal. The photographer lowered his camera. People hushed, watching Dawn. Some appeared offended by her outburst, but most looked surprised.
“Excuse me.” Quentin leapt off his chair. Holding the napkin close to his face, he hurried toward the men’s room. With his hunched shoulders, shuffling walk and the napkin pressed to his face, he gave the impression of a man about to be sick.
Desdemona clamped her fists on her hips. “Well!”
“Oh, my darling, I’m so sorry.” Connie hurried to Dawn’s side. “I didn’t mean to make him angry. What did I do?”
“I—I’m not sure. Oh, Ms. Hunter, I’m so embarrassed. I had no idea Quentin would.” Dawn stared helplessly in the direction her husband had gone. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to apologize for what had happened, or even if an apology were required. “I believe my husband has a phobia.”
“This is my fault, Dizzy,” Connie said. “Dawn told me not to invite reporters.”
“A phobia about reporters.” Desdemona’s face was skewed by a skeptical grimace. “Oh, right.”
The photographer turned his camera over in his hands. “Maybe it’s the flash, Dizzy. He could be a war vet or something. You know, having flashbacks about mortar rounds.”
The Colonel appeared. Wearing a somber black tuxedo, with his silver hair cropped short and his back as erect as if he wore a brace, he cut an imposing figure. He glared down his nose at the photographer. The young man quailed under the Colonel’s fearsome gaze.
“Is there a problem, Mrs. Bayliss?”
It took a few seconds for Dawn to realize the Colonel was addressing her. She glanced at her guests. She sensed pity mixed with censure, for Quentin Bayliss was not one of them and his actions now highlighted his not belonging in their society. She imagined the gossip that would soon be rippling along golf courses and through country clubs, and deeply regretted not following Quentin’s advice in forgoing a reception. She forced a smile to assure her guests all was well. “Uh, no, sir, Colonel, sir. No problem.”
Desdemona pressed forward. “Colonel Horace Duke! Sir, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.” She grabbed his right hand in both of hers and pumped it. “Desdemona Hunter. Surely you follow my column. I adore what you’ve done with the lodge. Ralphie Beerson let it go to pot, and it was a crying shame. I’d love to see this place make a comeback as the place to party.”
Connie drew Dawn away from the table. “I’m so sorry, my darling. I only meant to give a gift you could keep in your scrapbook. Can you ever forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive. I’m certain Quentin is finding the humor in this by now.” She eyed the Colonel, whose crispness was fading fast under the onslaught of Desdemona’s rapid-fire compliments. A smile appeared on his craggy face.
The smile reminded her of Ross, who, in height and build, resembled his father. Ross had disappeared from the reception soon after the toasts had ended and before the dancing began. He hadn’t spoken a word to her since the confrontation in her room.
“Dawn?” Connie’s voice was low with concern.
She shook away thoughts of Ross. “I don’t think anybody approves of Quentin. Look at them whispering.”
“Don’t be silly. Everyone thinks he’s charming. They’re concerned for you, that’s all.”
Feeling pity for me, more likely, Dawn thought. She hated being the target of pity, and avoided the countryclub-golfing circuit because she knew people pitied her. Mousy, awkward and unfashionable, she’d never lived up to her mother’s beauty and flair, or her father’s intelligence and ambition. Now they probably thought she had married beneath her. They did not understand Quentin loved her for herself. “Do you think it’s too early for Quentin and me to retire to our cabin?”
“That’s a marvelous idea. I’ll ask someone to go in after Quentin and make certain he’s okay.” She smiled broadly. “I bet his nerves finally caught up to him. I have never in my life seen such a coolheaded groom. Ha! I knew it had to be an act.”
When Connie left her, Dawn looked around the hall for any sign of Ross. As people tried to catch her eye, she regretted even more deeply inviting them to her wedding. She’d done so out of obligation, because if her parents were alive they would have invited these people. Their jostling around Dizzy Hunter in the hope of a photo opportunity proved Dawn’s wedding was merely another chance to be seen in the company of the right people. Unlike Ross, who had never seemed to care a whit about her breeding or who she knew or the size of her stock portfolio. She hated herself for wanting one last glimpse of him, for wanting to hear his rich, good-humored voice one more time. She especially hated how much his coldness hurt her feelings.
She lowered her gaze to her wedding ring, a simple gold band nestled against the gaudy engagement diamond. She was Mrs. Quentin Bayliss until death do them part. From this day forward only her husband deserved her love, attention or concern.
Ross Duke was nothing but a memory.
“MRS. BAYLISS,” Quentin said. He held Dawn’s hand and squeezed her fingers. He gestured at the front door of the Honeymoon Hideaway cabin.
“Mr. Bayliss,” she replied. Enchanted, excited and a little bit afraid, she squeezed his hand in return. “It’s so pretty.”
“I knew you’d like it. Those sensible clothes of yours hide a romantic streak as deep as the Grand Canyon.”
Discomfited he’d noticed and pleased he had, she giggled. “I can’t imagine anything more romantic than this.”
Tiny white lights draped in the bushes and trees lighted the gravel path leading from the lodge to the cabins. The four Honeymoon Hideaway cabins were angled and landscaped so each had a private entryway. Spotlights illuminated a central pond where triple fountains gleamed like quicksilver.
He unlocked the door, then bowed to her. “Might I have the honor of carrying my lovely bride over the threshold?”
Her knees wobbled, and her heart pounded so hard that she felt positive it might beat its way free of her body. “Please.”
He pushed open the door, then scooped Dawn into his
