to a whole new level. Marsh was partially pleased as punch for the old coot, but another part of him knew if the planning constantly threw him and Effie together, the next weeks could be rough.
The whole reason he’d come Colorado was to avoid people. Since losing Tucker to drowning and then his wife to a spectacularly civil divorce, Marsh hadn’t been himself. A few months after the ink had dried on their papers, he’d been in Afghanistan watching a terrorist cell. He’d witnessed them strapping a bomb around the chest of a boy who couldn’t have been much older than his son and lost it. Marsh had been on a strict intel-gathering mission that soon turned into a bad-guy bloodbath. He’d come damn close to being court-martialed for failure to follow orders, but by God, that innocent child had survived. Reuniting him with his mother had been one of the few times since losing Tucker that Marsh had felt alive.
Now? Hell, most days he wasn’t sure what he felt—if anything at all. Truth be told, that snakebite had been a blessing if only for the fact that it had shaved a chunk of time from his life when he hadn’t had to think about what happened to his marriage and son.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, guilt churned Effie’s belly, because she actually felt relieved and a trifle giddy about waving goodbye to her rowdy twins, who had just climbed on the school bus. It had been a long summer, and later, she looked forward to planting her behind on one of the front porch rockers to linger with Cassidy over a nice cup of tea.
And if her thoughts strayed to the proud, handsome, clearly heartbroken man to whom she would soon be related by marriage?
The unspoken question warmed her cheeks.
Well, there was certainly no harm in thinking about a person, was there? His story was beyond tragic, and lingered with her long after he and Wallace had gone. It had been hard enough losing her husband, but to have also lost a child? No wonder Marsh hadn’t cared to talk about his situation, but the way he’d cut her off had been downright rude—especially when she’d only been trying to help.
She’d just entered the house to clean up the breakfast dishes when she spotted her grandmother not where she’d last been—at the kitchen table, feeding the baby pureed peaches—but emerging from her bedroom wearing her best Sunday dress and a huge smile.
Cassidy squealed while racing down the wood-floored hall in her walker, making an awful racket with the squeaky buttons and electronic horn.
So much for my quiet morning...
“How do I look?” Mabel performed a lively pirouette.
“Pretty as a picture. But where are you off to so early on a Monday morning?” She didn’t drive, so one of her friends must be coming to get her.
“Did you already forget? When Wallace and Marsh were leaving, we decided to meet up for a planning breakfast at Mom’s Café and then hit the ground running. Hurry up and get dressed. We’re supposed to meet them in fifteen minutes.”
“Grandma, you never said anything about seeing your fiancé today.” Just saying the word sounded awkward, but not nearly as bad as spending a whole day with Marsh would be.
“I’m sure I did...” Mabel ducked into the hall bathroom to fluff her white hair. “Now, hurry. I don’t want to be late.”
“For the record, you must have been talking to angels, since you sure never ran any of this past me.”
“Watch your sass, or I’ll downgrade you from maid of honor to punch bowl attendant.”
Effie rolled her eyes.
Under the best of circumstances, prepping Cassidy and all of her gear was never easy, but on short notice? The task was darn near impossible. By the time Effie swapped comfy jeans and a T-shirt for a sundress and wrestled the baby into a cute yellow gingham romper, her fifteen minutes had ticked to five. After loading the diaper bag, stroller, carrier and her purse in the back of the minivan, then plopping the baby into her safety seat, Effie was not only exhausted, but ten minutes off schedule.
She slid behind the wheel, relieved to have at least made it into the car.
“Couldn’t you have at least tried doing something with your hair?” Mabel cast a dour glance in Effie’s general direction. “I don’t want Wallace thinking he’s marrying into a bunch of hillbillies.”
Overheated, Effie turned on the engine and AC before yanking down the visor to peer into the lighted mirror. Good grief. The ponytail she’d slept on hung sideways with more hair out than in. For added flavor, compliments of Colt, there was oatmeal just over her right ear. Effie said a quick prayer for his teacher, Mrs. Logan. She’d need all the help she could get to hog-tie him to his desk.
“Is this better?” Effie asked after yanking out her elastic, only to smooth her hair back and work it back in.
Mabel frowned. “I like it better down. And when you add a bit of curl. For sure wear it that way at the wedding. I don’t want it looking bad for pictures.”
It was official. Her normally sane grandmother had turned into Bridezilla.
* * *
“THERE’S MY BLUSHING BRIDE.”
While Effie struggled into the crowded café with Cassidy on her hip and the diaper bag over her shoulder, Mabel glided to where her groom sat at a table loaded with rowdy geriatrics Effie recognized from the Grange Hall, where she drove her grandmother most Saturday nights. Funny how she hadn’t noticed Wallace, too. Had Mabel deliberately kept her distance?
Mabel and Wallace shared a brief embrace and kiss, then he pulled out a chair for her alongside his.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he said to Effie, “but there’s no more room here, so I figured you could sit with Marsh.” He nodded to the room’s far corner, where his grandson glowered over a mug of coffee.
Effie opened her mouth to tell him that as a matter of fact, she very much minded, but the group of three women and four men was too loud for her voice to have even been heard. Resigned to her fate, she lugged the baby a little farther.
As if the whole town was relieved school was back in session, honky-tonk played on the jukebox. Laughter and high-spirited conversations rose above the music. The scents of strong coffee and bacon and the café’s famous cinnamon rolls had Effie’s stomach growling.
“Are you as sick of this wedding as I am?” she asked upon reaching Marsh’s table.
“Oh, hey. Yes.” He jumped up to help her with Cassidy’s bag. “Welcome to the kids’ table. I wouldn’t be surprised if the waitress shows up with a pair of smiley-face pancakes.”
“I know, right?” The brief brush of the back of his hand against her shoulder had her fighting a flutter of awareness low in her belly. Gracious, he was a looker. He hadn’t shaved, and if possible, when he politely removed his cowboy hat, his hair looked even worse than hers.
She’d always had a thing for untamed cowboys.
Case in point—her no-good ex.
Once she’d sat herself in a chair, her cell on the table and Cassidy on her lap, Marsh asked the waitress to bring a high chair, than slapped his hat back on.
“Thank
