Creek.” Sara glanced over one shoulder as if she worried about disturbing her grandmother.
Cherry Creek was the “old money” side of town, filled with posh houses and beautiful landscapes. Cade drove toward it silently, content to watch the exchanges between the two.
Her affectionate care of her grandmother was admirable, but Cade didn’t think this was the real Sara. She was hiding her true feelings. Personally, he far preferred the honest, open woman with whom he’d shared croissants at the coffee shop to this dutiful person who slavishly agreed with every demand her grandmother made. But he kept silent as Sara handed the old woman out of the car and ushered her into the house.
“It’s nice of you to offer, but I’ll stay here,” she said five minutes later when she returned. They were alone and the real Sara was back.
“You want me to disobey her edict that I drive you back to the store?”
“Yes. I want to make sure Granny goes right to bed.”
“Okay. What time is good for tomorrow?” He saw she’d forgotten.
“Tomor—Oh, lunch.” Sara frowned. “When I agreed to help out in the store, I told Katie I’d take a noon lunch hour. Does that work for you?” She tried to step backward and lost her balance.
“Perfect.” Cade steadied her with a grin. “But in case you change shoes between now and then, I better make sure I know exactly who I’m meeting. How tall are you—without the stilts?” He enjoyed the flush of color dotting her cheekbones.
“Never mind,” was all she said, making it obvious she had height issues.
“Ah. What other secrets are you hiding? A glass eye? Wooden leg?”
Sara lifted one eyebrow. “I’ll never tell.”
“That’s an invitation I can’t resist.” Cade pulled open his car door. “Tomorrow, twelve noon at Cartier’s. Bring your ideas.”
“I should probably warn you, some of my ideas have been called a little, um, off the wall.” Sara tilted her head to one side, studying his reaction.
A wayward ringlet danced in the breeze, then settled against her cheek in a gentle caress. Cade swallowed.
“It’s the off-the-wall ideas that usually turn out best, Sara Woodward,” he said softly so the old woman leaning out the window above them wouldn’t hear. “Don’t you know that yet?”
“I know. I wasn’t sure you did.” She grinned. “Cade Porter, this might be fun.”
He got into the car, his knees as weak as if he just climbed off his horse after a four-day trail ride. “I believe it will be.”
He drove back to the ranch slowly, savoring the memory of Sara’s smile, a picture that stuck with him long after he should have been immersed in the mundane duties of his day.
But later that night, staring up at the stars, Cade knew daydreaming about a woman like Sara Woodward was pointless. He’d lost his chance for love and family the day Marnie died. That’s when he’d known that God’s will for him didn’t include his cherished dream of a wife and family of his own.
So Cade would ignore his emotional draw to Sara Woodward. He’d concentrate on throwing Karen the best wedding he could. He’d continue to hope and pray his sister would choose to live at the ranch or at least nearby. Most of all, he’d accept that his future was to be a solitary one. He had to. He’d learned his lesson too well.
When God made up His mind, He didn’t change it.
Chapter Three
“You’re spending a lot of time in front of the mirror this morning, sis. Any special reason?”
“If you had to cart those musty old wedding catalogs out of the storeroom, you’d be checking yourself for dust, too.” Sara avoided Katie’s quizzical gaze. “I’m not sure why you chose me for that crummy job, but I sure got filthy. I’m glad you forgot you’d left this suit from the cleaners here. I needed a change.”
“You look great in it.”
“Thanks. I worked up an appetite, too. I can hardly wait for lunch.”
“Hmm.” Katie turned away, checked the clock. “It’s early, but you might as well go now, while it’s quiet. Who knows what the afternoon will bring?”
“As long as it’s not more dust.” She paused, chose her words carefully. “I’m meeting someone for lunch, so I probably won’t be back early.”
Sara had expected her sister to start asking questions. Yet Katie seemed oddly uninterested in anything except the computer in front of her.
“Fine.”
“Okay, then, see you later.”
“Uh-huh.” Katie didn’t even glance at her. That was odd.
Sara stepped through the door and lifted her face, reveling in the sun’s warmth. Even L.A. weather couldn’t match the startling clarity of an October morning in Denver. Crisp leaves hung in shimmering burned umber against the cerulean sky. Tiny gusts of wind danced several fallen ones across the sidewalk in front of her. They crackled when she stepped on them.
God’s in His heaven, all’s right with the world.
Adam Woodward, Sara’s grandfather, had penned Robert Browning’s famous poem in his diary many times in the last months of his life. In her senior year of high school, when Sara had discovered the leather-bound volume, she’d read it. There she’d felt more kinship with a man she’d never met than she’d ever known with her family.
She’d begged Winnie to provide other journals and poured over them, too, identifying with her grandfather’s yearning to leave Europe and the family pottery business to make his own mark in America. The porcelain doll faces Winnie kept in a special glass case proved Grandpa Adam’s talent. They also whetted Sara’s creative itch.
Her grandfather’s faith was the one thing Sara couldn’t share. She’d never felt the close bond with God that her grandfather wrote about, never felt accepted or approved of by God. Never felt she fit into the image the minister described. Her family’s easy faith made Sara uncomfortable in church, as if she didn’t measure up. As if she didn’t have the right to be there, to pretend she belonged where she so clearly didn’t.
Years later not a lot had changed in her faith journey.
Sara quashed an inner voice that asked her why and instead concentrated on the beautiful day.
The nonlethal shoes Sara borrowed from Abby Franklin, Woodwards’ chief jeweler, made the two-block walk to Cartier’s fly past. Sara wouldn’t admit her light heart had a thing to do with the fact that she would see Cade Porter in a few minutes. Of course not. He was a client, a very nice one, but only a client. But she couldn’t dislodge a tiny tremor of anticipation quaking in her midsection.
Until reality hit.
“Mother?” Sara flopped against the entrance column in a rush of disbelief. Her parents were in Italy. That
