CHAPTER ELEVEN
OLIVIA WATCHED HER ex-husband dance with his bride.
From the deep shadows along the driveway, in view of the ranch house where she’d once lived at the Circle H, she watched other people join the bride and groom and listened to the soft strains of the ballad the band was playing. And felt her eyes fill. She always cried at weddings, but this reception held special significance.
Overhead the stars twinkled like ornaments just for this summer night. Strung through the nearby cottonwood trees, fairy lights winked as if someone had matched the two displays, heaven and earth.
She wasn’t really part of this. Olivia had been invited to the wedding earlier that day, but as Logan’s former wife, it had seemed inappropriate to accept the invitation and she’d skipped the ceremony.
Carrying a large box wrapped in white with a silver bow, she stopped here and there to say hello to someone but didn’t linger. She planned to leave her gift—a quilt in the classic wedding ring design from her antiques shop—collect her seven-year-old son, who’d been his dad’s ring bearer, then go home.
What’s done is done.
Three years after her divorce, Olivia bore no hard feelings. The bride looked lovely in her lace-trimmed gown and Olivia already liked her. After all, she was Nick’s stepmother now, and Olivia’s little boy adored Blossom. Besides, Olivia had finally made her peace with Logan, her ex.
If she felt slightly left out tonight, that was her problem.
She’d had her turn and blown it. Olivia had always half expected her marriage to disintegrate as her parents’ had, and like some self-fulfilling prophecy, she now had the papers to prove it. Love clearly wasn’t her strong suit—except her maternal love for Nick. In that, she could be as fierce as a mother tiger, and Olivia intended to be the best single mom on the planet. On her own again, she worked hard to provide the emotional security for him—the stability—that she’d never known.
She could handle feeling invisible; she’d had a lifetime of experience at it.
Taking her gift toward the house, she spotted her brother in the crowd but didn’t get the chance to talk to him. Before she took another step, Olivia noticed yet another man crossing the lawn. And froze. At first, she thought he was Logan, that he’d changed from his khakis and navy blue blazer with the yellow pocket square to jeans with his white shirt. But it wasn’t Logan.
After nine years, her ex-husband’s twin brother was back.
Sawyer McCord.
Olivia turned then went the other way.
* * *
THE HEELS OF Sawyer’s new cowboy boots sank into the grass, forcing him to slow his steps before he reached the large gathering of wedding guests.
He was late. Later than late, actually. He’d almost missed the whole thing. He’d been lucky to make it at all and he could tell the reception was already half-over.
With varying degrees of skill, half a dozen couples gyrated on the temporary wooden dance floor in the middle of the lawn to a fast tune. Classic rock, which the band had just launched into after the bride and groom’s first dance. The cork from a fresh bottle of champagne popped loud enough to be heard over the music.
Sawyer glanced around but didn’t see his brother. Maybe just as well.
He wasn’t sure of the welcome he’d get. Weeks before, Logan had asked him to be his best man, but his brother’s email and some missed follow-up calls hadn’t caught Sawyer’s attention until recently. In the small, far-off country where he spent most of his time these days, he’d had his hands full. He wondered if the epic landslide in Kedar and its aftermath would strike Logan as reasonable excuses not to show up until now.
He scanned the yard again, recognizing a high school friend here, a longtime neighbor there. No one had seen him yet.
Or...had she?
His heart sank into the ground like his boot heels. Olivia. But almost before their gazes met, she looked away.
Wouldn’t you know she’d be the first person he saw?
Maybe he shouldn’t have come at all.
Hoping to buy a little more time before he faced Logan, Sawyer halted steps away from the milling group of wedding guests—and saw his grandfather coming toward him with a slight limp.
“Well, I’ll be. Sawyer McCord.” Sam studied him, then looked down at his own navy blue jacket and the white rose boutonniere in his lapel. “Wouldn’t be shocked if you didn’t recognize me in this getup. But what happened to you?”
“Guess like Indiana Jones, ‘it’s not the years, it’s the mileage.’”
In the past few weeks, while dealing with so much death and destruction, Sawyer had probably aged ten years. He hoped that didn’t show, but it probably did.
Sam had changed, too. His still-thick hair had a few more gray strands among
