he made a pass at you at the reception.”
“No,” Laci said. It was much worse than that. “I caught him looking at Alyson strangely.”
“How strangely?” Laney asked, sounding as if she was taking this seriously.
Laci realized she’d hoped that her sister would tell her what a fool she was and relieve her mind. “He looked as if he couldn’t stand the sight of her. As if he hated her. As if he wanted to harm her.” The words were out and she wished she could call them back. She felt as if she was being disloyal to her best friend. “I know it sounds round the bend—”
“How was he acting right before that?”
“That’s just it. He was laughing and smiling and dancing with her as if he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have married her. I’m sure I must be mistaken.”
She groaned, remembering the look Spencer had given her when he’d felt her watching him. He’d been upset, hadn’t he?
“That is really odd,” Laney said. “You’re sure he was looking at Alyson?”
“No. But since he doesn’t know anyone else in town, who else could he have been looking at? Like I said, it was just for an instant. I’m probably wrong.”
She waited for her sister to agree, but instead Laney asked, “Have you seen Alyson since?”
“No. Right after that they left on their honeymoon.” She recalled the way Spencer had hustled Aly off. “Just tell me that I’m silly to be worried about her.”
Her sister seemed to hesitate. “You’re silly to worry about her.”
The words lacked conviction but Laci felt better. “Speaking of honeymoons…”
“Yes, I probably should get back to mine,” Laney said, a smile in her voice.
“You know that I will always suspect that you eloped so you wouldn’t have to ask me to cater your reception,” Laci said.
Laney laughed. “I eloped because I’ve decided to become more impulsive, like you.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Laci said in all seriousness. “One of us has to be the stable one. I like it when it’s you.”
“Eloping was the first impulsive thing I’ve ever done. You’re the one who always told me to go with my feelings instead of being so analytical.”
“I don’t know why you would take advice from me.”
“Maybe we’ll have a reception when we get back,” Laney said. “And you can cater it.”
“Okay,” Laci said but without her usual enthusiasm. Her mind was back on Alyson.
“We can talk more when I get home. It won’t be that long, which is why I’m resuming my honeymoon now,” Laney said, and Laci could tell by her sister’s tone that Nick had joined her on the balcony. Nick was gorgeous and crazy in love with her big sister. “'Bye, sis.”
“Oh, Laney, I forgot to tell you. Alyson and Spencer are spending their honeymoon in Hawaii, too. Maybe you’ll run into them.” But Laci realized her sister had already hung up.
AFTER WRITING UP AN offer for the building, Bridger Duvall spent the rest of the day digging through old newspaper archives, looking for any mention of Dr. Holloway, the Whitehorse Sewing Circle or Pearl Cavanaugh.
As he searched, he thought of Pearl’s grand-daughter Laci and their chance meeting at the wedding. Fate? Not likely given the size of Whitehorse, Montana. Laci lived five miles south of town in what was locally known as Old Town. The now near ghost town had once been Whitehorse. That was, until the railroad came through in the 1800s and the town moved north to the rails, taking the name with it.
He recalled the first time he’d seen Old Town. If a tumbleweed hadn’t rolled across the dirt street in front of his car, he wouldn’t have slowed and would have missed the place entirely.
Little was left of the small ranching community. At one time there’d been a gas station, but that building was sitting empty, the pumps long gone. There was a community center, which was still called Whitehorse Community Center. Every small community in this part of Montana had one of those. And there was the one-room schoolhouse next to it.
There were a few houses, one large one that was boarded up, a Condemned sign nailed to the door, an old shutter banging in the wind.
For years the community had been run by Titus and Pearl Cavanaugh, both descendents of early homesteaders and just as strong and determined as the first settlers.
Titus was as close to a mayor as Old Town had. He provided a church service every Sunday morning at the community center and saw to the hiring of a schoolteacher when needed.
Pearl’s mother Abigail had started the Whitehorse Sewing Circle. The women of the community got together a few times a week to make quilts for every new baby and every newlywed in the area.
The old cemetery on the hill had also kept the Whitehorse name. The iron on the sign that hung over the arched entrance was rusted but readable: Whitehorse Cemetery.
Bridger had learned a lot about the area just stopping at a café in Whitehorse proper, five miles to the north and the last real town for miles. All he’d had to do was ask about Old Town Whitehorse and he got an earful. The people were clannish and stuck to themselves. The old-timers still resented the town moving and taking the name. And, like Whitehorse proper, both communities were dying.
A lack of jobs was sending the younger residents to more prosperous parts of the state or the country. The population in the entire county was dropping each year. People joked about who would be around to turn the lights out when Whitehorse completely died.
While Bridger had learned a lot, he hadn’t gotten what he’d come here to find. Not yet, anyway.
And now he’d made the acquaintance of Pearl’s granddaughter, Laci. She was a cute thing, fair skinned, slender, with short curly blond hair and blue eyes.
Life was strange, he thought as he continued to search the old newspapers. In a way, his life had started here. And now here he was, thirty-two years old and back here in hopes of finding himself.
The one thing he’d learned quickly was that being an outsider was a disadvantage in a small Montana town. Not that he’d expected to be accepted immediately just because he lived here and was now opening a restaurant.
But he’d found it was going to take time. Fortunately, time was the one thing he had plenty of.
His eye caught on a notice in one of the old news-papers he’d been thumbing through. A city permit for a fence at a house owned by the late Dr. Holloway.
Bridger felt a rush of excitement. For months he’d been trying to track down his birth mother after finding out that he was adopted.
Not just adopted—illegally adopted. The story his adoptive mother told him on her deathbed involved a group of women called the Whitehorse Sewing Circle.
Thirty-two years ago, his parents, both too
