in this humble parking lot. The Porsche was doomed to always be different. But he, with a simple change of clothes, could make himself fit in. He’d brought the jeans he usually wore to ride ATVs in Thunder Canyon and the boots he’d worn when he’d helped out after the flood.
If the town rejected him this time, if he was treated like he was no longer wanted now that the flood was a receding memory, then no harm done. He’d lived through rejection before. He could take any heartache this town could dish out.
He took off his Rolex and tossed it into the trunk before slamming the red metal shut.
“Well, it won’t be long now. The band’s tuning up.”
Thank goodness. That giggly buzz from the powerful punch had started wearing off, giving way to a different sensation. After a few tipsy laughs with her sister, Kristen now felt more than sober. She felt almost somber, as she shifted her seat on the increasingly uncomfortable wood rail.
Her life needed to get on the right track. Things weren’t right. Pieces were missing. She was twenty-five, a college graduate with a passion for the theater, yet she spent her days running to the feed store and performing the same ranch chores she’d been assigned in junior high. Not that she wanted to lose her roots—her family, the ranch, this town—but she wanted more. An outlet for her theatrical passion—something that was hard to find in her hometown. An outlet for real passion, too, someone to lose her head and her heart over—someone who wouldn’t trample them this time.
This bad mood was probably just because a plane had flown overhead, reminding her that a good man was hard to find. Maybe she envied her pilot for having a home base but the freedom to fly and explore. If only he hadn’t been exploring with other women in other towns...
Jeez, she was spiraling down into a full-blown pity party.
The band began playing its first song of the afternoon. Kristen looked over her shoulder toward the empty wooden dance floor in the distance. If no one else started dancing, she’d get the party started and be grateful for the chance. If there was one thing that could shake Kristen out of the blues, it was a party. And man, was she feeling blue.
Stupid airplane.
The wedding carriage appeared at the end of the block with a flutter of white ribbons and the tossing of a horse’s snowy white mane. If Cinderella had been a cowgirl, this would have been her glass carriage.
“Oh, wow.”
“Wow.”
There were no other words between the sisters. As the surrey rolled steadily toward them, Kristen swallowed around a sudden but definite lump in her throat.
The closer the carriage came, the more clearly she saw the faces of the couple on the high bench. The groom, a man born and bred in Rust Creek Falls like Kristen herself, was transformed. Kristen felt she’d never seen Braden Traub before. Wearing a tuxedo and black cowboy hat, he held the reins loosely in his hands and kept his face turned toward his bride. Whatever she was saying, he found fascinating. He had eyes only for her and never looked at the horses, and yet, had those horses bolted, Kristen knew he would have had them back under his control within seconds, never allowing his bride to be in danger.
“I want what they have,” her sister said, reverence in her quiet tone.
“Me, too.”
With a love like that, she could branch out, she could fly, she could be fearless. A love like that would be her home base, the heartbeat at the center that made everything else come alive.
Kristen laid her head on Kayla’s shoulder. Her sister was supposed to be the serious twin, but Kristen suddenly felt like crying, completely undone by the romance of the moment, by what was possible between a man and woman, by what she’d never experienced herself.
I want a cowboy, capable and strong, who has eyes only for me, who loves only me, ’til death do us part.
She loved her family. She loved her hometown. And someday, she silently vowed, she would love a cowboy who was honest and true. If only...
If only she could find the right cowboy.
“No more city slickers for me,” Kristen whispered. “I’ll have the real deal, or I’ll stay single forever.”
“To true love.” Kayla raised her cup in a toast.
Kristen knew Kayla was trying to cheer her up, so she straightened and lifted her cup. “To true love. Too bad we’re out of actual punch for this toast.”
“It still counts.”
The carriage had been noticed by other people as it drew closer to the park entrance. Kristen and Kayla jumped down from the fence to join the growing crowd as they followed the carriage into the heart of the park. The bride and groom’s tête-à-tête was over as Braden pulled the team to a stop amid applause, good-natured catcalls about what had taken so long and a flurry of activity as the bride gathered up her skirts and bouquet, preparing to get down from the high surrey bench.
“Looks like she went traditional with a sweetheart neckline. I’m going to the other side to get a better look at her dress, okay?”
“Have fun,” Kristen said as Kayla slipped through the small crowd.
Braden tied off the reins and set the brake, but for added safety amid the noisy well-wishers, two cowboys held the bridles of the white horses as Braden jumped down from the surrey. One cowboy was Sutter Traub, the town’s own horse whisperer, and the other was...
The Cowboy.
Kristen’s heart thudded in her chest. Another one of those giddy waves of joy passed through her, even as the lump in her throat returned. The Cowboy! She’d wished for him and he was here, so soon after she’d made her personal vow, she could hardly believe he was real.
Yet there he was, a man she’d never seen before, holding the bridle and calming the lead horse as Braden handed his bride down from the surrey. The Cowboy—her cowboy—was the most physically appealing man she’d ever seen. Tall, dark and handsome barely began to describe him, inadequate to cover the physical confidence he possessed as he talked with the other men and kept the horse calm at the same time. The Cowboy had an air of authority that had surely come from a lifetime of handling anything that land or livestock could throw at a man.
Kristen stepped a little to one side, and the crowd parted just enough that she could check him out from his boots and jeans—check and check—to his white button-down shirt. It looked a little dressy for the picnic; he’d probably been at the church for the ceremony. He’d cuffed up the long sleeves, revealing strong forearms.
He was tan, but so were most of the ranchers who worked outdoors. Even the summer sun couldn’t lighten his nearly black hair, which he wore short, but not shorn. It was long enough that she could see a bit of a wave in it, and she knew it would feel glorious when she could run her fingers through it. When he was hers, she’d have the right to touch him and casually brush his hair back from his forehead.
Her gaze traveled past his broad shoulders to the strong hands that held the bridle. When he was
