A Bravo Christmas Wedding

She gave a little chuckle and the sound made a hot pass along his nerve endings, tempting him to want things he had to keep remembering he was never going to get. “I know,” she said softly. “It’s late. And there’s Rocky Mountain Christmas in town tomorrow.”

“How could I forget?” All the local crafters and clubs set up booths in the town hall. Then at night, there was a Christmas show put on by the schoolkids in the newly renovated Cascade Theater. He used to go to it every year. But about a decade ago, he’d realized that when you’d been to one Rocky Mountain Christmas, you’d pretty much been to them all. “I take it we’re going.”

“Oh, yes, we are.”

Say good-night, you fool. Do it now. “’Night, Rory.”

“’Night, Walker.” She stepped back and shut the door.

He stood there for several seconds before turning away, staring at that closed door, arms wrapped extra tight across his chest, his pulse hard and hungry in his own ears.

* * *

In the morning before dawn, Rory got up and splashed cold water on her face. She put on a pair of comfy long johns and thick wool socks. Over the long johns, she wore jeans and a warm shirt. She pulled on sturdy boots. And then she put on her heavy jacket and a watch cap. Grabbing her winter riding gloves, she went out to help Walker and Bud Colgin with the horses.

An hour later, Bud went back to his house. Rory and Walker tacked up a couple of the horses and rode out toward the mountains as the sun was coming up. It was great, just the two of them and the horses in the freezing winter dawn, with Lonesome trailing along in their wake.

They got back to the house at a little after nine, both of them really hungry. He fried eggs and bacon. She made the coffee and toasted the bread.

“This isn’t bad at all,” she told him when they sat down to eat.

He grunted. “What isn’t bad?”

“This. Ranch life. When I move to Justice Creek, I might just get my own spread.”

“Princess Aurora, Colorado rancher?” Was he making fun of her? If so, at least he was doing it good-naturedly.

“Smile when you say that.”

He ate a piece of bacon and played along. “So, you planning on running cattle, too?”

“Just a few horses. I want a big, old house and a dog and a cat. Kind of like the Bar-N. But with chickens.” She sipped her coffee. “Yeah. I see my ranch with chickens.”

He shook his head. “What about your career as a world-famous photographer.”

“I can do more than one thing, you know. I’m guessing I could fit fiddling with my cameras in somewhere between grooming the horses and feeding the chickens.”

He mopped up the last of his eggs with the toast. “You’re never really going to move to Justice Creek.” He kept his eyes focused on his plate when he said that.

She studied his bent head, his broad shoulders, those strong, tanned hands of his. “My sister Genevra? She’s a year older than me. Married an English earl last May. They live at his giant country house, Hartmore, in Derbyshire.”

He lifted his head and looked at her then, those eyes so blue—and so guarded. “I know who Genevra is. And what has she got to do with your moving to Justice Creek?”

“Genny loves Hartmore. She says that from the first time we visited there, when we were small, she knew it was meant to be her home. Justice Creek is like that for me.”