A Bravo Christmas Wedding

The waitress gave a sheepish giggle. “Hey, Clara.”

Clara didn’t smile. “How much did you hear?”

“Um, nothing?” Monique suggested hopefully.

“Liar.”

Monique giggled some more. “Well, all right. Everything. But I swear to you, Clara. I would never say a word about your private business to anyone.”

* * *

Walker stood in the parking lot, waiting, watching Clara and Rory, who whispered to each other about fifteen feet away.

After whatever had gone down in the ladies’ room, Clara had settled up in the restaurant, and then Rory had asked him to give her and Clara a few more minutes alone. So there they stood, the two of them, between his SUV and a red pickup, both wrapped in heavy coats, their heads bent close together, their noses red from the cold winter air, talking a mile a minute, both of them intense, serious as hell.

Something very weird was going on. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what.

Finally, Rory hugged Clara and then raised her hand to signal him over. They all got in the SUV. He started the engine, turned the heater up and pulled out of the parking space.

Clara asked, “Can you let me out at the café?”

“Will do.”

Neither of the women said a word during the short drive into town.

When Walker pulled to a stop in front of Clara’s restaurant, she said, “Thanks, Walker. See you both tonight. Seven?” She’d invited him, Rory and Rye over for dinner, just like old times. Kind of.

“We’ll be there,” Rory promised.

“See you then,” said Walker.

Clara got out, pushed the door shut and turned for the café.

He’d figured Rory would tell him what was going on as soon as they were alone.

But all she said was “I’ll bet you’re starving. Do you want to go in and get something to eat?”

“Naw. I’ll get something at home.” He headed for the Bar-N. Rory stared out the window, apparently lost in thought, through the whole drive.

At the ranch, she went straight upstairs to her room. He was kind of hungry, so he heated up some of last night’s stew and ate it standing by the sink, staring out at the snow-covered mountains that rimmed the little valley where he’d lived all his life. He’d just put his bowl in the dishwasher when Rory appeared dressed in jeans and knee-high rawhide boots, carrying a camera as usual.

He asked, “What now?”

“I’ve never had a chance to get many pictures around the ranch. I’d like to take some shots of the horses and of the other houses and the cabins—and you don’t have to go with me.”

“I’ll just get my hat and coat.”

“Oh, come on. Take a break.”

“I can’t do that, ma’am.” He laid on the cowboy drawl. “I take my bodyguardin’ seriously—and do you really want me to keep that money your mother sent?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then don’t you think you’d better let me do the job?”

So they put on their winter gear and he followed her out. It was no hardship really, watching Rory. She was easy on the eyes, with that shining, thick sable hair and those pink cheeks and that look of interest she always wore. Rory found the everyday world completely fascinating. He watched her snap pictures of everything from a weathered porch rail to an old piece of harness someone had left on a fence post.

He thought about how she sometimes resented the way being a princess hemmed her in, but even she would have to admit that her background had helped her in a highly competitive field. Because of who she was, she had a higher profile and an intriguing byline. Add that to her talent and drive: success. Her pictures had already appeared in National Geographic and a number of other nature, gardening and outdoor magazines.

The horses were waiting for them by the fence when they reached the corral. She took pictures of him petting them and feeding them some wrinkled apples he’d brought out from the house. They went into the stables. He mucked the main floor while she got more pictures. And then she put her camera in its case, hung it from a peg, picked up the other broom and worked alongside him.

She knew how to muck out a floor. One of her sisters was a world-famous horse breeder and Rory had grown up around horses.

They returned to the house at quarter after five to clean up. He was feeding Lucky and Lonesome when she came down at six-thirty, looking good in tight black jeans, tall black boots and a thick black sweater patterned across the top with white snowflakes.

On the way to Clara’s, he couldn’t resist asking, “So are you ever going to tell me what went on at the restaurant?”

She sent him a look—as if she was trying to figure out what he was talking about. Right.

He elaborated, “You remember. When Clara bolted to the ladies’ room and chucked up her lunch and then yelled at me to get out and then you said not to let anyone in? And then eventually you two came out with Monique Hightower, who must have been in there with you the whole time? Yeah. That’s what I’m talking about.”

She coughed into her hand, a stall so obvious a toddler would have seen through it. “Clara got sick.”

“Yeah. I figured that part out all by myself.”

“I think it might have been the cheesy potatoes.”

He sent her a speaking glance. One that said, Give me a break. “So, all right. You’re not going to tell me.”

She winced and slunk down in her seat a few inches and didn’t even bother to try to deny that she’d lied.

He said, “You should know I’ll find out eventually—whatever the hell it is.”

Rory puffed out her cheeks with a hard breath. “I just don’t know what to tell you.”

“Clara swore you to secrecy, huh? Good luck with that. Because if Monique knows, everybody’s going to know. Gossip is her life. She’s been that way at least since high school.”

“Yes. Well, Clara mentioned that—about Monique. But still. I don’t know what to tell you. I mean—it’s Clara’s business, that’s all.” She sent him another pained glance. He took pity on her and left it at that.

For now, anyway.

Clara’s house was around the block from her café, a sweet blue Victorian with maroon trim and a deep front porch. Rye greeted them at the door. He hugged Rory. And when he took Walker’s hand and clapped him on the back with brotherly affection, his gaze slid away.

No doubt about it. Something was going on and it was not good.

Rye waited while they hung their coats on the hall tree. Then he led them through the dining room to the kitchen.

Clara stood at the counter tearing lettuce into a salad bowl. She greeted them with a too-broad smile. “Ryan, pour Rory some wine and get your brother a beer. I thought, since it’s just us four, that we’d eat right here at the breakfast nook table.”