“In Sam’s house?” As of two months ago, the couple had been engaged and living next door to each other. Sam had bought the neighbor’s house after mean old Mrs. Beckett was unfortunately discovered dead by Lucia’s oldest son.
“Uh-uh. The place is a disaster. Sam’s cleaning out forty years of mess—he’s rented one of those Dumpster things—and he’s made a bedroom out of the living room, but it’s not okay for company.”
“Maybe Jake could stay with Sam, in the living room, and Winter could stay with you.”
“We could do that, but I’ll bet that’s the last thing she’d want to do, share a room with one of the boys. No,” Lucia said, frowning. “I’ll see if Iris has room at her place. It’s better they stay at a nice B-and-B than have to deal with the chaos at home. Sam’s already taken part of a wall down.”
“You’re still going to put an addition between the houses?”
“Yep.” Lucia grinned. “We’re going to completely renovate Mrs. Beckett’s house and turn half of the downstairs into a professional kitchen. It will be twice as big as I have now.”
“We’ll both be remodeling at the same time,” Aurora said, pleased with herself for having arranged the sliced cheddar cheese sticks into an attractive fan. “I’m glad winter’s over.”
“Me, too.” Lucia smiled at Aurora. “Though it certainly was an exciting one.”
“Who knew Willing would become such a romantic place?”
“I’d be careful if I were you.” Lucia laughed. “You could be next. There’s romance everywhere.”
“I’ll manage to resist.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Absolutely positive.”
“I believe you,” Lucia said. “But—” Her gaze drifted past Aurora’s shoulder. “You did see Sam’s brother, right?”
“I did.”
“And he is spectacular.”
“Agreed.” The man was certainly a sight to behold. “If you like the type.”
“What is your type, Aurora?”
“I once fell in love with a skinny Frenchman,” she informed her. “But I was thirteen. He played the viola.”
“And what happened?”
“He dumped me for Renee DuBois, who played the flute.”
“And you’re permanently scarred, poor baby.” Lucia handed the finished tray to a waiting teenager. Half of the high school students in town had been hired to run food and dishes from the tent to the house to the barn and back.
“I’m not like you,” Aurora said. “All warm and kind and fluffy and loving.”
“Fluffy?”
“Cuddly,” Aurora corrected. “Men look at you and think of apple pie and cinnamon rolls and cozy nights by the fire. You’re a truly nice person and, well, I’m not.”
“Who says?”
Aurora sighed. “Most everyone in town. And I’m not cuddly.”
“No, you’re not. Which is why I like you so much.”
She couldn’t help laughing at that. “Well, at least someone around here does.”
* * *
WINTER PRETENDED SHE was in a movie. It was the only way to deal with the weird thing she found herself in. Seriously, it was just like a movie. John Wayne himself would fit right in.
Not that anyone knew who John Wayne was, except for Robbie Middlestone. She and Robbie were the only two members of the Lady Pettigrew Film Society to share a love of American Western films. She would try to text him later, if there was any chance of cell reception, to tell him she’d gone to a party on a real Montana ranch.
She walked between her uncle and her father as they made their way to the other side of the crowded room without finding her so-called cousins.
“They’ve probably gone to the tent,” Uncle Sam said.
So off the three of them went to the tent, with Uncle Sam catching Lucia’s eye and pointing to the door as they left. The black-haired woman nodded and handed a large pan to a tall teenaged boy. Winter liked her and wondered if she was part Native American. Imagine having a Native American in her “family.”
Winter was hustled back outside into the cool afternoon air. Music, something old-fashioned and country-sounding, blasted from the barn. No one was really dressed up, but everyone seemed pleased to be at the ranch.
She heard parts of conversations as they walked past clumps of people.
“—maybe that Cora gal and Pete will be next.”
“He bought that old John Deere off Lawrence Parcell, all right. Said it had a lot more years in it.”
“She told him she’d give him one last chance and then? Over. So, it’s over, as of last Friday. Her mother is furious!”
“Gonna clean it up and drive it in the parade. What about you?”
“Monday nights, I heard. Ask Jerry.”
“They won’t even consider that legislation until fall. I told him—”
“Who’s that with Sam?”
Winter knew the answer, even if she didn’t know the woman who asked the question. That’s his brother, who he hasn’t seen in years. And that’s his daughter, who he didn’t know existed. In a place like this, the information would spread quickly.
She’d heard small towns were like that. Gossipy.
Well, they could gossip all they liked. Winter lifted her chin and stared back at two older girls who eyed her curiously. She gave them her best haughty Lady Mary of Downton look, but they didn’t seem impressed.
Winter hurried to keep up with Jake. For all she knew, he could forget about her and disappear into the crowd, leaving her to fend for herself.
Not that she couldn’t do exactly that, but she wasn’t in the mood to find out how to survive by herself in the Wild Wild West.
Not yet, anyway.
The inside of the tent was decorated with little white lights, long tables and benches. The tables were covered with yellow-checked fabric and glass jars filled with white-and-yellow daisies. About a third of the tables held food in casserole dishes or plastic bowls. There was food everywhere, with more coming in all the time. Three young cowboys were busy opening champagne bottles in the corner closest to the door. Giggling girls filled champagne flutes and set them carefully on large silver trays.
Winter sucked in her breath. It was truly lovely and not at all what she had expected. She’d pictured more hay bales and a bunch of picnic tables.
She couldn’t wait to meet the bride and groom now that she no longer thought she and Jake would be kicked out. Being with an uncle made everything okay.
“Hey!” Sam waved to a herd of black-haired boys who were gathered near an old lady. She was round and sharp-eyed, though. Winter assumed she was a grandmother, because she’d met a few of those and they weren’t easily fooled. Robbie’s grandmother had called his mother a twit and his father a rotter, much to Robbie’s joy.
“Money doesn’t buy class,” she’d cluck. Robbie’s grandmother had not been impressed with his parents or with his parents’ piles of money, obviously, no matter how much there was of it.