“Maybe I’m already ‘damn glad I didn’t marry you,’” Brylee reasoned tartly. “Did you ever consider that possibility?”
He grinned. “That one did occur to me, believe it or not,” he said. “I should have made you listen to me, Brylee, before things went as far as they did.”
“That was my grandmother’s dress I was wearing,” she said, after a short pause. “It had to be restored and altered and specially cleaned. I spent a fortune on the cake and the invitations and the flowers and all the rest. It’s going to take weeks, even with help from my friends, to send back all those wedding gifts.” Her shoulders moved in the ghost of a shrug. “But, hey, what the heck? You win some, you lose some. And besides, who needs six toaster ovens anyhow?”
Tears brimmed in her eyes and she looked away, fiercely dignified.
“Brylee,” Hutch said, not daring to touch her or even take a step in her direction. “I know you’re hurt. I’m sorry about that—sorrier than I’ve ever been about anything in my life. And I’m more than ready to reimburse you for any of the costs—”
“I don’t want your money!” she flared suddenly, looking straight at him now, with fire flashing behind the pride and sorrow in her eyes. “This was never about money—I have plenty of my own, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“I know that, Brylee,” he said gently.
“Then what did you expect to accomplish by coming here?” She held up an index finger. “Wait, let me answer for you,” she added. “Your conscience is bothering you—what passes for a conscience with you—and you want me to say all is forgiven and we can be friends and go on as if nothing happened.” With that, Brylee slipped past him and jerked the office door open wide. “Well, you can just go to hell, Hutch Carmody, and take your lame apologies with you.” A sharp, indrawn breath. “Get out.”
“You might want to try listening to what’s really being said to you, Brylee, instead of just the parts you want to hear,” he told her calmly, not moving. “It would save a lot of wear and tear on you and everybody else.”
“Get. Out.” Brylee parsed the words out. “Now.”
He spread his hands in an “I give up” gesture and ambled past her, across the warehouse, which was as still as a mausoleum, and out through the doorway into the sunshine.
Walker Parrish, Brylee’s brother, had just driven up in a big, extended-cab pickup with his stock company logo painted on the doors. He raised rodeo stock on his ranch outside of Three Trees, where he and Brylee had grown up.
Hutch stopped. He frankly wasn’t in the mood for any more yammer and recrimination, but he wouldn’t have it said that he’d tucked his tail and run from Walker or anybody else.
“We-e-e-l-ll,” Walker said, dragging out the word. “If it isn’t the runaway bridegroom.”
Hutch wasn’t about to give an inch. “No autographs, please,” he retorted dryly. He wasn’t looking for a fight, but if Walker wanted one, he’d come to the right man.
Walker chuckled and shook his head. Hutch knew women found Brylee’s big brother attractive, with his lean but wide-shouldered build and his rugged features, but so far he’d managed to steer clear of marriage, which should have made him at least a little sympathetic to Hutch’s side of the story, and clearly hadn’t.
“I can’t imagine what you’re doing on my sister’s property right now,” Walker observed, his water-gray eyes narrowed as he studied Hutch.
Hutch took his time shaping a reply. “I felt a need to offer an apology,” he finally said, his tone level, even affable. “She wasn’t in the frame of mind to accept it.”
“I don’t reckon she would be,” Walker said. “Far as I’m concerned, Brylee always was half again too good for you, and in the long run you probably did her a favor by calling off the wedding. None of which means I wouldn’t like to smash your face in for putting her through all that.”
While Hutch privately agreed with much of what Walker had just said, he wasn’t inclined to explain his repeated attempts to put the brakes on before he and Brylee and half the town ended up in the church on that fateful Saturday afternoon. And he’d come to Three Trees to apologize to Brylee, not her brother.
“If you want a fight, Walker,” he said, “I’ll give you one.”
Walker appeared to consider the pros and cons of getting it on right there in the warehouse parking lot. In the end, though, he shook his head. “What goes around, comes around,” he finally said. “You’ll get what’s coming to you.” Then, as an apparent afterthought, he added, “You planning on entering the rodeo this year?”
“Don’t I always?” Hutch answered, mindful that Walker provided the bulls and broncos for such events all over the West, including the one in Parable. He was well-known for breeding almost unrideable critters.
Walker grinned. “Here’s hoping you draw the bull I have in mind for you,” he said. “He’s a real rib-stomper.”
“Bring him on,” Hutch replied, grinning back.
With that, the two men, having said their pieces, went their separate ways—Hutch heading for his truck, Walker going on into the warehouse.
Behind the wheel of his pickup, Hutch ground the key into the ignition.
He didn’t know what he’d expected of this first post-disaster encounter with Brylee, but he’d hoped they could at least begin the process of burying the hatchet.
After all, neither of them were going anywhere.
Parable and Three Trees were only thirty miles apart, and the two communities were closely linked. In other words, they’d see each other all the time.
He sighed and drove away. Maybe there was something to Brylee’s accusation that, in coming on this fool’s errand, he’d been more interested in soothing his own conscience than making any kind of amends, but at least he’d tried—again—to set things right, so they could at least be civil to each other.
He figured it was probably too soon and wondered if the anti-Hutch internet campaign would ramp up a notch or two, since several of the key players—Brylee’s friends and employees—had basically witnessed the confrontation.
These days everybody was an ace reporter.
“Well, cowboy man,” he muttered to himself, “you’re batting a thousand. Might as well go for broke.”
Reaching the highway, he rolled on toward Parable.
And Kendra.
* * *
MADISON WAS THRILLED with the new house when Kendra sprang the surprise on the little girl after picking her up at preschool that afternoon, and Daisy was thrilled with the spacious backyard.
The small colonial boasted two quite spacious bedrooms, plus a little cubicle Kendra planned to use as a home office, and two full baths. The kitchen was sunny, with plenty of cupboard space and a small pantry, and there was a large, old-fashioned brick fireplace in the living room. Closer inspection revealed small hooks in the wooden mantel for hanging Christmas stockings.
All in all, the place was perfect—except, of course, for being a rental and therefore impermanent. Kendra had asked Maggie about buying the house, but Maggie was understandably reluctant to sell. She said it would be like putting a price on her childhood, and she couldn’t do that.
“This is my room!” Madison exulted now, standing in the center of the space with window seats and built-in bookshelves and shiny plank floors worn to a warmly aged patina. The folding