Still, as best man, he’d be expected to put in an appearance, however brief, at the after-wedding party. Spence knew Tripp wouldn’t have cared if he skipped the festivities—by now, the brand-new husband would be making red-hot love to his red-hot wife, the lucky SOB. Mustang Creek’s long-standing post-nuptial traditions had to be the furthest thing from the man’s mind right now, and who could blame him?
Spence felt a nebulous pang of—whatever—in the pit of his stomach, but he didn’t explore it.
Passing the Moose Jaw without stopping wasn’t an option, he decided glumly. If he didn’t show up, some of the gossips might invent a few fanciful reasons to explain his absence. That he, Spence, had been in love with Hadleigh, for instance, his friendship with Tripp notwithstanding. That he’d kept it together during the ceremony, and put up a good front at the reception afterward, too, but now that the deed was done, he’d made himself scarce. Gone home to lick his wounds.
All bullshit, of course. He liked Hadleigh, liked her a lot. And she was certainly easy on the eyes, no denying that.
There’d never been any kind of spark between them, though. Not on either side. When that rumor had emerged, he’d been extremely annoyed. It was even more ridiculous than the one about Junie. At one time, he’d played fast and loose with the ladies, but if anyone looked closely, maybe they’d realize that the reason there’d been so many was that he hadn’t really been involved with any of them. Even his friendship with Trudy Reinholt was exactly that, a friendship. Until she’d begun to expect more than he was willing to offer. More than he could offer...
So yes, he’d show his face at the Moose Jaw, make it clear that he wasn’t pining for a lost love.
Besides, he was the chief of police, off duty or not. It was his job to keep the peace, and to do that, he needed to get a read on the crowd. The wedding guests, well, they were sensible people for the most part, all of them friends of the bride or groom or both. But this was Saturday night, so the regulars were sure to be around, along with a few tourists. In Spence’s experience, emotions ran higher on sentimental occasions like weddings or holidays or funerals—any event with a lot of symbolism attached. Throw in a little alcohol and just about anything could happen.
Soon enough, the Moose Jaw was in sight, and it was definitely jumping. Cars, pickups, motorcycles, ten-speed bikes, any rig with wheels, short of little red wagons and skateboards, crowded the gravel lot. There was no evident method to the madness, either—the vehicles were parked at odd angles, as though drivers and passengers alike had abandoned them in a sudden panic. The overall effect was chaotic, like a mess of dominoes dumped out of the box.
If the patrons inside had been in that much of a rush to start swilling beer, Spence speculated wearily, what kind of shape would they be in by closing time?
He sighed as he got out of the truck, locking it behind him. By now, he’d been up just shy of twenty-four hours, having put in a double shift on Friday, before attending Tripp’s bachelor party. He was bone-weary and ravenous, too, since he’d had nothing but wedding food since last night’s pizza—a slice of cake, a handful of those dainty pastel mints, and a smoked salmon “sandwich” about the size of a silver dollar.
He needed protein, preferably in the form of a thick steak, medium rare, and after feeding a couple of critters—one horse, one dog—a long, hot shower. After that, God willing, he could fall facedown on his bed and sleep.
Even with a plan in place, such as it was, Spence felt faintly anxious.
His black-and-white mutt, Harley, in whom a number of mysterious breeds converged, would be watching the road for him, perched vulture-style on the back of the living room couch, peering through the picture window and fogging up the glass with dog breath while he kept his vigil.
The stone-gray gelding, called Reb in deference to Spence’s Southern heritage, was content enough, he figured, grazing in the pasture beside the barn, enjoying the pleasures of summer. Still, horses were social creatures by nature, whether they were wild or tame, and all of them needed company.
With these things occupying his mind, Spence was tempted to breeze right out of town, back to his ranch, pretending he’d never planned to stop in at the Moose Jaw in the first place.
Instead, and with considerable resignation, he walked across the parking lot. The bar had been in business since frontier days, when it was a bona fide Old West saloon, and the building listed slightly to one side, like a drunk trying to look sober. The roof sloped, streaks of rust marked the presence of every nail, and the never-painted wall boards had weathered to a grungy gray.
He’d stay for ten minutes, max, Spence told himself, resolute. He’d see and be seen, say howdy where a verbal exchange was required, size things up and, finally, hit the road.
Dutifully, he opened the door.
I’ll stay for ten minutes, he promised himself again. No more.
* * *
THE MUSIC ROARING out of the jukebox was too loud, and the Moose Jaw was too crowded.
In Melody Nolan’s opinion, that is. Everyone else seemed to be having a grand old time, whooping it up, laughing and dancing and consuming plenty of cold beer.
Oh, there was reason to celebrate, all right. Hadleigh and Tripp were finally married, and that was practically a miracle, given how stubborn those two were. And Melody could comfort herself with the knowledge that the marriage pact, a secret plan that she and Hadleigh and Bex had agreed upon and set in motion a few months before was actually working—one wedding down, two to go.
Melody fingered the tiny gold horsehead on her bracelet, a symbol of triumph, not just for Hadleigh, the first bride, but for herself and Bex, as well. She’d personally designed and crafted the sparkling talismans, one for each of the three friends, and this initial charm represented Hadleigh’s relationship with Tripp, a rancher and born cowboy.
So far, so good.
Melody was wildly happy for Hadleigh, BFF extraordinaire. It was probably just fatigue—along with her very sore feet—that made her feel forlorn at the moment, unusually fractious and on the verge of tears.
Physical discomfort exacerbated this sorry state of affairs, but Melody didn’t dare kick off the spiked heels she’d been wearing for six-plus hours as one of Hadleigh’s two bridesmaids.
If she did, regret would soon overshadow relief, because her poor tootsies would puff up to three times their normal size, in which case it would be impossible to get those wretched shoes on again. Furthermore, Melody had no intention of going barefoot for the rest of the evening, since the Moose Jaw’s sawdust floor was filthy and, besides, some overenthusiastic dancer might step on her toes.
So she suffered, though not in silence.
When her other best friend forever, Bex, short for Becca, Stuart came back to their sticky-topped table, laughing and breathless after yet another Texas two-step with yet another cowboy, Melody glowered at her.
Bex, clad in an elegant yellow dress, identical to the one Melody wore, registered the look and made a face in response.
“Why aren’t you dancing?” Bex half shouted in order to be heard over the blare of the music and the general hoot and holler of the crowd packing the seediest watering hole in Mustang Creek, Wyoming.
“Why aren’t you limping?” Melody countered. Bex’s shoes, like her dress, were duplicates of her own. Yellow, pointed at the toes and stilt-like. They were definitely out of place in their surroundings. Cowboy boots were the footwear du jour.
Bex’s sigh was visible rather than audible, because of the din, and the horsehead charm on her bracelet winked in the light when she lifted one hand to push a lock of artfully streaked hair from her forehead. “Honestly, Mel,” she