Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas (Rocky Ridge Creek #7)

PROLOGUE

WILMA AND FAYE

(The Quylt Queens)

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“ROCKY RIDGE CREEK’S matchmaking folklore is known far and wide,” my sister begins, like she does each time we start a new Love Quilt.

And this quilt may be my favorite thus far, and it has more to do with the couple than the quilt itself.

“Generations of families have handed us scraps of fabric, and we stitch each piece with memories, notes, and meaning.” My sister lifts off the lid from the plastic bin on the chair beside her.

We’re gathered around a harvest table by the front window of Quyltville, our sewing shop.

“These scraps aren’t just cloth; they are love letters in disguise, keys to pairing souls meant to be.” She lifts a colorful pile of perfectly cut squares and sets it on the table.

The members of the Quilting Guild patiently await the reveal of the two people chosen.

A truck door slams shut outside, and I glance out the large bay window. And as if it’s meant to be, our next victim—I mean candidate—is right there.

“Wilma, there she is.” I nudge my sister. “Our next project.”

The Quilting Guild follows my gaze across the road to the truck parked in front of Carver’s Custom Woodworks.

Jade Fox jumps out of her family’s truck with that trademark no-nonsense stride of hers. Her boots hit sharply on the pavement, and her ponytail bounces like it is full of opinions, which it undoubtedly is. The woman is a walking declaration, daring the world to question her.

“Jade Fox?” Nessie pushes her red glasses up her nose. “She’s our next candidate?”

There’s reluctance and surprise in her tone. It’s not a shock since Jade has made it clear that she plans to stay single forever. Little does she know, fate has its own agenda for her.

“Yes, Nessie. This is her Love Quilt.” My sister points at the piles of squares she’s started to unpack.

Albion, the guild’s long-time needle wizard with silver hair as sharp as his wit, twirls his needle thoughtfully.

“Love ain’t always easy, Nessie,” he says. “The strongest quilts sometimes come from the roughest patches.”

“It’s fate,” I say. “We’ve gathered here today to start weaving her love story, and she appears.”

The quilting guild murmurs reluctantly as Wilma holds up the very first patch, ready to divulge in a story we both know they won’t be prepared to accept.

But these decisions do not come lightly. It’s a significant responsibility to transform these scraps into something meaningful. A Love Quilt whispers secrets only the heart can understand.

Another truck rolls into view.

Hart Wilde.

“Well, I’ll be.” I snatch my binoculars from my bag, not that I need them; I like to be very present.

I flip up the sheer net veil, dotted with tiny embroidered croissants, on my Kentucky Derby hat. It’s National French Bread Day, and I've designed my outfit from head to toe around the theme. My hat is a literal bread basket piled so high I had to duck under the doorway.

I focus on the heated episode about to take place. “Slap my knee and call me matchmaking royalty!”

Which many do. Matchmaking has been in our blood since before Rocky Ridge Creek had paved roads or proper gossip.

Some folks are born to farm, some to preach—us? We were born to pair hearts like quilt squares.

“Hart Wilde!” I point. “Hart Wilde!” My heart does a little kick, and so does Wilma’s knee against mine.

He parks behind Jade, a little too close. Almost bumper kiss close, and he knows it. He hops out, casual as can be, and strolls right past her truck, nodding at the lack of room he’s left her, then proceeds into the business beside Carver’s.

The cowboy walks like he’s got a saddle strapped to his soul, slow, sure, and never in a rush. Carved out of red clay and hard work, he’s lean and rangy, with forearms that could build a barn before breakfast and still find time to write you a love letter.

Lord help us.

“They’re both on the street at the same time,” I whisper. “It’s happening.”

Phylicia Finn chokes on her tea, her golden hoop earrings rattling. “Jade and Hart?” Another choke, and her sister whacks her back.

“Are you saying what we think you’re saying?” Constance Finn holds both of her sisters' arms in the air.

“Yes, ladies and gentlemen. Jade and Hart are the next couple for the Love Quilt.

“That’s impossible.” Phylicia snatches her arms away from her sister to angle her chair for a clear line of sight through the shop window.

She tucks her springs of grey hair behind her ears.

“It was crazy enough that we matched his brother and her sister together, but these two.” Nessie shakes her head and leans back in her chair. “They loathe each other.”

“Secretly lusting.”

The Quilting Guild gives us a look like we’ve been mistaken before. Which we haven’t. Not once.

Jade emerges from the wood shop, pulling a flatbed cart with two beautiful, hand-carved white porch rockers.

Then she sees his truck.

“This is not going to end well,” Nessie breathes.

Jade pauses and stares at the Wilde Ranch logo on the side.

She tilts her head, eyeing the measurements of the few tight inches between her tailgate and his grill.

“Don’t do it,” Philicia whispers, leaning in.

“She’s gonna do it,” Constance hisses.

And she does. Jade yanks her tailgate open with exactly half an inch to spare.

The quilting guild gasps in unison.

“She’s gonna scratch the paint.”

“She’s gonna break the chair.”

“She’s gonna break him if he comes out right now.”

Jade manages to get the first rocker in. Not without her boot slipping once, and the chair catching.

I swear, we all stop breathing.

Then comes chair number two.

She lifts, wobbles, and one foot shuffles backward. The chair tilts sideways and crack! The rocker slips and hits the hood of Hart’s truck with full force—the paint puckers where it lands.

“Oh lord.”

“That left a mark.”

“Somebody say a prayer for that man’s temper.”

“And her temper.”

Hart steps out of the store, sipping a coffee as Jade climbs into the bed of her truck. The chair still rests on the hood of his truck, and she doesn’t flinch when he loses his cool; she keeps working on fitting both chairs in the back of the truck.

We can’t hear every word from inside the shop, but we catch enough. Sharp gestures, a finger jabbing toward the dent, arms flailing. He sets his coffee on the hood of the truck and says something about “reckless.” She fires back with something that includes “parked like a fool and boxing her in.”

There’s a threat to call the sheriff for parking illegally and damaging the car. He rips off his Stetson and runs his fingers through his hair, inspecting the mark. She uses the moment to slam the tailgate shut, and without missing a beat, she picks up his coffee.

“You’re welcome for the chairs not going through your windshield!” she shouts over her shoulder, before driving off.

Hart straightens slowly, staring after her. He looks down at the empty spot where his coffee was and kicks the truck’s tire.

The quilting guild sits in stunned silence for a second.

Then Wilma breaks it.

“Well. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.”