Chapter 4
Cannon
What Willow can do with floral art is damn near impossible. We’re in the ballroom of the Silverheart Arena, which is actually across the small boulevard in the Club Center. The main arena and center are used for the rodeo, which attracts hundreds of thousands over the course of two weeks.
The Club has undergone a recent renovation, barely six months ago.
Floor-to-celing windows showcase the sweeping mountain landscape, accentuating the natural light that shines into the ballroom’s spacious interior.
Modern ceiling tiles house a dozen or more waterfall chandeliers that brighten up the space.
Everything is state-of-the-art. Climate control that adjusts automatically, LED lighting on smart systems, even the damn bathroom fixtures are sensor-activated. It’s the kind of place that cost someone serious money and shows it in every polished surface.
It’s obvious that Willow and Violet took this into account when designing the centerpieces.
The chocolate orchids are mixed with cream roses and housed in glass vases mounted to Montana pine, polished but still showing their natural grain.
Dried wheat stalks and leather accents ground the elegant blooms, while amber votives add warmth.
Though I wasn’t raised in Montana, even I know that the Cattleman’s Dinner is exclusive and important to society types. At $500 per plate, people travel from all over to mingle and be seen.
Willow and Violet thought of everything. They even set up a station with boutonnieres for the dinner’s hosts, each sprig matching the centerpieces.
I can’t help the burst of pride coursing through me at Willow’s work. She’s in her element today, all business as she sets checks each arrangement.
So far, Jake and I haven’t seen any unusual activity. He’s stationed outside the ballroom, with one of our old teammates at the back entrance.
Bennett didn’t blink when I suggested the extra hand. After all, Willow is family to him.
And to me, though I won’t admit it out loud.
From the moment I heard about some bastard sending unsolicited emails to Willow, something inside me snapped open, like a vault that’s been sealed underwater for more than a century.
So, I’m glad she’s coming home with me to Circle Ridge. She’s safer there than at the condo due to the security measures in place. Cameras are everywhere, all of which are monitored by an off-site security. There’s no dead space, so no one’s getting on or off the ranch without me knowing about it.
The Cattleman’s Dinner is a big job. There are fifty tables with fifty centerpieces plus arrangements for the buffet and stage.
I watch my girl, dressed in black slacks and a Stems & Blooms blouse that maximizes comfort while still being professional. Her auburn curls are pulled into a neat bun-thing with a few tendrils around her face, again, likely for comfort.
I would never forgive myself if something happens to Willow. Bennett told me that his sister, Tiffany, offered to trade her tickets so that Willow and I could attend and sit with Bennett, but even I know that’s overkill.
I’m running perimeter checks, cataloging exits and sightlines, when I hear it—a metallic groan that doesn’t belong in a newly renovated building. My head snaps up looking for the danger.
Dammit. It’s the lighting track above the stage where one of the fixtures is tilting, the mounting bracket visibly warping.
Willow’s directly underneath it, bent over the podium arrangement, completely unaware of what’s about to happen.
“WILLOW, MOVE!”
I’m already running, boots pounding across pristine hardwood, but the ballroom is massive and she’s too far. The fixture breaks free with a screech of tearing metal, swinging on its cable like a pendulum, 200 pounds of LED housing and smart-tech arcing straight toward her head.
She looks up at my shout, confused, frozen in that split second of not-understanding. Her brain processes: danger. She tries to move but her shoe catches on the extension cord for the podium mic.
I’m not going to make it.
Bennett appears from stage left, grabbing Violet who’s closest to Willow. He yanks both women backward in one violent motion just as the fixture crashes into the podium where Willow was standing not two seconds ago.
The sound is catastrophic… metal shrieking… glass and LED panels exploding. The entire podium splinters under the impact, wood and electronics scattering across the stage in a radius of destruction.
I reach the trio in seconds, heart trying to pound its way out of my chest, as everyone in the ballroom runs toward the stage.
Willow’s on the ground where Bennett threw her, Violet beside her, the cousins staring at the wreckage with identical expressions of shock.
“You hurt?” My hands are on Willow before I give them permission, gripping her arms, then her face, checking for injuries. “Did any of it hit you? Glass? Debris?”
“I don’t—I don’t think so.” Her voice is small, shaking. “Cannon, what—”
“Don’t move. Stay right here.” I turn to Bennett, who’s doing the same check on Violet. “Everyone good?”
“We’re fine.”
The venue manager appears at a run, face pale. “Ohmigawd. Is anyone hurt?”
“No.” I step between him and Willow instinctively. “But you want to explain how a new fixture falls right above the podium?”
“Our crew changed out the fixture this morning. We’ve had trouble with the mounting brackets, so we ordered new ones and changed them all out yesterday and this morning.”
It’s plausible, and from the look on the guy’s face, I can see that he’s just as shook as us.
After a few minutes of talking things over with the head of maintenance, we find the bracket that bent. He changed it himself, and he was still in the facility when Stems & Blooms arrived. The design flaw is subtle, but I can see it.
This really was an accident.
After we all take a break for maintenance to clean up and check all the fixtures, I call Rusty at Circle Ridge to catch up.
“Hey, Cannon?” Willow interrupts, unaware that I’m on the phone. “Can you take these boxes to the van?” She’s all business, even after the scare we just had. Her sassy self has no qualms about putting me and Bennett to work as the hotel crew fixes the light fixture.
Not that she needs an extra set of hands. She and Vi brought in extra employees for this.
I shove the empty boxes into the store van, slamming the door shut, my pulse still racing.
Is Willow even aware that her damn hips sway back and forth as she walks?
Or that she smells like flowers and honey?
Does she know that when she bites her pouty bottom lip in concentration, all I want to do is kiss her until there’s nothing left of either of us?
I turn around and lean my head against the cold metal, trying to catch my breath. Willow Ridgemont is going to be the death of me.