Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Emerson
Lane pulls into the parking lot of the Hawthorne Guest Ranch. A sprawling log lodge is the center of the picturesque view. A pavilion decked out with tulle and flowers sits at the top of the hill before the land dips down to a large red barn, a long shop, fences, cattle, and horses.
My nose touches the window and I draw back, but I’m still gawking.
My hands are getting clammy, but I refrain from running them down my thighs. The gauzy, light-blue material of the dress would show my palm prints, and I’d die. There’s no Carol the flight attendant to calm me down this time.
People mill around the pavilion. There’s a lot of black denim and slacks on the men, the women are mostly in dresses, and there’s no shortage of cowboy hats. There are more kids than I expected, but if all the Baileys are here, that makes sense.
My stomach goes haywire, and a panicky feeling sets in. I might as well be facing my dad’s house. When my pulse speeds up, I exhale and pull out my phone.
Bunny: Chicken eggs with double yolks will have the same amount of egg white as a typical egg.
Bunny: Some eggs are no-yolkers.
Bunny: Egg shell color varies by breed.
I draw in a long breath.
“Is that helping?” Lane asks as he parks next to another pickup. The lot is full of them. All big and expensive and covered in a fine layer of dust.
“Yes, actually it is. Hillary picked out some good factoids.” I tuck the phone back into the discreet pocket of my dress. My gaze lands on the pavilion. “Until I look at all those people again.”
“What are the names of Mae’s sons?”
“Tate, Teller, and Tenor.”
He gets out, and I slide out of the pickup and arrange the fabric around my legs. “And the daughters?” he asks.
“The four seasons. Summer, Junie—because June’s mostly a spring month—Autumn, and Wynter.”
“Do I need to quiz you on their spouses, or are you good?”
I groan. “That’s a lot of names, and I’ll probably hyperventilate if I can’t remember them.”
He cocks his arm, and I hitch on to his elbow.
He’s in crisp black jeans and a white button-up shirt.
The black cowboy hat on his head completes the look.
He’s combed his hair back so it’s not sticking out above his ears with the hat on, and thanks to the sun overhead, his eyes are shaded, giving him a stern demeanor.
My belly’s unsettled for a different reason, flipping and preening. The breeze flutters the hem of my skirt. I busy myself with making sure it doesn’t get kicked up. That’s a level of embarrassment I don’t need on a day like today.
“This place is gorgeous.”
“You were never out here when you were a kid?”
Kids talked about this ranch like it was as untouchable as Disneyland. “I was not in the same circle as the Hawthornes. They weren’t mean or anything, but our lives didn’t intersect.”
“Now they do.”
“Yeah.” And it’s still weird.
He leads me to the double doors of the guest lodge. “We need to go through here to get to the pavilion, but Campbell wants us to stop in at the bar first.”
We walk in, and I’m back to staring. Is my mouth closed?
Log mansion opulence surrounds me. Timber and animal heads make up most of the decor, and the furniture blends right in with its upholstered wooden beams. The space opens into a large sitting area with a stone fireplace on the far side.
A desk is tucked into the side wall and doesn’t make the inside feel less like home.
An antler chandelier hangs over the desk.
I’m at the Hawthorne Guest Ranch, and I’m not here as an employee. When I was younger, I assumed I’d get a beater of a car and find work here to make some money so I could fly out of city limits.
Do they need someone on their marketing team?
That would mean I was staying.
Am I?
I wouldn’t have to hustle so hard when I’m not paying rent. There’s a nice office in Lane’s house, and I can go out on my breaks and sit with my chickens. I could get goats.
A tiny stabbing sensation flares around my ribs. I’m going to miss those birds if I return to Denver.
We pass through a large room that’s bustling with staff and guests. I recognize some people from around town. The couple that owns the gas station, and a guy about my age whose family owns the river tour company.
Campbell rounds a corner and a smile spreads across her face. “Hey, you’re here. Prescott and Haven are in the bar for the toast. I’ve gotta find Clem so we have the whole Foster House crew.”
She rushes off. Lane curls his fingers through mine and leads the way.
The bar is more enclosed than the great room. Bottles of all sorts line the back wall. Sconces that look like lanterns add to the ambience.
“Hey!” Jamison rushes toward us. She’s wearing a yellow dress that resembles her sister’s pink one. “There are wedding favors for you on the bar. When Campbell gets back with Clem, we’ll toast.” She gives me a half hug. “So glad to see you.”
She rushes off with a grin, and I’m left stunned. Then Prescott rushes over, gorgeous and radiant in her white ball gown.
The material brushes my legs as she hugs me. Her cleavage is more impressive than the volume of her skirts. She’s a princess. “Emerson! I’m so happy you’re here. I bet Lane’s not going to put himself to work with you around.”
“It’s not why she invited you,” Lane clarifies as Prescott switches her hug to him.
Haven appears at his bride’s side, and his arm goes automatically around her waist. “She’s been talking about you since the bachelorette party. Thanks for coming.”
The sincerity in his voice conveys more than that, and I get it. Prescott said she understood being an outsider. The thought of no one showing up for her on one of the biggest days of her life has to be terrifying.
It almost makes me glad that I was surprised with a marriage, and that it was just me, my brother, and Lane.
Almost.
What would I plan for a wedding ceremony? Would I have it at the coveted and expensive Hawthorne Guest Ranch? Could I have little Foster House Gold wedding favor bottles and a toast before we all go out for the ceremony?
The yearning is staggering, and I rub at my sternum.
Lane puts a small bottle of sour-cherry-infused gin in my hand.
My mind spins the whole time Haven and Prescott each say their piece, welcoming us. Cheers vibrate the floor, and I take a drink. The heat soothes my nerves and fills the emptiness fighting to enlarge a hole in my chest.
“What do you think?” Lane asks.
I think I want all this. I think I want to stay. I think I want my home and my career in Huckleberry Springs. All I have to do is tell Lane. He’ll make it happen.
Yet the words stick in my throat. Today isn’t my day. It’s about Prescott and Haven. Maybe that’s a copout, but I need a little more time. I have to be sure. Lane is worth the risk, but I have to be sure I am too.
Lane
The wedding ceremony was simple but beautiful. The sky is darkening, but the fairy lights are on around the pavilion. Bug screens have been erected, and we’re in a private oasis in the middle of the rolling hills around the Hawthorne ranch.
I’m standing with Myles and Wynter. Mae’s oldest son, Tate, is updating us on his kids and how they’re starting school soon. Emerson’s next to me, and I have my hand on her waist.
Having her here has been the most natural thing in the world.
Campbell might not have realized how true her statement was. I’m not diving into anything, thinking they might need a hand. Emerson is at my side, cycling through expressions of awe, wistfulness, and a healthy dose of fear.
Is she scared we’re going to drive her out, or that she’ll wake up to an empty room in an almost empty apartment?
A slow country song starts on the speakers.
“Excuse me,” Myles says, steering Wynter toward the dance floor. “My wife owes me a dance.”
Wynter grins and waves before tucking herself so close to Myles I can’t believe they can move.
Tate looks around. “I told Mama I’d get a dance with her. She’s hard to track down for a spin during these things.” He spots her, dips his head toward us, and leaves.
I turn Emerson with me. “You owe me a dance.”
“I don’t remember those terms.” But she takes my hand and rests her other one on my shoulder.
“They were very clear. In fact, I think you owe me all the dances.”
She giggles and lets me lead her through a slow shuffle in the crowded dance area. “It was a really nice wedding. Not stiff like some of the ones I’ve been to.”
“What were those like?”
“A few were my old coworkers’.” She smiles at Jamison as Iverson maneuvers them around us.
“A couple friends from college. No one I was really close to, and maybe that’s why they all seemed so awkward.
Full of people who didn’t know each other and wanted to go home.
It made me glad I was never, you know, standing up there.
” She snorts. “I was barely standing up for my own wedding.”
I smile, but there’s a wistful gleam in her eyes again. When will she realize that I will give her anything she wants? “What if you could do it again?”
Her gaze shuts down. “What do you mean? Get married again?” Color drains from her face.
Shit. She thinks I mean after a divorce, when she meets some other asshole. Not a fucking chance. “Celebrate a marriage. How about that?”
She blinks and confusion passes over her face. “Celebrate? So like a reception?”
No. Her in a white dress, facing me, saying her vows like she means them this time.
No rote echoing of them. Our family would be looking on, and then after, we’d share our wedding favors, a flavor of spirit she and I came up with.
I’d dance with her, like Haven’s doing with Prescott now. The new happy couple.
“Yes,” I say gruffly. “Like a reception. A party.”
She rests her face against my chest, but her eyes are open. She’s taking in everything. “I’ve never had a party.”
“We’ll change that.” As soon as I fucking can.
“Brooks tried to throw one when I graduated from college, but we couldn’t afford much besides a dinner out. I even ordered a rib eye.”
“So you’d have steak?”
She lifts her head. “So much steak. For all his faults, Dad could grill a mean rib eye. I missed it the most when we left.”
“Even more than the chickens?”
“Do you think Dad would butcher my pets?”
Now that I think about it, he kept all the chickens like pets. I assumed it was because they’re layers. “He kept them all for you.”
She shakes her head. “Those aren’t the same birds.”
“But he kept getting chickens in case you returned.” He kept hoping his kids would come home.
Her eyes mist over and she blinks. “Dammit, Lane. Why did you have to say that?”
“You’re right. It was for the egg money. He was making a haul.”
She laughs so loud that we turn heads. We’re surrounded by my family and they all aim indulgent looks our way. Good. She doesn’t need melancholy. Tonight is for celebration.
The slow song passes into a faster one, but I don’t pick up the pace. No one around us minds.
“You realize that’s my plan?” she says. “I’m going to make it big on egg money, and then I’ll fly away in my own private jet.”
I chuckle, but a primal instinct rises up. Wherever that plane flies, I’ll be right behind her.