she wore to do chores around the family ranch, but the ones with the hand-scrolled swirls in the leather. These were the boots she wore for two-stepping, waltzing and square dancing, all of which she hoped to do before, during and after tonight’s fireworks.
All she needed was the right cowboy to dance with.
If only...
If only there was a cowboy here in Rust Creek Falls that she didn’t already know—and already know wasn’t her type.
“I really admire Braden and Jennifer for thinking up this carriage ride,” her sister said. “Their first experience as Mr. and Mrs. Traub will be private, just the two of them, as they start their journey together, figuratively, literally—”
“Briefly.” Kristen nudged her in the shoulder. “The church is only two blocks away. Then we’ll be right here, ready to say hi while we’re really checking out the newest Mrs. Traub’s gown.”
Kayla shot her a look. “We’re supposed to admire the bride’s gown. It’s expected.”
“I know, I know. It’ll be worth the wait, I’m sure.”
“They say the best things in life are.” Kayla sounded like she really meant that.
Kristen kicked the heels of her boots against the lower log railing. Thunk, thunk. She polished off the rest of her punch, then lifted her heavy hair from the back of her warm neck again. Thunk, thunk. “I hope this carriage looks amazing, because it certainly isn’t a very fast way to travel.”
Kayla nudged her shoulder. “I heard Sutter Traub located true white horses, and they went to someone’s place south of Kalispell to borrow a two-seater surrey. Paige and Lindsay bought miles of white ribbon for it and were making bows all week.”
“Wow,” Kristen said, impressed at the wealth of details her sister knew. Kristen had only heard that the bride and groom were going to arrive at the park by carriage. “You’ve got wedding fever worse than anyone else in town, and that’s saying something, considering the entire town is here for the reception.”
Kristen stopped thudding her heels against the cross rail; even a twin might get annoyed at the rhythmic thumping, even an identical twin who understood Kristen’s restless nature better than anyone else in the world. Squinting against the bright July sun, she joined Kayla in staring silently down Buckskin Road, past their old high school. Every kid in Rust Creek Falls had been educated there. Every kid still was. Some things in this small town never changed, and that was fine with Kristen.
She’d gone to the University of Montana, majored in theater and spent a summer as an unpaid intern in New York City. Like Dorothy in a pair of ruby red slippers—a role she’d played onstage at the university—she’d realized there was no place like home. Cities were great fun to visit, but the tiny town of Rust Creek Falls under the big sky of Montana was home. It always had been. It always would be.
Small didn’t mean boring. Things were always changing. Their local politics could make the national scene appear tame, but everyone had pulled together to rebuild after a flood had wiped out a substantial portion of the town just a couple of years ago. Old Bledsoe’s Folly, an abandoned mountain retreat, was now an upscale resort that had the town buzzing with talk about developing the area’s first ski slope.
But it was the people of Rust Creek Falls that were the most interesting. There must be something about Montana’s famous Big Sky, because lots of folks who’d come to help with the flood recovery or to turn Bledsoe’s Folly into Maverick Manor had ended up staying, partnered up after falling in love in Kristen’s hometown.
She glanced up at that blue sky now, automatically scanning the horizon for planes—for a certain plane. It was a habit she’d formed earlier this year, when she’d thought the blue sky was bringing her true love to her. The handsome pilot of a commuter airline had turned out to be a heartbreaker of the lowest kind. Like a sailor with a girl in every port, he’d had a woman at every airport. Kristen still felt like an idiot for falling for him.
She got another shoulder nudge from her sister. “Does he fly into Kalispell on weekends now?”
Leave it up to quiet Kayla to never miss a detail, not even a glance at the sky.
Kristen wrinkled her nose. “I don’t care what Captain Two-Timer does or where he flies or who he tells lies to after he lands.”
“Or to whom he tells lies after he lands.”
“You should be a writer, you know.” Kristen resumed her rail-thumping. “I don’t care ‘to whom’ he lies. It isn’t to me, not anymore. ‘Gee, I wish I didn’t have to go. I won’t be able to call you for a few days. You know I’d rather be with you, but this job is so demanding.’ I was an idiot. I can’t believe I couldn’t see through him.”
“You were in love.”
“I’m not anymore.” She tossed her hair back. “I’m in the mood to dance. I’m hoping for a handsome stranger or two to flirt with, but I’m not going to fall in love again.”
“Not ever?”
“Not for a long while. Definitely not today.”
Kayla didn’t say anything for long seconds.
Kristen stopped looking for the carriage when she realized her sister was staring at her, not at the road. “What?”
“You shouldn’t dare the universe to prove you wrong like that.”
“Stop that. You’re giving me goose bumps.” Kristen jumped down from the fence, an easy drop of two feet at most, but somehow she stumbled and nearly fell. She was normally as nimble as a cat, and this sudden imbalance struck her as—funny? Yes, it was funny. It was good to giggle after that serious moment. “You stay here on carriage watch. I’ll go get us some more punch. Give me your cup.”
When Kayla reached down to hand her the cup, she slipped, too, and fell right into Kristen. They dissolved into giggles together, for no reason at all.
“What do you suppose is in that punch?” Kristen asked. “We only had one cup.”
“I don’t know, but stay here with me. Just look down that road and wait for true love to come our way.”
* * *
Ryan Roarke parked his red Porsche in between two sturdy pickup trucks. The high-performance sports car belonged in Los Angeles, but this wasn’t LA. In fact, Ryan had come to Montana to get away from Los Angeles. When he’d directed his assistant to reserve a luxury rental vehicle at the Glacier Park airport, he’d expected to be handed the keys to his usual Land Rover or an Audi fitted with a ski rack, the kind of rental he drove when he visited his brother in a different part of Montana, the upscale ski resort of Thunder Canyon.
This was July, however, and the roads were clear of snow, so the clerk had been enthusiastic when she’d handed him the keys to the Porsche. Ryan had attempted to return her smile when he wanted to grimace.
He grimaced now. Pulling into the packed dirt of the parking spaces at the edge of Rust Creek Falls’ park in a Porsche was not what he’d had in mind for the weekend. The flashy car was so inappropriate for this rugged town, it made him look like he was having a midlife crisis. Ryan killed the powerful engine and got out, feeling like a giant at six-foot-one next to the low car. He returned the stares from a few cowboys with a hard look of his own.
Ryan knew what a midlife crisis looked like—too many of his fellow attorneys blew their children’s inheritances on sports cars in an effort to replace their children’s mothers with starlets—but he didn’t know what one felt like. He was not having a midlife crisis. He was only thirty-three, for starters, and a confirmed bachelor. He wasn’t trying to appear more wealthy or powerful or attractive to women than he already was.
As the second generation of well-known attorneys in Los Angeles, Ryan already owned the sports cars, the Rolex, the hand-tailored suits. Physical intimidation