rel="nofollow" href="#u5bd232c7-0559-54d8-9055-266ec5192521">About the Author
HEARING WHAT SOUNDED like a hammer banging against metal, Molly O’Malley tossed the covers aside and sat bolt upright. Her sister had beaten her to the shower. Again. Now she’d be late getting downstairs—the last thing she wanted today of all days. After endless planning, preparation and backbreaking labor, Sweetheart Ranch was finally opening for business.
Molly pushed herself out of bed, excitement and nervousness replacing the fog of sleep. Grabbing her flannel robe hanging from the bedpost, she padded to the closet, every third floorboard creaking in angry protest. A single tug on the antique glass knob and the closet door glided open. Thank goodness. It just as often stuck and refused to budge.
Like the faulty water pressure in the pipes and the creaking floorboards, no amount of tinkering had remedied the finicky closet door. Molly’s grandmother, Emily, claimed the many quirks only added to the old house’s charm.
Molly did agree the house possessed a certain appeal. People raved over the quaint and rustic decor inspired by local history, nearby cattle ranches and the herd of wild mustangs that had once roamed the valley. At least, those were the comments Molly had received from guests who’d viewed their website and booked a wedding, or a honeymoon stay in one of the six cabins.
Five weddings were scheduled these last four days of November and a dozen so far in December. Understandably, the holidays were a popular time to get married. What better than to combine two joyous occasions?
Only 50 percent of the ranch’s cabins, however, had been booked. As head of guest relations, Molly worried. Grandma Em, their resident wedding coordinator, had assured her the situation was temporary. Lately, she’d issued the statement with a twinkle in her eye.
That, too, worried Molly. Grandma Em had poured almost her entire savings into the ranch, converting her country home on ten acres into what would hopefully be the most popular, and most unique, wedding venue and bed-and-breakfast in Arizona. She should be fretting and pacing and biting her nails to the quick. Or, like Molly, racing around in a constant state of agitation. She certainly shouldn’t be dismissing valid concerns with a casual shrug.
Molly contemplated the three O’Malley women as she chose an outfit. They were a study in contrast, each of them dealing with stress differently. While Molly planned for every conceivable catastrophe, her older sister, Bridget, stayed up late testing recipes and developing menus. Grandma Em, perhaps the smartest of them, took things in stride.
Both sisters had worked in the hospitality industry since graduating college—Bridget as a pastry chef and Molly in hotel administration. When their grandmother had called last summer and invited them to share in her long-held dream of owning and operating a Western-themed wedding ranch, they’d jumped at the chance—for entirely different reasons.
Hurrying down the hall, Molly stopped at the bathroom door and knocked loudly.
“You almost done?”
“Give me two minutes,” Bridget hollered above another pipe-banging symphony.
Molly groaned in frustration, more annoyed with herself for oversleeping than at her sister for dawdling. She’d stayed up late last night, too, envisioning every detail of their grand opening and mentally reviewing her lengthy to-do list.
While she waited, her glance traveled the hall to Grandma Em’s bedroom. She’d apparently risen some time ago, for the door sat ajar and not a single peep came from inside the room.
Likely, she was downstairs, making coffee and toasting homemade bagels for breakfast. Molly was straining her ears for any hint of activity when Bridget flung open the bathroom door and emerged from behind a cloud of steam.
“Thanks for hogging the entire hot water supply.”
“Get up earlier next time.”
Molly huffed as she shouldered past her sister. Being adults didn’t stop them from squabbling like they had when they were young.
“Whatever.” Bridget darted to her room, tucking in the tail of the bath towel she wore on her head like a turban. Several red tendrils had escaped and lay plastered against her neck, forming a row of inverted question marks. Molly’s own wavy hair would look the same when she stepped from the shower.
It was one of many similarities between them. They shared freckled