not panic? Their world was collapsing around them. Worst of all, Molly was about to fail at the fourth job she’d held in seven years. And this time she wasn’t to blame.
“I’m serious. We should cancel.”
“Grandma has too much money invested.” Bridget rhythmically worked the dough. “And are you willing to tell the happy couple their wedding’s off? They’re expecting to honeymoon tonight as man and wife.”
“But what if—”
“Have some faith. Grandma won’t let us down. If we haven’t heard from her by midafternoon, we’ll hire Reverend Crosby.”
“He charges a fortune.”
“Better than turning the couple away on our first day of business.”
Molly made a decision. “I’m calling Mom.”
“What’s she going to do?”
Nothing, as it turned out. She didn’t know about Grandma Em’s elopement, either, and had no advice for Molly other than to move forward as best as she and Bridget could.
“I’d love to help you,” she said. “But Doug has a touch of the flu and can’t fend for himself.”
“Thanks anyway, Mom. I’ll talk to you later.”
Left with little choice, Molly buried herself in work, her usual coping mechanism. While Bridget continued baking delicacies for the open house and a cake for that night’s reception, Molly arranged champagne flutes, crystal punch glasses, china plates and silver flatware in the parlor.
On impulse, she set out cinnamon-scented candles flanking the festive fall cornucopia in the center of the table, certain the delicious aroma would stir feelings of Christmas for their guests the same as it did for her. It was never too soon to start celebrating.
Fortunately for Molly and Bridget, the ranch’s launch wedding was on the smaller side—only twenty-seven people including the bride and groom. The most their chapel could accommodate was forty-five. The veranda held thirty for those who preferred an outdoor ceremony. For larger weddings, folding chairs could be set up on the lawn.
Over the next hour, whenever the ranch phone rang, Molly dove for the polished mahogany counter in the foyer that served as her workstation and registration desk. She answered the callers’ questions about the open house, praying that she and her sister could indeed pull off the event without their grandmother.
Expecting a delivery from the florist, Molly didn’t think twice when the front door opened. Hearing the tat-tat-tat of running feet on the foyer’s wooden floor and a child’s squeal, she paused. This was no floral delivery.
A little girl no older than three burst into the parlor at the exact moment Molly entered from the kitchen. She was quickly followed by a boy of possibly five. Hair disheveled, cheeks flushed and clothing askew, the pair skidded to a halt and stared at her.
“Oh.” Molly stared back. “Who are you?”
The next instant, the boy reached out with both arms and shoved the girl from behind. She tumbled face-first to the floor, landing half on and half off the braided rug. Instantly, a high-pitched wail filled the room. The boy, her brother given their resemblance, simply stood there, his expression a combination of victory, contrition and dread.
Molly started forward. She didn’t have a lot of experience with kids, but she could tell the girl wasn’t hurt. Not really. A bruised knee, perhaps. Molly and her sister had regularly engaged in these types of scuffles during their childhood.
“Are you okay?”
She was halfway to the girl when the arched doorway separating the parlor from the foyer and the chapel was filled by a pair of broad shoulders, a tall lanky form and a dark brown Stetson.
Molly came to a halt. She’d seen plenty of attractive cowboys since moving to Mustang Valley, but this one in his pressed jeans and Western-cut suede coat rated right up there. The fact that he balanced a third child in his left arm, this one a toddler, diminished none of his good looks.
Assuming they’d arrived early, Molly produced a smile and said, “I’m sorry. The open house doesn’t start until noon.”
“Actually...” He bent and assisted the little girl to her feet, restraining her when she would have shoved her brother in retaliation. “I’m Owen Caufield. And you must be Molly O’Malley, right?”
His name didn’t ring any bells. “Am I expecting you?”
“You are.” An appealing grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.
She grew suddenly tense. Something told her that she was in for a surprise and not the happy kind.
“I’m your substitute minister. Homer Foxworthy’s my great-uncle.” Owen set the toddler down to join her siblings. “I’m staying here for the next month, through Christmas, while he and your grandmother are on their trip. Along with my kids.”
She stared at him, every particle of her being resisting. Please, someone tell her this wasn’t happening.
* * *
“NO OFFENSE, BUT you don’t look like a minister.”
Owen didn’t blame Molly for doubting him. He wasn’t really a minister. And his three intent-on-misbehaving offspring were hardly aiding his image.
“I got ordained online,” he explained. “A buddy asked me to officiate his wedding a few months ago. We had this bet and, well...”
“Is that even a real thing? Getting ordained online?”
He corralled his children closer. They’d attempted to wander off in three different directions, and the room had far too many breakables for his comfort level. “I guarantee you, I can legally marry people. In Arizona, at least.”
“Do you have any credentials?”
“I didn’t bring my certificate. I figured Uncle Homer had vouched for me.”
“What’s his cell phone number?”
Owen chuckled. “You plan on calling him to verify my story?”
“Yes.” She squared her shoulders. “I do.”
“That’s funny.”
“Oh?” She drew out the word.
“You said ‘I do.’ Like in a wedding vow. And I’m an online minister.”
“Huh.”
All right, not funny. Ms. O’Malley apparently lacked a sense of humor.
Then again, Owen was a complete stranger, and he’d obviously caught her at a bad moment, when she was overwhelmed and not expecting him. Anyone’s sense of humor would desert them.
She lifted one side of the apron she wore and produced a phone from her jeans pocket. Swiping the screen, she raised her brows expectantly. “What’s your uncle’s number?”
Owen obliged her, and she quickly entered it. He might have spent more time losing himself in the depths of her incredible green eyes, but his son chose that moment to renew the squabble with his sister.
“Cody, that’s enough.”
Owen blocked his son’s hand right before it connected with his oldest daughter, Marisa. Cody was strictly forbidden to tease or torment his little sisters. Unfortunately, that seldom deterred him, and Marisa was his target more often than Willa, the youngest.
In response, Marisa dropped to the floor and resumed crying. “I wanna go home.”
Willa collapsed beside her sister, whining in solidarity, while Cody grabbed Owen’s arm and, lifting his feet, dangled in his best monkey impersonation.
Owen attempted to quiet the girls and sent Molly an apologetic smile. This wasn’t the