A Bravo Christmas Wedding. Christine Rimmer
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She would go. And he would be alone again. That was just how it was—how he wanted it.
And was any of what was eating at him her fault?
Absolutely not.
She was probably calling her mother about now, asking to have a real bodyguard sent ASAP so that she could move back to the Haltersham, where nobody jumped down her throat just for saying what was on her mind.
He dropped the towel and reached for his jeans.
* * *
When he opened his bedroom door and stuck out his head, Lonesome was there waiting on the threshold. The dog eased around him and headed for his favorite spot on the rug by the bed.
Walker stared at Rory’s bedroom door, which was shut. It had been open before.
She must have come upstairs.
He stepped across the hall and tapped on the door. And then he waited, more certain with each second that passed that she was in there packing her bags, getting ready to get the hell away from him. He was just lifting his hand to knock a second time when the door swung inward, and there she was.
In a white terry-cloth robe with her hair piled up loosely and the smell of steam and flowers rising from her skin.
“Uh,” he said.
She looked so sweet and smelled so good...and whoa. He should have thought twice before knocking on her bedroom door in the middle of the night.
And then her soft lips curled upward in a slow smile, and that cute dimple tucked itself into her round cheek. Pow. Like getting hit in the chest with a big ole ball of wonderful, watching her smile. It was bad, worse than seeing her snowman socks, to be standing there staring at her fresh from a bath.
She said, “Ready to apologize for being such a jackass?”
He nodded and made himself get on with it. “That’s right. I’m sorry.” It came out gruff, not smooth and regretful as he meant it. But it was the best he could do at the moment, given the smell of her and the sweet, pink smoothness of her skin that he was having a real hard time not reaching out and touching. “I’m sorry for being a complete douche bag.”
She smiled wider. “Why, yes. You were quite the douche.”
“You’ve got on your princess voice.”
“Excuse me?”
“When you’re pissed off, you always sound...” What in hell was he babbling about? “Never mind. And you didn’t have to agree, you know? You could tell me I wasn’t that bad.”
“I just call it like I see it.”
He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the door frame. Better. With his arms folded, he was less likely to do something stupid like try to touch her, and leaning against the door frame made him almost believe he felt easy and casual. He said, “Well, this is the deal. The real truth is, I’m a little worried about Rye and Clara, too.”
Her bright, hard smile turned softer. “Yeah. I kind of thought that you were.”
“I don’t think there’s much we can do about it, though.”
She stared up at him, so earnest now, so sweet. “It’s just good to know I’m not the only one who’s got doubts about this wedding.”
He thought back over the evening at Clara’s. “A couple of times tonight, they seemed...I don’t know, good together, tight with each other.”
She nodded. “Like when I brought her back into the kitchen after she got sick, when Ryan jumped up and went to her. He put his arm around her and asked her if she was all right...”
“Yeah, then. And also when she took his hand, a little later, at the table.”
“So you’re thinking it could be that we’re worried for nothing?”
“It’s possible.”
She nodded again. “Yeah. You’re right. And I really, truly, did not mean to be insulting to Ryan. He’s a great guy and I love him.”
“I know that you do.” Say good-night, warned the voice of reason inside his head. He peeled himself off the door frame. “Well...”
She gave a little chuckle and the sound made a hot pass along his nerve endings, tempting him to want things he had to keep remembering he was never going to get. “I know,” she said softly. “It’s late. And there’s Rocky Mountain Christmas in town tomorrow.”
“How could I forget?” All the local crafters and clubs set up booths in the town hall. Then at night, there was a Christmas show put on by the schoolkids in the newly renovated Cascade Theater. He used to go to it every year. But about a decade ago, he’d realized that when you’d been to one Rocky Mountain Christmas, you’d pretty much been to them all. “I take it we’re going.”
“Oh, yes, we are.”
Say good-night, you fool. Do it now. “’Night, Rory.”
“’Night, Walker.” She stepped back and shut the door.
He stood there for several seconds before turning away, staring at that closed door, arms wrapped extra tight across his chest, his pulse hard and hungry in his own ears.
* * *
In the morning before dawn, Rory got up and splashed cold water on her face. She put on a pair of comfy long johns and thick wool socks. Over the long johns, she wore jeans and a warm shirt. She pulled on sturdy boots. And then she put on her heavy jacket and a watch cap. Grabbing her winter riding gloves, she went out to help Walker and Bud Colgin with the horses.
An hour later, Bud went back to his house. Rory and Walker tacked up a couple of the horses and rode out toward the mountains as the sun was coming up. It was great, just the two of them and the horses in the freezing winter dawn, with Lonesome trailing along in their wake.
They got back to the house at a little after nine, both of them really hungry. He fried eggs and bacon. She made the coffee and toasted the bread.
“This isn’t bad at all,” she told him when they sat down to eat.
He grunted. “What isn’t bad?”
“This. Ranch life. When I move to Justice Creek, I might just get my own spread.”
“Princess Aurora, Colorado rancher?” Was he making fun of her? If so, at least he was doing it good-naturedly.
“Smile when you say that.”
He ate a piece of bacon and played along. “So, you planning on running cattle, too?”
“Just a few horses. I want a big, old house and a dog and a cat. Kind of like the Bar-N. But with chickens.” She sipped her coffee. “Yeah. I see my ranch with chickens.”
He shook his head. “What about your career as a world-famous photographer.”
“I can do more than one thing, you know. I’m guessing I could fit fiddling with my cameras in somewhere between grooming the horses and feeding the chickens.”
He mopped up the last of his eggs with the toast. “You’re never really going to move to Justice Creek.” He kept his eyes focused on his plate when he said that.
She studied his bent head, his broad shoulders, those strong, tanned hands of his. “My sister Genevra? She’s a year older than me. Married an English earl last May. They live at his giant country house, Hartmore, in Derbyshire.”
He lifted his head and looked at her then, those eyes so blue—and so guarded. “I know who Genevra is. And what has she got to do with your moving to Justice Creek?”
“Genny loves Hartmore. She says that from the first time we visited there, when we were small, she knew it was meant to be her home. Justice