Country Bride

by Debbie Macomber

  * * *

  Brodie had to exert every bit of his considerable self-control to prevent himself from slamming the door behind him as he stalked down the stairway and back out to the garden behind her apartment.

  His temper seethed and bubbled and he wanted to rip out a flower or two. Or every last freaking one.

  Her dog—half poodle, half Labrador and all unique, just like her—woofed a quick greeting and headed for him, tail wagging. Brodie scratched the dog between the ears and released a breath, some of the tension seeping away here in the summer evening with a friendly dog offering quiet comfort.

  A little of his tension. Not all of it. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Yeah, maybe it had been stupidly shortsighted of him, but despite what he had said up there, he’d never truly expected her to say no.

  Ironic, really. He hadn’t wanted her involved in Taryn’s home-care program in the first place. He thought his mother was crazy when she first suggested it a few weeks ago, after the director of the Birch Glen rehab center had first rather gently suggested Taryn’s placement there might not be working out.

  Evaline Blanchard was a loose screw. She kept her long, blond wavy hair wild or in braids, she favored Teva sandals to high heels, she always had some sort of chunky jewelry on that she had probably designed herself. Most of the time she wore flowing, flowery sundresses as if she was some kind of Mother Earth hippie—except when she was wearing extremely skintight exercise leggings, he amended. His body stirred a little at the memory, much to his chagrin.

  He didn’t want to be attracted to Evie Blanchard. She was a bleeding heart do-gooder who seemed to spend her spare time trying to think of ways to mess with things that weren’t broken. Everything about her grated on him like metal grinding on metal.

  When she first came to town, he had entertained the idea that maybe she was some kind of grifter trying to run a con on his too-trusting mother. Really, what woman in her right mind would decide to pick up and move across three states—leaving what had apparently been a lucrative rehab therapy career—on the basis of an email friendship alone?

  Either she was the most patient shyster he’d ever heard of or she had genuinely moved to Hope’s Crossing for a new start. She had been in town a year and seemed to have settled in comfortably, becoming part of the community. His mother and all her friends certainly adored her, anyway.

  He scratched the dog one last time, then headed out the wrought-iron gate and through the alley toward Main Street.

  Evie Blanchard might not be a con artist but he still took pains to avoid her. She had a particular way of looking at a man that made him feel edgy and tense, condemned before he even opened his mouth. He knew her opinion of him. That he was a bully with a big checkbook who liked to have his way around town. He was the big, bad developer who wanted to ruin Hope’s Crossing.

  Not true. He loved this town. He had made his home here, had brought his three-year-old daughter here after his hasty mistake of a marriage had fallen apart. And now he was bringing Taryn home again to heal. Didn’t that count for something?

  Not to Evie Blanchard, apparently. She obviously disliked him intensely. It didn’t help that every time they had appeared on opposite sides of some planning commission meeting or public hearing or other, she would be giving some eloquent opposition to whatever he was working on and he would be appalled by the hot surge of completely inappropriate lust curling through his gut.

  Of course, he couldn’t tell his mother that. He didn’t even like admitting it to himself.

  He would prefer to keep a healthy distance from Evie Blanchard and her wavy blond hair and her lithe figure, which definitely filled out her tight running leggings in all the right ways.

  Too bad his mother had convinced him she was absolutely the best person to help his daughter right now.

  Katherine’s arguments had been persuasive, full of journal articles Evie had written a few years earlier, media reports about the amazing progress she’d made with some of her patients, even references from parents of her former clients. His mother had done her homework and had presented all her findings to him with a satisfied flourish. After reading through her dossier on Evie’s time as a physical therapist in California, he had to admit he had been impressed. Now he didn’t know if he could be satisfied with anyone else.

  Brodie sighed as he headed toward his car, parked in the lot behind the Center of Hope Café. He spotted Dermot Caine, owner of the café, heading to the Dumpster out back with a garbage bag in each hand. Brodie waved and Dermot called out a greeting.

  “Is it true your girl’s coming home?” the other man asked, a hopeful expression on his sunbaked features.

  “That’s the plan. She still has a long way to go.” He really wished he didn’t have to add that disclaimer whenever he talked to anyone in town, but the people of Hope’s Crossing had seen enough disappointment and sorrow over the last three months. He didn’t want anyone to set unreasonably high expectations.

  “You give her a big hug from me, won’t you? That little girl’s a trouper. If anything sounds good to her—one of my huckleberry pies, some of that chocolate mousse she always liked—you just say the word and I’ll personally deliver it.”

  “Will do. Thanks, Dermot.” There had been a time when the owner of the diner considered Brodie nothing but a troublemaker with a chip on his shoulder. Brodie had worked hard to overcome his rep around town over the years and it was heartening to see Dermot’s concern for his daughter.

  “I mean it. Everyone in town is praying for that little girl. She’s a miracle, that’s what she is, and we can’t wait to have her back.”

  “I appreciate that. I’m sure Taryn does, too.”

  All of Hope’s Crossing was invested in her recovery. That was a hell of a lot of pressure on a fifteen-year-old kid who couldn’t string more than a couple of words together at a time.

  Brodie headed toward his SUV, a grim determination pulsing through him. Evie Blanchard was still his best hope.

  He wasn’t about to give up after one measly rejection. He had never been a quitter, not in the days when he used to ski jump and had trained for the Olympics, nor in his business endeavors. He sure as hell wasn’t going to quit on his little girl.

  He had failed her enough as a single father, starting with his lousy choice of her mother, who had jumped at the chance to escape them as soon as she could, leaving him with a three-year-old kid he was clueless to raise. With a great deal of help from his mother, Brodie had worked hard to give Taryn a stable life, with all the comforts any kid could want.

  What he hadn’t given her was much of himself. The last few years, their relationship had been stilted and awkward, filled with fights and tantrums. He found out as she hit about thirteen that he knew diddly-squat about teenage girls and their mood swings. Somehow in all the lecturing and grounding and disappointments, he had missed the signs that Taryn had strayed dangerously off track, running with a bad crowd, drinking, even burglarizing stores.

  He might have been earning a failing grade as a parent before the accident—something he was used to from his own school days—but he refused to let her down now. He was determined to find the absolute best person to spearhead her rehabilitation program on the home front. Like it or not, Evie Blanchard appeared to be that person.

  So what if he found her grating and confrontational on a personal level? He was a big boy. He would get over it, especially if she could help him give his daughter her best chance at a full recovery.

  Two

  Evie awoke early the next morning tired and gritty-eyed. Jacques stuck his nose into the curve of her neck and she laughed hoarsely.

  “Yeah, okay. I know what you want,” she muttered. She sat up gingerly, her body aching a little from the long weekend. Jacques needed to go out and an early-morning hike up the Woodrose trail would be jus
t the thing to shake the cobwebs away.

  She dressed quickly, especially since the dog was prancing around anxiously by now, and ten minutes later she grabbed the dog’s leash and they headed out just as the sun peeked above the mountains.

  By the time they reached the trailhead to Woodrose Mountain, both of them were a little more settled. The trail was wet from a predawn storm and she wondered if it were possible to become intoxicated from the scent of rain-washed sage and tart pine.

  The farther she hiked up the trail, the more stunning the view. It never failed to move her. Hope’s Crossing looked small, provincial, especially with the vast shadows of mountain ranges rippling out in every direction.

  The quiet stillness was a far cry from the traffic and craziness of L.A.—and she wouldn’t trade it for anything. When she arrived in Hope’s Crossing, she had been battered and lost. Somehow here in this space where she could breathe and think, she had reconnected with herself, and the aches and pains and scabs of grief and self-doubt had begun to heal.

  Not completely. She sighed, lifting her face to the sun just barely cresting the mountains. Just when she thought she was finally in a good and healthy place, content with the world and her place in it, reality had smacked her upside the head like an unexpected branch stretching across her life’s trail.

  Despite her exhaustion from the busy weekend, she hadn’t slept well, her dreams fragmented and jagged, a tangle of memories and ghosts. No surprise whom to blame. Brodie Thorne’s unexpected request had ricocheted through her mind all night.

  She felt like a coward for saying no to him but she knew she wasn’t. It had taken great courage to walk away from a career, a home, friends she loved, in search of something she knew she could no longer find in L.A. She had worked too hard to achieve homeostasis—harmony, balance, equilibrium, whatever word fit best. Although some part of her felt guilty for saying no to him and refusing to help with Taryn’s rehabilitation, she knew it had been the most healthy answer she could have offered.

  After she and Jacques had both worked out their edginess, she headed back down the mountainside, passing a couple of tourists who were obviously continental, with their walking sticks and their Birkenstocks and that indefinable élan. They greeted her in heavily accented English then said something quickly to each other in musical French, gesturing toward Jacques, with his Labrador body and his wool-like poodle coat, which she kept groomed short in the summer for his comfort. He gave them a regal nod before padding down the trail behind her and Evie smiled, rubbing his head with affection. Boy, she loved this mutt.

  Back at her apartment, she spent the morning working on the instructions for a couple of bead designs she planned to submit to an industry magazine, then grabbed a quick sandwich before heading for work.

  It was impossible not to compare her commute now—sixteen narrow steps down the back stairway and then through the String Fever rear entryway—to the endless lifetime she used to spend in the stop-and-go nightmare of Southern California traffic.

  A teenage girl was poring over the wires, and a couple of young mothers sat in the reading corner leafing through the bead pattern books while their children explored with the toys Claire had provided in the playroom.

  Evie’s employer was on the telephone in her small office. Through the open doorway, Claire Bradford waved at her as she crossed to the rack hanging behind the big worktable for the multipocketed half apron that came in so handy for holding her beading tools.

  By the time she returned, Claire had finished her phone call. She glowed today, her eyes shining and her smile bright and cheerful. She wore her new happiness like a brilliant tiara and Evie was thrilled for her. Claire was the most generous, giving woman she knew, always reaching out to lift someone else. Though she didn’t seem bitter that her ex-husband had married someone ten years younger shortly after their divorce and seemed to flaunt it in her face by settling into Hope’s Crossing with his bride, Evie knew it must have stung.

  Riley McKnight made Claire happy. Everyone in town could see that, and the man plainly adored her.

  “You’re not supposed to be here for—” Claire checked her watch with its band of gorgeous pink-toned Murano art glass “—another hour.”

  Evie smiled. “I wanted to double-check the kits for my class tonight.”

  “Probably a good idea. We had a rush on last-minute sign-ups over the weekend. I think we added six more Saturday alone. Your classes are always full. Face it, honey, you’re a rock star among the beaders of Hope’s Crossing.”

  Evie laughed. “That’s something, right?”

  “I hope we’re going to have enough room at the worktable. Let me know if you think you’ll need a second one. So how was Grand Junction?”

  “Much better than I expected. So good, in fact, we’re going to have a crazy time replenishing the inventory before the last show over Labor Day weekend.”

  “I’ll put out a notice by the checkout that you’ll be taking consignment items. This is a great thing you’re doing, Evie. I can’t believe how the scholarship fund has grown in just a few months. Between the ginormous amount we collected at the benefit auction in June and the money that’s come in since then because of everything you’re doing, as well as the other fundraisers around town, we might have enough of an endowment to be able to fund a couple of scholarships a year in Layla’s memory. You’re doing a wonderful thing, Evie.”

  “I’m not doing much. You’re the one handling all the organizational legwork. Selling jewelry is the fun part.”

  “I’ve done arts-and-crafts fairs before. Parts of it are fun but it’s hard, intense work.”

  “So far I’m enjoying it. Almost done now. Only the Labor Day festival in Crested Butte.” She quickly shifted the subject. “How are the wedding plans coming?”

  “Whose?”

  Evie laughed. “Um, yours. What wedding did you think I meant?”

  “As far as certain people are concerned, the Beaumont-Danforth nuptials are the only game in town, even though it’s still nine months away. Gen Beaumont has been in once a day, looking for that order of art glass she placed last week for the jewelry sets she’s making for her bridesmaid gifts. I keep telling her it takes two weeks for delivery but she seems to think she can make the process move faster by sheer force of will.”

  “If anyone could manipulate the space-time continuum, Genevieve Beaumont would get my vote.”

  Claire’s laugh had a wild edge. “I think I speak for all the merchants in Hope’s Crossing when I say how happy I will be when her wedding is a distant memory.”

  Genevieve Beaumont was the daughter of the Hope’s Crossing mayor and the town’s most prominent attorney. Her society wedding had been in the works for months. It was supposed to be a lovely fall wedding, set for October, but Gen had postponed it after the tragic accident that had impacted the entire town three months earlier.

  “Have you had any time to plan your own?” Evie asked.

  “It’s coming. We’re looking at December now, with a small, intimate dinner and dance afterward in the Silver Strike ballroom.”

  “Lovely. I can picture it now. Everything silver and white and blue, with fairy lights and acres of tulle.”

  Claire’s features turned dreamy for just a moment before she shrugged. “I’ve already done the big-reception thing once. I don’t want to go overboard this time around.”

  “Riley hasn’t, though.”

  “He doesn’t care. He would run off to Vegas tomorrow if his mother and sisters wouldn’t kill us later.”

  Evie smiled, though she was disconcerted by a sudden, completely unexpected twinge of envy at Claire’s bubbly happiness.

  Where did that come from? She wasn’t jealous of Claire. Absolutely not. While she was certainly delighted for her friend, Evie wasn’t in the market for a relationship. Hadn’t she just d
ecided the night before that she was completely happy with her single, unencumbered life here? She had Jacques for company and he was far more comfortable than any romantic entanglement of her experience.

  “You both deserve a lovely wedding. You know I’m here for whatever help you need,” she assured Claire.

  “Be careful what you offer.” Claire laughed. “I might take you up on it when the date gets closer.”

  “You know perfectly well I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to help.”

  Claire started to answer but paused when the teenage girl approached them, her plump features hesitant. “Sorry to interrupt. I can come back.”

  “Not at all,” Evie said quickly. “Hannah, right? You’re friends with Lara, who works here sometimes.”

  “Not really. We just know each other from school and stuff.”

  Something about the girl’s unease, her hesitance bordering on gawky awkwardness, tugged at Evie’s heart.

  “How can we help you?” Claire asked just as the phone in the office rang.

  “I’ve got this,” Evie answered. “Go ahead and take the call.”

  “It’s probably Gen again,” Claire said with a reluctant sigh, but she crossed the showroom to the phone at her desk.

  “If you’re busy or whatever, I can come back another time.”

  “Not at all,” Evie assured the girl. “I’m all yours. How can I help you?”

  “I don’t know anything about beading but I think it looks kind of neat. I’d like to learn, I guess. I was thinking about trying to make some earrings for my mom. It’s her birthday next week.”

  “Lovely!”

  “She’s been, you know, kind of sad lately and I sort of thought, you know, that some new earrings would cheer her up.”

  Kirk. That was her last name, Evie suddenly remembered. Hannah Kirk. Evie didn’t know the family well but she suddenly recalled the buzz around town had it that Hannah’s father had walked out on them right after Christmas for another woman, leaving her mother to struggle alone with Hannah and three younger siblings.