The Maverick's Holiday Masquerade (Montana Mavericks: What Happened At The Wedding 5)

by Caro Carson

  None of that would be happening for Ryan. Not in Montana, and not anywhere else on the planet. Unlike Shane, Ryan hadn’t been adopted at birth. He’d been almost four years old, too young to have many memories of his birth mother, but old enough to have retained an image or two, impressions.

  Feelings.

  And that one clear moment in time: watching his mother voluntarily walk away from him, forever.

  No, there would never be an embrace from a happy second family for him. He was loyal only to one family: the Roarkes. His parents, Christa and Gavin Roarke, his older brother Shane, his younger sister Maggie.

  It was Maggie who lived here in Rust Creek Falls, some three hundred miles even farther north than Thunder Canyon. Maggie was married now, and she’d given birth to her first baby less than three months ago.

  The Fourth of July wasn’t a big family holiday, not like Thanksgiving or Christmas. Between the LA traffic to the airport, the security checks, and the need to change planes in order to cross one thousand miles, Montana was no weekend jaunt. No one was expected to travel for nine or ten hours to see family for a day in July. And yet, Maggie had mentioned over the phone that the whole town would be celebrating the wedding for a couple Ryan vaguely knew from a previous trip, and he’d booked a flight.

  Another moment in time, another feeling: A wedding in Rust Creek Falls? I should be there.

  He was acting irrationally, following a hunch. Was that any worse behavior than the attorneys who really were having midlife crises?

  Maggie had told him the wedding would be in the church, a formal affair with five bridesmaids and men in tuxedos. Accordingly, Ryan was wearing a suit and tie. He owned a few tuxedos, of course, but since the wedding was in the afternoon and he was one of an entire town of guests, he’d assumed wearing black tie would be too much.

  As Ryan made his way from the parking lot to the main part of the park, he returned a few curious but courteous nods from the locals. His assumption about the tux being overkill had clearly been correct, but even his suit was too much. The reception was also the town’s Fourth of July community barbecue. Ryan felt exactly like what he was, an overdressed city slicker, standing in a grassy field that was dotted with picnic blankets and populated by cowboys in their jeans and cowgirls in their sundresses.

  He stopped near the temporary stage and wooden dance floor. The bride and groom hadn’t arrived yet, but the band was warming up and the drinks were being served. An old man came toward him, going out of his way just to offer Ryan a cup of wedding punch in a paper cup. Amused, Ryan thanked him, realizing the old-timer must have thought he looked like he needed a drink, standing alone as he was.

  He was alone, but only because Maggie and her husband were back at their house, hoping their baby would take a nap so they could return for the fireworks later. Being alone didn’t mean Ryan was lonely.

  Ryan took a swig of the wedding punch, then immediately wished he hadn’t. It was a god-awful sweet concoction with sparkling wine thrown in, something he’d never drink under almost any other circumstance. Worse, he couldn’t just pour the stuff out on the grass. In a small town like this one, he was as likely to be standing near the person who made the punch as not. Some doting grandma or an earnest young lady had probably mixed the juice and wine, and the odds were good that if Ryan dumped it out, she’d see him do it. He’d break some proud punch maker’s heart.

  If there was one thing Ryan was not, it was a heartbreaker. His Laker Girl, for example, was irritated at losing a yacht outing, but she wasn’t heartbroken. He kept his relationships painless, his connections surface-deep. In LA, it seemed right. Today, here in this park, it seemed...too little.

  He polished off the punch, but on his way to the industrial-size trash can, he passed the punch table and found himself accosted by a trio of sweet little grannies.

  “Well, don’t you look nice?”

  “Are you waiting on somebody? A handsome young man like you must have a date for this wedding.”

  “It’s nearly eighty degrees. You must be ready to melt in that jacket, not that you don’t look very fine.”

  He wasn’t overheated. In Los Angeles, the temperature would easily reach one hundred, and he’d still wear a suit between his office and the courthouse. It took more than a reading on a thermometer to make him lose his cool.

  Still, he appreciated their maternal concern. Their faces were creased with laugh lines, and all three of them had sparkling blue eyes that had probably been passed down from the Norwegians and Germans who’d settled here centuries ago. It was like being fussed over by three kindly characters from one of Grimm’s fairy tales.

  “Here, son, let me refill your cup.”

  “No, thank you.” Ryan waved off the punch bowl ladle.

  All three women jerked to attention, then looked at him through narrowed eyes, their fairy-tale personas taking on the aura of determined villainesses.

  “Don’t be foolish, dear. The day is hot and this punch is cold.”

  This was Montana, land of grizzly bears as well as grannies. At the moment, it seemed like there might not be much difference between the two groups. When confronted by a bear, one should let it have its way. Ryan forced another smile as the punch pushers refilled his cup.

  “Thank you very much.” He raised his paper cup in a toasting gesture, took a healthy swig to make them happy and continued on his way.

  To where? Just where did he have to go?

  To a trash can. He had nowhere else to be, nothing else to do, no one else to see.

  His vision burst into stars, like he’d been hit in the boxing ring, a TKO. He put his hand out to steady himself, the wooden fence rough under his palm. He wasn’t drunk. It wasn’t possible on a cup of juice-diluted sparkling wine. And yet he felt...he felt...

  Good God, he felt like garbage.

  Useless.

  Maggie was with her husband. Shane was with his wife. Even his parents were together back in California, planning their retirement, ready to travel and spend time together as Christa and Gavin after decades tirelessly fulfilling the roles of Mom and Dad.

  Lonely.

  One thousand miles he’d traveled, and for what? To be a stranger in a strange land? He looked around, keeping his grip on the split-rail fence. Everywhere, everyone had someone. Children had grandparents. Husbands had wives. Awkward teenagers had each other. The teen girls were toying with their hair, whispering and talking and looking at the boys. The boys stood with their arms crossed over their chests, testing their fledgling cowboy swagger, but they stood in a cluster with other boys with crossed arms, all being independent together.

  All being independent, together. That was what this town was about. Ryan had first come here after a flood had decimated the southern half of the town. His sister had been helping process insurance claims in the town hall. Maggie was so efficient Ryan hadn’t been needed the weekend he’d arrived to help. Instead, he’d picked up a spare pair of work gloves and started using his muscles instead of his brains, picking up the pieces, literally, of someone’s broken dream.

  Without a lot of conversation, he’d joined a cluster of men and women as they’d each picked up one brick, one board, one metal window frame to toss in a Dumpster before reaching for the next. One by one, each piece of debris had been cleared away. Independently but together, he and the others removed the remains of an entire house in a day, leaving the lot ready for a fresh building and a new dream.

  With a few nods and handshakes, all the men and women had gone their separate ways after sunset, to eat and rest and do it all over again the next day. Ryan had never been part of something so profound.

  He stared at the split-rail fence under his hand. That was why he kept coming back. For one day, he’d belonged. No one had cared which law firm he was with, which part of LA he could afford to live in, which cl
ients had invited him onto their yachts. He’d been part of this community, no questions asked, and he’d liked it.

  But now, they don’t need me.

  He rejected that thought, hearing in it the echo of a pitiful little boy whose mother had decided he was no longer needed in her life. Rejected that emotion as he had rejected it so many times before. He refused to be an unwanted child. He was a Roarke, a powerful attorney from a powerful family, and when he wanted something, no one could stop him from achieving it.

  He just needed to know what he wanted.

  The drunken, emotional craziness cleared from his mind as he kept staring at his hand, still gripping the solid wood railing. Slowly, he lifted his gaze, following the line of the fence as it stretched along the perimeter of the park. He could hardly believe the direction his own mind was taking, but his thoughts were heading straight toward one idea. What if he chose a new path in life? What if he came to Montana for more than a long weekend? Could he live here? Would he feel like he belonged, or would he always be skirting along the outside of the close-knit community?

  His visual run along the length of the fence was interrupted a hundred yards away by two women in blue dresses who were sitting on the railing, their backs to the people of the town. The one with the loose, long hair threw her head back and laughed at something the other woman said, happy although she was on the outskirts of the party.

  Happy, because she’s not alone.

  Shane and Maggie were happy in Montana, too, because they were not alone. Marriage and parenthood were sobering concepts for him. He didn’t think he’d be very good at either one, and he didn’t particularly have a burning desire to try, either. He let go of the fence and headed back toward the Porsche, loosening his tie as he went. Maybe he had come to Montana looking for something, but it hadn’t been for love.

  If he made such a drastic change, if he gave up LA for a life in a small town, he’d do so on his own terms. This was about a different standard of living, a different pace of life. There was only one way to find out if this town could meet his terms, and that was to try it on for size. Just for today, he was going to act like he belonged here. He’d eat some barbecue, dance with some local girls and decide if this community of extended families and battered pickup trucks was really richer than his moneyed life in LA.

  If he decided it was, then he’d develop and execute a plan for responsibly resigning from Roarke and Associates in Los Angeles and moving permanently to Montana.

  What if they don’t like me here, now that they don’t need me?

  He shoved the boyishly insecure emotion aside as he opened the Porsche’s trunk to get to his suitcase. The Porsche had its trunk in the front of the car and the engine in the back, making it just as unusual as Ryan himself in this humble parking lot. The Porsche was doomed to always be different. But he, with a simple change of clothes, could make himself fit in. He’d brought the jeans he usually wore to ride ATVs in Thunder Canyon and the boots he’d worn when he’d helped out after the flood.

  If the town rejected him this time, if he was treated like he was no longer wanted now that the flood was a receding memory, then no harm done. He’d lived through rejection before. He could take any heartache this town could dish out.

  He took off his Rolex and tossed it into the trunk before slamming the red metal shut.

  Chapter Two

  “Well, it won’t be long now. The band’s tuning up.”

  Thank goodness. That giggly buzz from the powerful punch had started wearing off, giving way to a different sensation. After a few tipsy laughs with her sister, Kristen now felt more than sober. She felt almost somber, as she shifted her seat on the increasingly uncomfortable wood rail.

  Her life needed to get on the right track. Things weren’t right. Pieces were missing. She was twenty-five, a college graduate with a passion for the theater, yet she spent her days running to the feed store and performing the same ranch chores she’d been assigned in junior high. Not that she wanted to lose her roots—her family, the ranch, this town—but she wanted more. An outlet for her theatrical passion—something that was hard to find in her hometown. An outlet for real passion, too, someone to lose her head and her heart over—someone who wouldn’t trample them this time.

  This bad mood was probably just because a plane had flown overhead, reminding her that a good man was hard to find. Maybe she envied her pilot for having a home base but the freedom to fly and explore. If only he hadn’t been exploring with other women in other towns...

  Jeez, she was spiraling down into a full-blown pity party.

  The band began playing its first song of the afternoon. Kristen looked over her shoulder toward the empty wooden dance floor in the distance. If no one else started dancing, she’d get the party started and be grateful for the chance. If there was one thing that could shake Kristen out of the blues, it was a party. And man, was she feeling blue.

  Stupid airplane.

  The wedding carriage appeared at the end of the block with a flutter of white ribbons and the tossing of a horse’s snowy white mane. If Cinderella had been a cowgirl, this would have been her glass carriage.

  “Oh, wow.”

  “Wow.”

  There were no other words between the sisters. As the surrey rolled steadily toward them, Kristen swallowed around a sudden but definite lump in her throat.

  The closer the carriage came, the more clearly she saw the faces of the couple on the high bench. The groom, a man born and bred in Rust Creek Falls like Kristen herself, was transformed. Kristen felt she’d never seen Braden Traub before. Wearing a tuxedo and black cowboy hat, he held the reins loosely in his hands and kept his face turned toward his bride. Whatever she was saying, he found fascinating. He had eyes only for her and never looked at the horses, and yet, had those horses bolted, Kristen knew he would have had them back under his control within seconds, never allowing his bride to be in danger.

  “I want what they have,” her sister said, reverence in her quiet tone.

  “Me, too.”

  With a love like that, she could branch out, she could fly, she could be fearless. A love like that would be her home base, the heartbeat at the center that made everything else come alive.

  Kristen laid her head on Kayla’s shoulder. Her sister was supposed to be the serious twin, but Kristen suddenly felt like crying, completely undone by the romance of the moment, by what was possible between a man and woman, by what she’d never experienced herself.

  I want a cowboy, capable and strong, who has eyes only for me, who loves only me, ’til death do us part.

  She loved her family. She loved her hometown. And someday, she silently vowed, she would love a cowboy who was honest and true. If only...

  If only she could find the right cowboy.

  “No more city slickers for me,” Kristen whispered. “I’ll have the real deal, or I’ll stay single forever.”

  “To true love.” Kayla raised her cup in a toast.

  Kristen knew Kayla was trying to cheer her up, so she straightened and lifted her cup. “To true love. Too bad we’re out of actual punch for this toast.”

  “It still counts.”

  The carriage had been noticed by other people as it drew closer to the park entrance. Kristen and Kayla jumped down from the fence to join the growing crowd as they followed the carriage into the heart of the park. The bride and groom’s tête-à-tête was over as Braden pulled the team to a stop amid applause, good-natured catcalls about what had taken so long and a flurry of activity as the bride gathered up her skirts and bouquet, preparing to get down from the high surrey bench.

  “Looks like she went traditional with a sweetheart neckline. I’m going to the other side to get a better look at her dress, okay?”

  “Have fun,” Kristen said as Kayla slipped through the small crowd.

>   Braden tied off the reins and set the brake, but for added safety amid the noisy well-wishers, two cowboys held the bridles of the white horses as Braden jumped down from the surrey. One cowboy was Sutter Traub, the town’s own horse whisperer, and the other was...

  The Cowboy.

  Kristen’s heart thudded in her chest. Another one of those giddy waves of joy passed through her, even as the lump in her throat returned. The Cowboy! She’d wished for him and he was here, so soon after she’d made her personal vow, she could hardly believe he was real.

  Yet there he was, a man she’d never seen before, holding the bridle and calming the lead horse as Braden handed his bride down from the surrey. The Cowboy—her cowboy—was the most physically appealing man she’d ever seen. Tall, dark and handsome barely began to describe him, inadequate to cover the physical confidence he possessed as he talked with the other men and kept the horse calm at the same time. The Cowboy had an air of authority that had surely come from a lifetime of handling anything that land or livestock could throw at a man.

  Kristen stepped a little to one side, and the crowd parted just enough that she could check him out from his boots and jeans—check and check—to his white button-down shirt. It looked a little dressy for the picnic; he’d probably been at the church for the ceremony. He’d cuffed up the long sleeves, revealing strong forearms.

  He was tan, but so were most of the ranchers who worked outdoors. Even the summer sun couldn’t lighten his nearly black hair, which he wore short, but not shorn. It was long enough that she could see a bit of a wave in it, and she knew it would feel glorious when she could run her fingers through it. When he was hers, she’d have the right to touch him and casually brush his hair back from his forehead.

  Her gaze traveled past his broad shoulders to the strong hands that held the bridle. When he was hers, she’d have the right to touch him anywhere. Everywhere.