by Caro Carson
Her fingers practically tingled in anticipation.
He wore no cowboy hat, but that wasn’t unusual. Half the cowboys didn’t wear one when they weren’t working. A lot of the local guys wore ball caps with dumb fishing mottos on them, but not her cowboy. He looked too classy for that. He looked...
She couldn’t put her tingling finger on it, but he didn’t quite look like any of the cowboys from around Rust Creek Falls.
He’s not from around here, that’s why.
Kristen would have noticed him long ago if he were a local.
Who are you?
He looked right at her, as if he’d heard her ask the question. Over the nose of the white horse, across the dozen people who milled between them, their gazes met and held.
The people and the picnic and the party disappeared. Kristen felt only the heat in his dark brown eyes. He checked her out as thoroughly as she’d been checking him out, his gaze moving across her bare shoulders, down the V of her halter dress, taking in her boots with a brief quirk of his lips. She didn’t miss it, because she hadn’t looked away for a second. She was no shrinking violet. When he realized she was still watching him, he lifted a brow. She tossed her hair back and shrugged one bare shoulder.
Across the crowd, they shared a slow smile. If it was true that like attracted like, then she and this man sure were alike. When people said “two peas in a pod” to Kristen, they were invariably referring to her twin, but on this special summer day, Kristen knew that she and this man were a match, too. That smile said it all.
Without warning, the horse he was holding threw its head up. The Cowboy lost his grip on the bridle and took a head-butt to the jaw. Of course, he had the bridle back in hand and the horse steady in a second, but as his dark brown eyes met Kristen’s once more, his mouth quirked again in a bit of a sheepish smile.
Kristen wanted to toss her head like the snowy white horse. What do you know? I just made a cowboy lose control of a horse.
With a self-satisfied smile, Kristen turned toward the pavilion and the punch table. It was time to get two fresh cups and introduce herself to the man of her dreams.
* * *
Ryan rubbed his jaw as he moved with the rest of the wedding party toward the stage.
That horse had hit him as hard as the best boxer he’d ever faced down in the ring. Ryan was grateful that he knew how to take a punch. He’d managed to stay on his feet, so he hadn’t looked like a complete fool in front of the exquisite woman he’d been so thoroughly distracted by. He hoped he hadn’t looked like a fool. She’d disappeared into the crowd.
He’d find her again. The crowd here wasn’t big enough for someone to get lost permanently, a point definitely in favor of small towns at the moment. He scanned the people edging the dance floor, looking for her unusual blend of delicate features and a bold gaze.
The lead singer of the band spoke into the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please? I’d like to turn the stage over to the mayor of Rust Creek Falls, Collin Traub.”
Another Traub. Was everyone in the town related to the bride and groom? And, by birth and by blood, to Ryan’s own brother?
As a man about Ryan’s age took the mike amid a round of applause, everyone turned to face the stage. Ryan kept looking through the crowd, scanning the backs of the heads of the people in front of him, looking for one particular woman’s long hair.
The attorney side of himself, which was practically the only side he had, yanked his attention back to the stage. If he was seriously considering a move to this town, he ought to be evaluating the mayor. Local government would have a huge impact on the growth of the town and the requirements for operating a business. He couldn’t prosper in a town that elected inflexible or unqualified people to office. Ryan focused on the mayor, who still wore his tuxedo as part of the wedding party, a tuxedo with a bolo tie instead of a bow tie, of course. The men around here were never far from their cowboy roots, even in their formal attire. The mayor’s welcome speech was sensible, friendly and, that most appreciated trait of all speeches, short.
Like Ryan’s attention span. He couldn’t focus on anything but seeing that woman again. The sun had highlighted her hair when he’d seen her, framing her in a halo of light. He was looking for a shade of brown that shone with gold, like caramel or honey or something appealing he’d find in one of his brother’s kitchens.
Unbelievable. He was turning into a poet. Beautiful, long hair was hardly a rarity where he came from, but Ryan would bet a million dollars that he could bury his hands in his mystery woman’s hair and not have to politely avoid the anchors of fake hair extensions. So many women in Hollywood paid a fortune to look like they had the kind of hair that his boot-wearing beauty probably had gained through healthy living on a ranch.
In a flash, he saw himself burying his hands in her hair, holding her reverently as she gazed up at him from the pillow, her happiness a part of his pleasure as—
Get a grip, Ryan.
He needed to snap out of this. This day was turning strange, whether it was from the strain of work and travel, the strangeness of ruminating over his siblings’ marriages or the sight of a bride and groom, he couldn’t say. Maybe it was the higher elevation or the cleaner air or that damned syrupy wedding punch, but he felt off.
The mayor called the bride and groom to the stage for the best man’s toast. Ryan saw the three fairy-tale grannies circulating in the crowd, coming toward him with trays of paper cups, making sure everyone who didn’t already have a drink in hand accepted one of theirs.
Absolutely not. Ryan Roarke, attorney at law, was not going to drink punch and spin ridiculous fantasies about a cowgirl he hadn’t even met. He turned on his heel and headed away from the stage.
“Were you looking for this? I think you’re going to need it.”
Ryan stopped abruptly, face to face with the cowgirl herself. Had he been heading straight for her, or had she stepped into his path? Either way, she was right here, stunningly beautiful in denim and sunshine.
She held out a cup and nodded toward the stage behind him. “It’s time for the toast.”
From her, he’d take the punch. He’d probably stand here and drink water from the river Styx, as long as he could keep looking at her. She looked right back, her blue eyes and heart-shaped face framed by that hair he so keenly wanted to touch.
“I’m Kristen,” she said with a smile.
He nodded gravely, aware that this was an introduction he’d remember.
“Ryan,” he said, and he suddenly didn’t care about Montana or Hollywood, about mayors and law firms. The only thing he cared about was getting to know the woman who smiled at him in a green park on the Fourth of July. She was worth traveling a thousand miles.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” she asked.
“No, I’m not.” Now that he’d decided what he wanted, he could relax. He found himself smiling at her—with her—without any effort at all. “But I could be.”
The best man finished his toast. “To the new Mr. and Mrs. Braden Traub.”
The crowd around them cheered and raised their drinks to toast the happy couple. Ryan tapped his cup to Kristen’s, then watched her over the rim of his cup as they drank to the newlyweds’ happiness.
The band struck up a song, a country-western ballad for the bride and groom’s first dance, and the lovely Kristen turned to face the dance floor.
With the taste of that sweet punch lingering on his tongue, Ryan looked at the faces of the townspeople who were looking at the newlyweds, faces that were young and old and in between. He could practically feel the goodwill and best wishes being directed toward the center of the dance floor as the bride and groom danced alone. Where were the murmured whispers about the prenuptial agreement? The bets that this marriage wouldn’t last longer than the brid
e’s previous two or the groom’s last three?
Ryan glanced down at the beautiful woman beside him. Her profile was not only pure physical perfection, but the expression on her face looked to him to be genuinely pure, as well, as open and honest as her friends’ and neighbors’ faces. He rubbed his still-aching jaw in disbelief. He’d had to see this to believe it, the possibility that an entire town could be truly wishing this couple a lifetime of happiness. If he wanted to fit in here, he’d have to leave some of his skepticism in LA.
The song came to an end, and Kristen bit the edge of her cup in her perfect white teeth so her hands were free to applaud with the rest of the crowd.
“Allow me.” Ryan tugged the cup from her, charmed by her unselfconscious smile. He slid her empty cup inside his own, then turned to put them down on the nearest picnic table.
The lead singer of the band was doubling as the master of ceremonies. “Everyone is invited to join in for this next dance. For every couple who gets on the dance floor, the bride and groom will get another year of happiness, so don’t be shy. Find your partners.”
The fiddle player began the first notes of a country-western song in the clear one-two-three rhythm of a waltz.
Ryan didn’t know how to two-step or boot-scoot or do any kind of country dancing, but a waltz was a waltz, whether it was danced under the chandeliers of a ballroom or on temporary wood planking in a park. He could fit in here, on the dance floor with the citizens of Rust Creek Falls, and he could waltz with the prettiest cowgirl of them all.
“May I have this dance?” he asked.
“You may.” Kristen took her place in his arms with a graceful swirl of her denim dress. They began to move as one.
There was nothing that satisfied Ryan’s sense of irony more than holding a beautiful woman in a ballroom dance. It seemed so civilized on the surface, when it was really a way to bring a man and a woman’s bodies in sync. While they performed the prescribed moves of the centuries-old waltz, he could touch the smooth skin of her upper back, left bare by the halter dress. He could feel the incredible softness of her hair brushing his wrist as they turned in smooth circles. He could hold her so close that they stepped between each other’s legs, graceful movements of her booted feet between his own.
“I love the waltz even more than the two-step,” she said, civilized small talk made while her thighs brushed against his.
“I do, too.” Of course, he only knew the waltz, not the two-step, but he’d watch and learn the two-step in record time today. He intended to dance as much as possible with Kristen. This was where he wanted to be, but more importantly, this was the woman with whom he wanted to be. She moved with him effortlessly, lightly, wonderfully. The moment in time seemed perfect.
As if this dance were destined to be.
No. He didn’t believe in things like destiny. Men and women had to carve their own lives out of the circumstances they were dealt. As beautiful as the woman in his arms was, as expressive as her eyes were and as easily as her smile came, it was still absurd to think she’d come into his life today because of destiny.
It was even more absurd that he was debating the possibility.
It had to be the wedding. The music. The damned effect of that punch. This was just an average town, a simple song, an average band. There was nothing special about this waltz, and the woman he shared it with was merely a pretty country girl. Those were facts, not fate.
He was an attorney, a man of letters. Like his parents, he believed in laws and rules, not in mystical interpretations of life.
But Mom, I’m not really a Roarke.
Oh, but you are. I think you were always meant to be my son, and I was always meant to be your mother.
The memory caught him by surprise. Did his analytical adoptive mother truly believe in fate, or had she said those words to comfort a boy who’d never forgotten being left behind?
“Are you okay?”
Kristen’s soft question brought him back to reality. He gave her a polite, reassuring smile that was little more than a reflex.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
How odd that she’d asked. He hadn’t changed the rhythm of their dancing or the way he was holding her as he’d remembered his mother’s words about destiny. On the surface, everything was the same, all smooth skin, smooth steps, synchronicity. And yet, Kristen had noticed his subtle change in mood.
She was more than a pretty country girl, and he couldn’t fool himself otherwise. There was something special about her. This day had become so much more than a weekend away from the rat race. This town, this celebration, this woman all combined to make Ryan feel like he was standing at the brink of something new. Did she feel it, too?
He’d known her for minutes. He couldn’t ask her if she believed in destiny, but he could hold her as the band played, so he lost himself in her blue eyes as they waltzed together under the big Montana sky.
* * *
The Cowboy didn’t seem inclined to make small talk, and she loved dancing too much to want to chatter about nothing when she could be enjoying the music and the motion, so they danced in silence as one song led to the next.
Occasionally, though, she noticed someone on the dance floor would seem to recognize Ryan, and they’d exchanged a friendly nod.
Who are you? Where did you come from?
She was half-afraid to ask. He was too perfect for her—he even wanted to dance every song, just like she did—so she could almost imagine she’d conjured him up. Like a figment of her imagination, he could disappear as easily as he’d arrived.
Sooner than she would have liked, the band stopped playing and the wedding cake was cut with the usual ceremony. It went without saying that after being so in tune with Ryan on the dance floor, they’d take their cake slices and walk in step toward one of the many card tables that had been set up under the park’s shade trees.
Dancing had been all about communicating with movement, but Kristen had no desire to sit across from the man and eat wedding cake in silence.
“Will you be in town long?” she asked, jumping in with both feet and asking the most important question first. Her brothers would probably shake their heads and say she was being too bold again, but her sister would probably tell her she’d make a good journalist, getting right to the point.
“Just until tomorrow.” Ryan set his plate aside and gave her his full attention, arms crossed on the table, gaze on her face.
Shivers ran down her spine. Hadn’t she vowed to find a man who paid attention to her and only her?
Her sister had been so serious as they’d sat on the fence, telling Kristen she shouldn’t dare the universe with her declaration about not falling in love today. If the universe had decided to prove Kristen wrong by setting the perfect man in front of her as a temptation—well, heck, that wasn’t much of a punishment. She’d said she wouldn’t fall in love, but a girl would be crazy not to reconsider after meeting a man like Ryan.
She flipped her hair back over her shoulder to keep it out of the white icing. “What did you mean when I asked you if you were from around here, and you said you could be?”
“It’s a thought I’ve been entertaining. It might be time to get out of the fast lane and settle down, somewhere away from the madding crowds. I like Montana.”
She licked a little frosting off her finger as she listened. Not a lot of cowboys would describe their lives as being in the fast lane.
“I’ve visited a few places in Montana over the past couple of years,” he said, “but right now, Rust Creek Falls looks just about perfect.”
He was looking right at her. Another shiver went down her spine, and she decided the sensation was as delicious as the cake. She was already half in love with Ryan. He was handsome and humorous, with a cowboy’s good manners and rock-hard body, and most of all, he seemed to be interested i
n everything she had to say. If he was considering a permanent move to Rust Creek Falls, the universe had won the dare. She’d fall in love today and be happy that the universe had known better than she had.
“Are you a Traub?” he asked.
“No, I’m a Dalton.”
“Good. I was starting to think everyone was a Traub except me.”
It could have been her overactive actress’s imagination, but he’d said that line with a touch of wistfulness.
“Don’t feel too left out. There are oodles of Daltons and Crawfords and Stricklands here, too. You don’t have to be a Traub to live in Rust Creek Falls.”
One of the Traubs in question passed near their table, Collin Traub, the mayor, to be exact. He nodded at Ryan, who hesitated just a moment before nodding back.
“You know Collin?” Kristen asked. That was excellent. The more ties Ryan had to this town, the more reasons he had to stay.
“Collin who?”
“The man you just nodded at.”
“No, not really.” He looked away from her toward Collin, then glanced around the other tables, but his gaze didn’t stop on anyone in particular.
He knew no one, then. That could be a lonely feeling. Kristen remembered feeling lost on campus when she’d first arrived at the University of Montana. The modest city of Missoula had seemed like a giant metropolis of heartless strangers.
She didn’t want Ryan to feel that way, not in her town. She slid his discarded plate back in front of him, took his fork and scooped up a chunk from the best part of the slice, the corner between the top and side that had the most frosting. Maybe a little sugar would bring the smile back to his face.
She held the fork up. “Here, eat this. You can’t let homemade cake go to waste.”
He didn’t smile. One brow lifted slightly at her impulsive gesture. She hadn’t thought it through, but if she’d expected him to take the fork from her, she’d been wrong. Instead, with his intense gaze never leaving her face, he leaned forward and ate the bite off the fork as she held it.
