A Bravo Christmas Wedding

by Christine Rimmer

Was she going to offer everything? Her love, her life, her beating heart? Was she going to hold out all she had to him and have him refuse her outright, anyway?

  And after he’d tried so hard to save her the trouble, to salvage her pride?

  She considered herself a brave person.

  But you know what?

  Not tonight.

  “Okay.” She pasted on a smile. “I get it.”

  “Rory...” His voice had changed, gone deep and roughly tender. Now he’d got through to her, he wanted to soothe her, to make her feel better.

  Well, there was no making her feel better. Not about this. “You’ll never fall in love again and you’ll die a single man. Have I got that right?”

  “Damn it, Rory.” He reached for her.

  She showed him the hand. “Right?”

  And he was forced to say it. “Yeah. That’s right.”

  It hurt. Hurt as much as the first time he’d said it. She wondered when the hurt would fade. She hoped it would be soon.

  But so far that evening, the things that she’d hoped for had not come true.

  Chapter Twelve

  They shared the bed in the loft that night.

  But Rory stayed on her side. And Walker didn’t even try to wrap himself around her.

  He woke her every couple of hours, as the first aid manuals instructed, to make certain she was still showing no symptoms of complications from the blow to her head. She sat up when he lit the lamp, let him look in her eyes and answered his questions.

  And then she turned over and pretended he wasn’t there.

  By daylight, the storm had played itself out. Bud showed up a little after eight with the snowshoes. They locked up the cabin and slogged back to the homestead, where the house was all ready for Christmas and just the sight of the tree and the mantel and the mercury glass angels made her want to burst into tears. She tried not to look at them while she called her mother and Clara to let them know she’d returned safely to the ranch house.

  The snowplows had been hard at work. They’d cleared the road to town. Walker insisted on taking her in to the hospital. The doctors ran a few tests, rebandaged the wound and told her she was going to be fine. She would have a thin scar, which she might want to see a plastic surgeon about later.

  She asked if it was safe for her to drive and be on her own now.

  The doctor assured her that it was.

  Back at the ranch again, she hugged Lucky and petted Lonesome and then went upstairs to pack.

  Walker followed her up there and stood in the doorway looking manly and grim. “So you’re leaving, just like that?”

  She dropped a stack of panties into an open suitcase and turned to him. “Do you want me to stay?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “And just pretend that nothing happened last night? Seriously? That’s really what you want?”

  He braced his shoulder against the door frame, wrapped his arms across his chest and studied his boots.

  “Great answer,” she muttered, and went to get her bras from the bureau.

  “I knew this was going to happen,” he said in a low, unhappy rumble. “I knew it from the first.”

  Oh, she wanted to throw that stack of bras at him. But she restrained herself. Barely. “Okay, Walker. You were right. It’s ended in a big mess, just like you predicted. Does that make you feel better?”

  He pushed off the doorway and entered the room. “It makes me feel like crap.” He grabbed her arm.

  She let out a low cry—and it wasn’t from outrage. It felt good, to have his hand on her again. Too damn good. Now that she’d been his lover at last, how would she bear her life without his touch?

  She dropped the bras into the suitcase and turned to face him. Her heart was a caged thing, beating frantic and ragged at the walls of her chest. He pulled her closer.

  And she let him.

  And then his arms were around her and...

  She couldn’t do it, couldn’t make herself push him away. She lifted her mouth to his and he took it.

  They stood there, by the open suitcase, kissing so hard and deep, just eating each other up. She never wanted to stop.

  She wanted to shove the suitcase off the bed and pull him down onto it with her; to get lost in his big, strong body, in his beautiful kisses, in the wonder he could work with those rough and tender hands.

  But where would that get them—except right back around to last night again?

  She broke the kiss, pressing her hands to his chest to keep him from swooping down and claiming her lips again. “I need some time alone, okay? I need some time to think.”

  He took her face between his hands. His eyes were desperate. Wild. “This is worse. Worse than with Denise. How the hell can that be?”

  “Walker.” She took his wrists in either hand. “You have to let me go now.”

  “Tell me that you’ll be okay. Tell me that...” He seemed to run out of words.

  “Walker. Let me go.”

  That finally got through to him. He dropped his cradling hands from her face and stepped away. “I’ll...carry your things down. As soon as you’re packed.” And then he turned on his heel and left her alone.

  * * *

  She went back to the Haltersham.

  Once she’d checked in, she called Clara, who came right over.

  Rory opened the door and Clara cried, “My God, Rory. What happened to you?”

  “An icicle fell on me and then Walker said he could never love me.” She burst into tears.

  Clara held out her arms. Rory went into them gratefully. She cried for a long time.

  And then she told Clara everything.

  Clara asked, “So what are you going to do about it?”

  Rory had to admit that she didn’t know yet. “I just want to get through these next few days and the wedding.”

  “And after that?”

  She only shrugged. “I meant what I said. I really don’t know.”

  * * *

  The next day Rory picked up her dress at Wedding Belles. Millie gasped at the sight of her.

  “I’m thinking a whole lot of makeup,” Rory told the dressmaker hopefully. “That might hide the black eyes. But then, there’s still the ugly bandage...”

  The dressmaker had her wait and hemmed a large square of the same eggplant satin as the dress. Then Millie showed her how to wear the makeshift scarf so it covered the bandage.

  It wasn’t great, but it was better than nothing.

  Friday arrived. Her sister Genny called her early in the morning to tell her that she had a new nephew. They’d named him Tommy. Mother and son were back home at Hartmore and doing fine. Genny sounded so happy, perfectly content with the earl she loved and their new baby. She had the life she’d always dreamed of at last. When she asked about Walker, Rory just didn’t feel like going into it all again, so she told her sister about the accident at the falls and being stranded in the cabin overnight and left out the part about how she and Walker were through. She would tell Genny later, when the hurt wasn’t so fresh.

  Afternoon rolled around and with it the rehearsal and rehearsal dinner. Her cousins fussed over her and swore that she didn’t look bad at all. They continued to behave themselves. No scenes, not a single snarky comment.

  Things between Clara and Ryan still didn’t seem right. They were way too polite to each other, hardly touching at all and avoiding eye contact. Rory felt awful just watching them together. Since the night at the cabin, she’d been so wrapped up in her own misery, she’d hardly given a second thought to Clara and the mysterious, ongoing trouble between her and Ryan.

  And then Walker showed up. One look in his eyes and Rory’s poor heart broke all over again. After that, he tried not to glance her way.
She tried not to look at him, either. But she did. And she caught him looking back more than once. She knew that look.

  Hungry. Aching. He looked just like the way she felt.

  But somehow, they got through it. When the dinner was over, he and Ryan left together. His leaving didn’t help. Now, instead of hungry and aching, she just felt empty and sad.

  The rest of them lingered over dessert. When the evening finally broke up, she tried to get Clara alone, hoping to maybe talk about Ryan a little. But there was a last-minute issue with the reception, something about the menu. Clara went off with Elise and Tracy to deal with that.

  Rory returned to the hotel alone. She watched a couple of back-to-back Christmas specials hoping all the good cheer might lift her spirits. Didn’t really happen. She gave up and went to bed.

  The next morning, Clara’s wedding day, the sun was shining. Maybe that was a good sign. Rory called Clara, but got voice mail. She left a brief message. “It’s me. Call me back.” Then she ordered room service. Her cell rang as she glumly poked at her eggs Benedict. She assumed it must be Clara.

  But no.

  “Hello, darling,” her mother said.

  Rory almost burst into tears on the spot. But she held it together somehow and rattled off a lame excuse about how she couldn’t talk right now, with the wedding and all.

  Adrienne said patiently, “I called Walker’s ranch first, assuming you would be there. Walker told me you’re back at the hotel. I am getting the distinct impression that all is not well.”

  “I just... I’ll be back in Montedoro tomorrow night. And I don’t want to go into it all now.”

  “I’m here. You know that. Anything you need.”

  Rory blinked away another spurt of unwanted tears. “I know. Thank you. I love you and I have to go now.” She hung up before she started sobbing like a baby.

  Clara didn’t call. Rory texted her twice. Finally, she got a text back.

  Swamped. CU @ the wedding. Limo @ 1:00

  Swamped with what? More last-minute menu snafus? Or maybe Clara just didn’t feel like listening to Rory moan over Walker. But that made no sense. Clara was always ready with a shoulder to cry on. She supported friends and family no matter how annoying their various personal issues might become.

  Chances were, Clara just didn’t want to talk about Ryan and she’d guessed that Rory intended to go there again.

  What more could Rory do?

  She called down to the hotel spa. They could take her right away. She had a hot rock massage and a mani-pedi. And then she went back to her suite, showered, troweled on the makeup, tied the eggplant scarf over her bandage the way Millie had shown her and put on her maid of honor dress.

  At one on the dot, the limo arrived. Her cousins—all but Clara—were already inside. Nell handed her a flute of champagne and they toasted to love and forever-after. Rory had her cameras ready. She got some fun shots as they laughed and chatted, everyone getting along, not a single discouraging word. They sailed happily down Central Street, which was chockablock with Christmas shoppers.

  The driver stopped in front of the big white church on Elk Street. They piled out, lifted their satin skirts and raced up the wide church steps, shivering, all of them eager to get in out of the cold. Clara was waiting for them, looking absolutely gorgeous in her snow-white lace-and-beadwork dress. There were hugs and good wishes and a sentimental tear or two. Rory took more pictures, the candid kind that Clara liked the best.

  At two-fifteen, they grabbed their purple-calla-lily-and-white-rose bouquets and took their places. The wedding march began. One by one, the cousins headed down the aisle. Rory followed last before Clara, her stomach twisting a little at the sight of Walker in a good black suit, his face bleak and his eyes that heartbreaker blue, flanking Ryan at the altar.

  Rory reached the others. She took her place on the left, closest to the waiting minister.

  A breath-held pause and then Clara appeared, a vision in organza and lace, her sweet face barely visible beneath her veil. When she reached Ryan’s side, she handed her bouquet to Rory and the ceremony began.

  Rory watched the bride and groom and took great care never once to glance in the best man’s direction. She was concentrating so hard on not looking at Walker, she really wasn’t paying very close attention to the deep, solemn voice of the minister or the mostly familiar words of the traditional marriage ceremony.

  Did the minister even ask the classic question about whether there was any reason the bride and groom should not be joined in holy matrimony? Rory couldn’t have said.

  She only knew that in the middle of her trying so hard not to look at Walker, Clara suddenly burst out with, “No. No, really. This is no good,” and threw back her veil.

  An audible gasp went up from the guests. The minister sputtered, “Well, but...I must say, this is highly unusual.”

  Someone let out a cry of surprise and an elderly voice demanded, “What is it? What’s happened? What’s gone wrong?”

  And Ryan said, “Clara. It’s okay. Really. I want to—”

  “Shh,” she said gently, and took both his hands. “You are the best friend any woman could have. But I can’t do this to you. I can’t do this to myself, or my baby. It just isn’t right.”

  Someone whispered way too loudly, “I told you she was pregnant.”

  And someone else hissed, “Shush.”

  And Clara said to Ryan, “I know you’ve only tried to help me, to do what you could for me. And I do love you for it, but this, you and me married, it just isn’t who we are. It isn’t going to work.”

  There were more whispers, followed by more shushing.

  Clara turned her head toward the pews. Chin high, she looked out over the sanctuary full of her wedding guests. “Ryan’s not my baby’s father, in case you all just have to know. The father is not in the picture and Ryan couldn’t stand the thought of my child growing up without a dad. So he proposed. And I was weak and needy and said yes.”

  More gasps and whispers.

  Clara turned back to Ryan. “I should have called it off long before now.”

  He searched her face. “Clara. My God. What can I say?”

  “You don’t have to say anything. You’re not up for this. Neither am I. We both know I’m right. I can see in your eyes that you know. I’ve been seeing it for weeks now. You’re my dearest friend and always will be. But marriage? Uh-uh. That’s just not us.” Clara’s voice broke then. A small sniffle escaped her. “I want my friend back. Please.”

  “Aw, Clara...” Ryan let go of her hands, but only so that he could wrap his arms around her. For a moment, they just stood there, holding each other tight. And then he asked quietly, “Are you sure?”

  She tipped her head back and met his waiting eyes. “Oh, Ryan. Yes. I am.”

  * * *

  Walker wasn’t exactly in a partying mood. But he wanted to support Clara and Rye, who had decided to hold the reception anyway.

  The venue was the old Masonic Hall and most everybody came. They enjoyed Bravo Catering’s excellent buffet, took advantage of the open bar and filled up the dance floor when the DJ took the stage. It was actually a great party, everybody said.

  Walker did manage to get Rye aside for a few minutes before they served the big purple-and-white cake decorated with real purple flowers. Rye confessed that after being raised without a dad, he couldn’t stand to think that Clara’s child would have to grow up fatherless, too. Clara would never tell him who the dad was or why the hell the guy wasn’t around.

  “It went all wrong, though,” Rye said. “The closer we got to the altar, the more strained things got between us. It wasn’t going to work out with us. I wanted to give that baby a daddy. But even I can see that I’m not the one to do that. Calling it off was for the best.”

  Walker clapped
him on the back. “I’m glad you’re okay with the way it’s turned out.”

  And then Rye asked, “So what’s up with you and Rory?”

  Walker lied with zero remorse. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Not ready to discuss it yet, huh?”

  “Discuss what?”

  It was Rye’s turn to clap him on the back. “You know I’m here for you, man, the minute you’re ready to get honest about this.”

  For the rest of the evening, Walker mostly tried to stay away from Rory, who had managed to look absolutely beautiful in spite of all the makeup she’d piled on to disguise those two serious shiners and the weird purple thing she had tied around her head. It wasn’t easy, watching her dance with a bunch of other guys, knowing that she was leaving tomorrow and it was just possible she would never speak to him again.

  He lasted until pretty late in the evening without bothering her. And then the DJ started playing a slow, romantic holiday song.

  And he couldn’t take it. He walked up behind her, grabbed her hand and led her out onto the floor.

  Yeah, he half expected her to jerk away, maybe slap his face, or just turn and stalk off. He wouldn’t have blamed her for an instant if she did any of those things.

  But she only followed after him and then let him wrap his yearning arms around her. They danced. He breathed in the spice and sweetness of her, memorized all over again the softness and the strength of her, wondered how the hell he was going to get through the night without her. And the day after that. And the one after that.

  He saw the future reeling out before him, an endless chain of emptiness—without her there to brighten the days and light up the nights.

  That dance flew by so damn fast. It was over and he hadn’t said a word to her, just held her and breathed her and somehow managed not to beg her never to go.

  She spoke at last. “The dance is over. You need to let me go now.”

  Some desperate voice way down inside him cried out, Never. “Let me take you to the airport tomorrow.”

  “Walker. It’s not a good idea.”