The Bride Wore Starlight (2 page)

They reached the quarter-mile-long main driveway to Paradise, which wound through thick grassland dotted with stands of juniper, spruce, and cottonwoods. At the end stood Rosecroft, a sprawling, two-story log home with a front porch the full length of the bottom floor that could hold a small country's population or a large wedding reception—which it would in several hours. Small gardens thick with colorful, welcoming flowers surrounded it.

Rosecroft was a slightly silly name for a main ranch house in the middle of cattle country. A croft, as Joely understood it, was a small English cottage. This, her mother's pride and joy of a house, was anything but small. And her mother's favorite flowers weren't even roses, although they were a close second as evidenced by the number of them adding liberally to the rainbow of colors in the flowers. Morning glories. Those were Bella Crockett's most beloved blossoms, and even as Harper pulled the truck up to the garage, Joely could see the mass of vines climbing delicately up the eastern side of the house with their sea of powder blue and lavender blooms open to the morning sun—the colors her sisters had chosen for their wedding.

But Joely's father, Sam, so the story went, had promised to take his bride anywhere in the world for their honeymoon, and she'd chosen Scotland. Her favorite place had been a charming bed and breakfast called Rosecroft. She'd brought the name home and, when the time came, given it to her own dream house.

“Okey doke.” Harper called over her memories. “First stop.”

Joely didn't have time to open the door before her mother had it open from the outside and nearly crawled into the seat to give a huge welcoming hug.

“Hello, sweet girl. Welcome home!”

Joely accepted the hug, thrilled to see her mother looking so healthy—her cheeks full of warm color, her stance strong and healed. She'd been injured badly, too, a fact that still haunted Joely with guilt. If only she hadn't—

“Come on now, let us help you out and up the steps,” her mother said. “Look who's waiting. She's almost more excited than I am.”

Up on the porch, her hand raised in greeting, stood their grandmother, Sadie. Slim and snowy-haired, leaning easily on a signature black cane adorned with bright red poppies, she looked like a spry eighty-year-old. But Sam Crockett's mother would be celebrating her ninety-fifth birthday in a month. Joely smiled in genuine pleasure. The woman was a force of nature. But it was getting harder for her to leave home, and Joely hadn't seen her in over a month.

In fact, Joely had been home only a few times since the accident. Whenever the family got together, they usually came to her.

“Hi, Grandma,” she called when she stood on one leg beside the car.

“Hello, darling,” Sadie called back.

It took a sister on each side and a few awkward moments of maneuvering to get up the four porch steps. Once she'd accomplished the task, her grandmother wrapped her in yet another embrace.

“Welcome home, beautiful child,” she said, the love in the words sincere and almost tangible.

“So!” Her mother joined them. “Isn't it exciting? What a beautiful day.”

It was—a gorgeous, blue-skied May 20, headed for a perfect seventy-five degrees.

“Everything looks gorgeous, Mom,” Joely said. “This is a perfect place for the reception. I saw the tent canopies out back when we drove in. Even the Henhouse Hilton is decked out.”

The Hilton was their father's outrageously ornate chicken coop. Today its picket fencing was adorned with denim blue and lavender bows—Harper's blue and Mia's pale purple.

“How are the guys doing?” she asked, as Mia and Harper rolled the wheelchair behind her and helped her sit.

“According to Alec, they're having a fine old time,” her mother said.

“Alec?” Joely asked.

“Gabe's groomsman who couldn't be at the rehearsal yesterday.”

She'd paid little attention to anything but learning her own job the night before. In all honesty, she didn't realize a groomsman had been missing.

“Alec and Gabe served in Iraq together. He's a very nice boy—handsome, polite. He's inside now, in fact, picking up some forgotten items. The guys might be having fun, but they're as scatterbrained as pregnant women today. Someone's cufflinks, someone's shoes, someone else's cummerbund.” Her mother laughed.

“Did someone say Cummerbund?”

“Benedict Cummerbund?”

“He's coming to the wedding? Awesome! I wonder if he likes triplets.”

With those words, the porch was invaded by three of the cutest young women on the face of the planet; they dropped the Benedict Cumberbatch jokes in favor of squeals when they surrounded Joely.

The trailer babies, the triplets, the movie stars. Joely hugged them all at once the best she could—Grace, Raquel, and Kelly.

“You three get more gorgeous every time I see you,” she said. “And you never ever dress the same—what's with lookalike time?”

All three wore jeans and a solid red T-shirt. They exchanged a look of mischievous fun, more like high school sophomores than the twenty-four-year-old businesswomen they were.

“It's been such a hoot to confuse the men,” said Kelly, who could charm heat from an Eskimo with her playfulness and bright personality. “They have no idea who's who.”

“We haven't done this since high school,” added Raquel.

“It's mean but it's also awesome fun,” finished Grace, the sister Joely always thought of as the spiritual soul of them all because she never failed to live effortlessly up to her name. It was fun to see impishness in her eyes—the tiniest of imperfections in her perfect self.

The triplets had always been eerily identical. Joely knew who was who—most of the time—but the girls had done their share of purposely trying to confuse parents and siblings when they'd been small.

“But that's all beside the point. You look wonderful, Jo-Jo. You're getting better; I can see it in your eyes.”

“Aw, Gracie, if you say it, it must be so. It's good to be home,” Joely said truthfully.

“It is,” Mia agreed. “Come on, let's go in and eat lunch—it's not a big spread, but Kelly's here, so it's delicious.”

The triplets ran two successful restaurants in Denver, and Kelly was the master chef—which was clear every single time she took to the kitchen.

“I'm starving,” said Harper.

“How can you eat?” Joely asked, her own stomach already a fluttering mass of nerves.

“It's going to be a long night.” Harper grinned. “I'm planning to have energy to spare. After lunch we'll have plenty of time to get dressed and over to the church. We've assigned Grandma Sadie to be your personal assistant, Jo-Jo. We fought over her, and you won.”

The thought of spending time alone with her grandmother eased Joely's nerves. Grandma Sadie had always been the best storyteller and imparter of wisdom in Wyoming.

“Sometimes a girl just gets lucky,” she said.

They moved inside and the earthy comfort of the big house enveloped her. Their mother had exquisite taste, but she'd also been a practical rancher's wife, and the decorating was decidedly western, in maroons and reds and oranges with pools of blues and indigos to cool the space like a sunset. Rosecroft, with its sitting room to the right, then the two-story living room and the dining room with its table big enough to seat twenty people straight ahead, greeted her like another person.

She hadn't lied—for a little while, at least, it was good to be home.

“We've got a chair set up with an ottoman for your leg,” Harper said. “Or would you rather just stay in the wheelchair?”

She would rather get the day over with and go back home, she thought, but she was already being annoying and ungrateful. Everyone was being so overly helpful that she couldn't bear to let them see a lack of effort on her part. “The chair,” she said.

Once again they ensconced her like a queen, chattering with each other, including her as if she'd never been gone. But then, without warning, all five of her sisters, her mother, and her grandmother disappeared. One minute she was talking to Mia, the next everyone had left her and migrated to help in the kitchen.

Not that this was unusual. Or deliberate. Unless she was the center of attention—as she'd been at pageants or even this morning—she was always Child Three, the one people assumed would just be there following the crowd. Her sisters would return
en masse
from the kitchen and pick up where they'd left off—clueless that she'd been abandoned, but innocent of intentional neglect. It had never used to bother her, and she shouldn't be irritated now, but she was.

Lately she seemed to live in a state of irritation.

The dining room was cavernous with nobody in it but her. This was the space her mother had dedicated to the country that had inspired the house. It boasted a stunning photo panorama of the Scottish Highlands, a picture of Rosecroft's namesake in Scotland, and chair cushions, curtains, and a beautiful runner on the sideboard against one wall in the muted blue, green, and subtle red tartan of the clan MacKinlay whose ancestors owned the B&B where her mother had stayed and fallen in love with all things Scottish.

It was also as un-western Wyoming a room as would be found anywhere in the house. Joely had always loved the classy incongruity of their Scottish dining room, just as her mother did.

“You look lost.”

She started at an unexpected, masculine voice and swung her gaze to the dining room doorway. Her mouth went dry as a summer drought, and her pulse hiccupped before it began to race. The man who stood there with a hot smile and a confident demeanor owned a pair of the sharpest hazel eyes she'd ever seen, sandy-gold hair the color of a palomino stallion, and a jaw and cheekbones strong enough to have been chiseled out of Wyoming granite. Most unsettling of all was a smile that likely could have charmed Sunday school teachers out of their knickers—in any era past or present.

After she'd stared for an impolite number of seconds, Joely lowered her eyes and cupped her chin so her thumb rode up the left side of her in order to hide the scar. She'd convinced herself it made her look thoughtful and masked the self-consciousness she'd never suffered before the accident.

“I might be lost,” she said. “But I'm probably not.”

“You're Joellen.”

“Not unless you're angry at me.”

He raised one amused brow. “I'm not.”

“Then it's Joely.”

“I admit it; I knew that. What I don't know is how a pretty little thing like you could possibly be sitting all alone like this in a house full of women.”

She stared, not sure whether she was annoyed at the “pretty little thing” epithet or surprised at his mind-reading ability, since she'd been wondering the same thing.

“My whole family is in the kitchen through that door. I could ask you the same thing. What's a patronizing cowboy like you doing in my mother's dining room knowing my name when I don't know yours?”

The grin widened, and he strode into the room, dark denim jeans fitted nicely on his hips, a subtle plaid shirt tucked at the waist, and a casual brown sport coat giving him a touch of western class. He reached her in three strides, his cowboy boot heels beating a soft, pleasant cadence on the oak floor. “Alec Morrissey,” he said, holding out his hand. “Alexander if you're mad at me.”

The name left her stunned again. She knew it. Anyone who followed rodeo knew it. But he couldn't be
the
Alec Morrissey—the one who'd won three PRCA titles and then dropped out of sight half a dozen years ago . . . She shook her head to clear it before she could blurt a question that would sound stupid. She kept her hand over her scar by pretending to scratch her temple and took his hand to shake it. His firm, dry masculine grip sent a small warning shiver through her stomach.

“I'm not,” she said.

“Not what?”

“Not mad at you.”

“Ah. Even if I'm patronizing? Or if I admit I'm not a real cowboy? Which I'm not, by the way. I wear the boots because they're comfortable.”

She wanted to tell him she'd only forgive him if he promised never to call her a pretty little thing again. Her father had called her that, but not in a proud papa kind of way. It had been more a “you're my delicate little flower, don't worry your pretty little head over such things” kind of way. But based on the confidence this man exuded, Joely doubted she could tell him to do or not do anything.

“Well, I can't lie. I'm disappointed about the cowboy part. But if you swear to quit being patronizing, I won't be mad.”

He pulled out a chair beside her and sat backward on it, comfortable and easy, looking as if he'd lied about not being a cowboy and straddled seats and saddles every day.

“Ma'am, if calling you pretty is patronizing, I can't swear because any promise I made I would break every time I saw you.”

The arrogant amber-eyed devil. She let her hand drop from her face without thinking, smiling in spite of herself. “So, really, who are you?”

“One of Gabe's groomsmen. I'm up from Texas, and I'm supposed to be staying away from the girls, but I'm the designated errand boy, so I'm here collecting forgotten items.”

Alec. Of course. Her mother had far undersold the good-looking quality. But a boy? Lord, no. Whatever he was that wasn't a cowboy—or a famous rodeo star—he was a man's man, and dangerous if you were a female.

“Texas. That explains a lot.”

“I said I was from Texas. I didn't say I was a Texan.”

“Semantics?”

“No, the truth. I worked in Houston for the last two years. I'm a born-and-bred Minnesota boy, although I grew up in central Wisconsin.”

“The land of dairy cattle.”

“It is. And you grew up in the land of beef cattle. Sometime I'll tell you about all the things we have in common, pretty Joely.”