by Duncan Leigh
“And because you’re best friends, and because you want to be family forever, I ask you, Bradley, will you take Sarah to be your wedded wife forever?” A shaft of afternoon sun glinted off Adam’s braces. “Do you promise to care for her? And obey her?”
“Wait. Obey?” He wasn’t at all sure about that. Sarah could be a bit on the bossy side. “That’s in there?”
Adam shrugged. “I think so.”
He glanced at Sarah. Her eyes reflected his own nervousness. Somehow, that eased his fears. “I guess I do.”
“And I promise, too.” Sarah snugged the bouquet of flowers a little tighter to her chest.
Adam glanced down at the script he’d tucked between the pages of the text book. “Oh, do you have a ring?”
A tiny flicker of panic eased when his fingers touched the small velvet sack he’d borrowed from his mom’s jewelry box. He loosened the drawstring, pulled out the silver circle topped by a sparkling stone.
“It’s really pretty.” Sarah sounded surprised, as if she’d expected nothing more than a plastic toy from the Cracker Jack box.
“It’s my mom’s.”
The atmosphere in the old barn changed the moment he spoke the words. Became more serious, more real. He wasn’t the only one who felt the change. Sarah’s eyes grew so wide, he almost thought they’d pop out of her head.
“Now, repeat after me.” Adam swallowed. “With this ring…”
“With this ring,” he repeated.
“I thee wed.”
“I thee wed.” Taking Sarah’s hand, he slipped the slender band onto her finger.
For a long moment, none of them moved. He wasn’t sure about the others, but he didn’t think he’d even breathed.
“Oh!” Adam’s exclamation broke the spell. “I now pronounce you married. You may kiss the bride.”
He froze then, uncertain what to do next. He’d never kissed a girl before, and he wasn’t about to start with Sarah. Especially not with Adam standing there, staring at him.
Lucky for both of them, Sarah solved the problem. As if daring him to try anything, she balled her fist and punched him on the arm. He followed her lead—back in those days, he usually did—and did the same.
A short while later, the friends and relatives who’d gathered after the funeral began trickling out of the house. His aunt called him inside. When he left for Nashville the next day, he felt a little less alone knowing he’d always have Sarah’s friendship to fall back on.
“Memories?”
Startled from the flashback, he turned. He’d been so lost in that long-ago day that he hadn’t even heard Sarah climb the steps. Dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, she stood at the top of the stairs. “Yeah,” he admitted.
“Well, it hasn’t changed much, has it?” She strode across the hay-strewn floor toward him.
“Not a bit.”
“So how’s your songwriting going?” As if she didn’t know what to do with them, she tucked her hands in the back pockets of her jeans.
“Great!” The stock answer rolled off his tongue, but for the first time in months, he meant it.
“Good.”
When Sarah expelled a breath he could only describe as relieved, he congratulated himself. Re-establishing their friendship had been an unexpected bonus of the trip back home. He felt he could tell her just about anything and, squaring his shoulders, he prepared to do just that.
“I just made a decision. This is where I want to get married.” Everything about that long-ago day when he and Sarah had stood before Adam brought back feelings of warmth, of being loved. He wanted to relive that moment. To recreate it for him and Catherine.
Sarah’s eyes stretched open until they were nearly as wide as they’d been on the day they’d swapped vows in this very place. “You can’t get married here.”
“Why?” Bradley frowned. Once he moved a few hay bales out of the way and swept the dirt and straw from the floors, there’d be plenty of room. Chickens clucking from their nests and the gentle neighs of the horses would add a little real-world ambiance to the special day.
“Uhhhh.” Sarah’s mocking laughter told him she thought the reasons should be obvious. They weren’t. At least, not to him. Searching for an explanation, he scoured her face and waited. “Well, it was fine for a pretend wedding when we were kids, but Catherine Mann will not want to get married here.” Sarah’s whole body shimmied when she shook her head.
“You don’t know her like I do,” he pointed out. Born into Hollywood royalty, Catherine had grown up surrounded by wealth and the privileges of the very rich. At first, he’d thought she loved the life she led, but he’d been surprised to learn over dinner one night that she longed to escape the glitz and glamour as much as he did. Though they hadn’t made any concrete plans, he knew what he wanted, what they both wanted. “She wants to live a normal life, but she just doesn’t know how.”
He wasn’t fooling himself. He’d be the first to acknowledge that his bride-to-be enjoyed spa days, dining at five-star restaurants, and hobnobbing with the rich and famous at chic Hollywood cocktail parties. But there was more to life than fancy soirées and chauffeur-driven limousines. Holding their wedding ceremony in the old barn would give Catherine a taste of the simpler life, the life they were meant to have.
Sarah’s arms folded firmly across her body. “Academy Award winner Catherine Mann will not want to get married in an old barn.”
That wasn’t a reason. That was an opinion. He had a different one. “I think having a wedding out of the spotlight, away from the media, is just what she needs.”
It was definitely what he needed. In fact, a simple, private ceremony was the only thing he’d ever asked of Catherine, other than to be his wife. Lately, though, whenever he’d tried to explain how he felt about their special day, he’d gotten the sense that Catherine might have read one too many bridal magazines. He shrugged. He’d gone along when she’d insisted on a destination wedding because, at the time, where they said their vows hadn’t mattered to him, as long as they promised to love, honor and cherish one another for the rest of their lives. But things had changed. He’d changed. And, while getting married in a barn might not be Catherine’s first choice, she’d always said that compromise was the foundation of a good marriage.
Sarah’s hands dropped to her hips. She canted her head. A look of pure disbelief slipped over her features. “Really?”
He was as serious as a heart attack, but he could tell Sarah still needed a little more convincing. The only way to win her over to his side was to broker a deal. “Tell you what,” he said, ready to bargain. “I’ll help you mend your fence, if you help me plan my wedding.”
“Let me see your hands,” Sarah demanded.
My hands?
She didn’t hesitate, but grabbed him by both wrists and tugged his arms toward her. She gave his palms a hard stare. “When was the last time you worked with your hands?”
What was she talking about? He’d spent hours working with his hands every day since he’d plucked out the notes to “Three Blind Mice” on an old flattop he’d found in his uncle’s garage. Did he have to point that out to her? From the doubt in her eyes, he guessed he did. “I tour two hundred days out of the year.”
“I’m not talking about strumming a guitar.” Sarah’s firm humph declared that his life’s work didn’t measure up to her needs. She relinquished her grip on his hands. “I need a cowboy for this job.”
He had to admit it, he liked seeing her riled up. But it was time to set the record straight. He shook one finger at her. “I am perfectly capable of mending a fence.”
“Well, we’ll see.”
He studied Sarah’s raised eyebrows and pursed lips. He’d take that bet and he’d win. “All right.”
“I am not getting married in a barn.” Beneath the photographer’s bright lights, Catherine
posed for the cameras. Her veil’s silk tulle floated in a lacy cloud around her face.
“He doesn’t literally mean an actual barn, does he?” Margaret chose a single kernel from the unsalted, unbuttered popcorn in the bowl while four tuxedo-wearing models took their places around Catherine.
“Yes.” Her voice hitched. “He’s trying to protect me from the media.” She showed the photographer a star-worthy pout while she trailed the tips of her nails across one of the model’s chiseled chins. “Offering me a chance to be—” She held the pose.
“Ordinary,” Margaret put in.
“Normal,” Catherine corrected.
“Why would you want to be normal? Everyone wants to be special. Everyone wants to be you.” Margaret lifted the entire bowl of popcorn, squirmed her Pilates-toned rear onto a director’s chair, and grabbed a handful of the tasteless treat.
“I love that he’s trying to help me have a normal life.” She could almost picture the life Bradley wanted for them, living in some small town so far off the beaten path that the media would never find them and quickly forget them. Thanks, but um, no thanks. This was more her style, she thought as two of the models cuddled close while the remaining two gazed down in fawning adoration. “He’s the most thoughtful man I’ve ever known.” She aimed a haughty look at the camera and held it. The photographer pointed and snapped. “He’s planning everything himself. He’s ordering flowers and a cake.”
The photographer signaled the models, who swooped her into their arms.
Catherine pointed one of her crystal-studded sandals skyward beneath the layers of the gossamer gown. “His childhood best friend is going to marry us.” She relaxed into four pairs of muscled arms, a sated expression on her face. “How lucky am I?”
Shock sent worry lines rippling across Margaret’s forehead. “So, what are you going to do?”
“Great. Beautiful, beautiful,” the photographer called. Like well-rehearsed dancers, the models adjusted their positions.
“Well, I need to finish shooting this movie.” Catherine took advantage of the short break while the photographer checked the light levels. “And he’s writing music for the first time in months, so everything’ll be fine.” The camera lifted toward her. She automatically cupped one of the model’s faces in her hands and leaned in close.
“Give it to me.”
Twisting to show her slim neck to full advantage, she let her head tip back.
“Beautiful.”
Catherine pursed her lips. In between shots, she explained, “I’ll go to Texas after we wrap. I’ll get married in the barn.” She made eye contact with one of the models long enough for the photographer to capture the image. “It’ll be a perfect, sweet moment filled with wonderful memories that we’ll cherish forever.” Pulling herself erect, she brightened. “Then, we’ll go to Italy for our one-of-a-kind, amazing wedding.”
Oh! She got goose bumps just thinking about it.
Chapter Seven
Aware that the sun had risen above the barn’s roofline, Bradley hustled across the grassy field. In the distance, Sarah was already hard at work hammering nails into a wooden slat. Just watching her stirred a painful awareness. After mending fences from sun up to sundown the day before, he’d hurt in places he didn’t even know he had muscles. He’d been so tired when Sarah had finally called it a day that he’d limped back to the house and passed out on the bed still wearing his torn and sweat-stained clothes. Today, he’d woken, stiff and sore and hungry enough to eat a horse. The breakfast he’d cobbled together would get him through another day. His clothes were another story. He’d taken one look at his ruined Italian loafers and had thrown them in the trash bin. It had taken some time to search the house for more suitable work clothes, but he’d finally found what he needed in a box of his dad’s things in the attic. Tugging on a pair of old work gloves, he hoped Sarah would agree that the wait had been justified. When she propped both hands on a fence board as he approached, he stood cowboy straight and tall.
“Nice boots,” she said after sizing up his new look.
“They were my dad’s.”
The approval that widened Sarah’s trademark smile caught him off-guard and sent his gaze straight down to his shoes. The beat-up work shoes bore the stains of a thousand days of pitching hay and shoveling manure. In L.A. or Nashville, his associates would rather die than be caught dead wearing them, but he wasn’t trying to impress anyone with fancy clothes or fine footwear in Mill Town. There was real work to be done here. He hefted one of the new boards from a nearby stack. His back protested with a sharp twinge. Aware that Sarah was still watching him, he grunted past the pain.
“All right. Let’s get to work.”
“He was a good man.” Sarah anchored her end of the board in place. “You fill his boots well.”
“Thanks.”
“He’d be real proud of you.” She spoke over her shoulder.
The compliment warmed him more than the thick, cotton shirt he’d pulled from a box in the attic. Heat crawled up his neck. Not sure why her opinion mattered as much as it did, he shot a quick glance at Sarah in time to see an odd expression flash across her face. What was that all about?
He opened his mouth to ask, but she hefted her hammer. Without another word, she drove a nail home with one blow. Not to be outdone, he did the same at the other fence post. He stole a second glimpse of the brunette, noted the way her tool belt hugged her frame, the thick fall of hair that cascaded from her ponytail. A man could do a lot worse than Sarah Standor, and he wondered at the idiocy of the guy who’d let her get away.
He cleared his throat. Sarah’s love life was none of his business. Her fence, though, was another matter, and if he wanted her help in planning his wedding, he’d better do less wool-gathering and more hammering.
By sunset, they’d fixed about a mile of fence. Bradley peeled his gloves away from his hands and winced. Despite the gloves, a large blister stretched across the pad of his left hand.
Bradley studied the open tackle box on Sarah’s kitchen table. Instead of fishing hooks and line, bandages and creams filled an array of small compartments. Tools and instruments crowded the roomier levels. He tipped his head, uncertain whether he should be impressed by the neatly organized first aid kit or concerned that he’d agreed to let a veterinarian treat his bruises and blisters. His hands were his livelihood. Together with his voice, they’d made him a household name. What if he got an infection? Or worse?
When Sarah turned away from the sink, where she’d spent the last sixty seconds scrubbing her arms and fingers like a surgeon preparing for an operation, his doubts slid away. As a kid, he’d trusted Sarah enough to marry her. If anything, he had more confidence in this grownup version of his pretend wife than he’d had back then.
“Okay, this might sting a bit,” she said, sliding onto the chair next to him. She unscrewed the cap on a bottle of alcohol. The acrid smell stung his nose when she poured some on a Q-tip. Leaning in, she dabbed the first of many blisters.
“Yeeoww!” Bradley sucked a sharp breath through his teeth.
“Sorry.” Sarah jerked away from his palm.
“Aww, I was just kiddin’.” He laughed. “It’s fine. Go ahead.”
Sarah tsked but went back to work. While she tended to a tiny cut, she said, “You know, you did real good today.”
“Thanks.” The simple praise sent warmth spreading through his chest. Sarah hadn’t been kidding when she’d said that mending fences was hard work. It had taken all his strength to haul the heavy wooden slats out to the fence line. He’d had his doubts that he’d last through a second day of hammering the boards in place. But, aware of how badly he needed Sarah’s help to plan his wedding, he’d kept at it. By the end of the day, he was glad he had. The job had given his muscles a better workout than he’d ever gotten in the gym. Besides, it felt good to do real, physical labor for a change.
“Guess you celebrities have people who do all your heavy lifting for you?”
She was closer to the truth than she realized. Back when he was struggling to get his first big break, he hadn’t minded handling all his own equipment, lugging the heavy speakers and sound boards around the stage, running the wires, testing the mics. But once he’d “made it,” Catherine had insisted that real stars waited to walk onto the set until the crew had everything in place. They left the stage immediately after their performance, she’d coached. He knew she was right. She’d been in the limelight her entire life, after all. Still, he’d missed working alongside the rest of the crew.
“Oh, yeah.” He exhaled a breath. Though he’d achieved far more than he’d ever thought possible, he’d found that success came with a whole host of new challenges. He still hadn’t figured out how to feed his fans’ and the record company’s hunger for new material when he was constantly on the road. Touring with the band meant performances that stretched late into the night, catching a few hours’ sleep in a hotel room that looked the same as the one the night before, then boarding the bus that didn’t stop until they reached the next venue. But he knew better than to complain. Sarah would only tease him if he did. He managed a wry smile instead. “I usually have my butlers do my fence mendin’.”