I want it!
She opened the attachment to see what it was, and smiled at the picture of a multi-tiered wedding cake. Each stacked layer was elaborately decorated with a different white-on-white design: silhouettes of bucking broncos, cowboy boots, cowboy hats and horseshoes.
Despite the Western motif, it was elegant and unique—totally Kristen.
She texted back,
Luv it
Because she did. She didn’t have a clue where her sister would find someone in their small town capable of re-creating such a work of art, but that was a practical worry for another day. Right now her sister was dreaming of her perfect day, and Kayla was happy to be drawn into the fantasy with her.
Kristen had asked Kayla to be her maid of honor, and she had, of course, accepted, but she needed to talk to her twin about the timing of the event and the likelihood that she would be a maid of dishonor. She didn’t think Kristen would want to be upstaged on her wedding day by her hugely pregnant and unwed sister. As much as Kristen enjoyed the spotlight, Kayla didn’t think she’d want the happiest day of her life tainted by that kind of scandal.
Upon receiving her reply, Kristen immediately called. “Are you sick and tired of hearing about the wedding?” she asked.
“Never,” Kayla assured her sister.
“Then you won’t mind if Mom and I drag you into Kalispell tomorrow to go shopping for my dress?”
“Are you kidding? I’ve been wondering when you’d finally get around to that.” She knew that Ryan had offered to fly his fiancée out to California so that she could shop on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, but the idea hadn’t appealed to Kristen. Her twin was surprisingly traditional in a lot of ways—and very much a country girl.
“I’ve just been so busy with the play that I haven’t had much free time,” Kristen said now. “But June isn’t that far away, so I figured I’d better make time to start preparing for the wedding.”
“You’ve set a date, then?”
“June eleventh,” her sister confirmed.
“Then I guess we’d better find you a dress.”
Chapter Seven
When Trey saw Kayla’s truck pull up in front of the boarding house, for a moment he thought—hoped—she had come into town to see him. When he saw her lift a small box out of the passenger seat of her vehicle, he was disappointed to realize she had another reason for being there.
He met her at the door and took the box from her. “What’s this?”
“Your grandmother wanted a couple of jars of bread-and-butter pickles.”
“She makes her own pickles.”
Kayla shrugged. “Apparently, your grandfather was looking for something in the cellar and knocked over a shelf and she lost the last of hers.”
He hadn’t heard anything about such an incident—and he was pretty sure if his grandfather had truly engineered such a mishap, the whole town would have heard about it. More likely his grandmother had engineered the story to bring Kayla to the boarding house, and though he didn’t approve of Melba’s meddling, he wouldn’t complain about the results.
“Did she happen to mention why she needed—” he glanced into the box “—half a dozen jars of pickles right now, today?”
“She spoke to my mother, not me. I’m just the delivery girl.”
“Because I’m sure you didn’t have anything better to do,” he said dryly.
“Not according to my mother,” she agreed.
“Do you have anything else on your schedule today?”
“No, but I figured, since I was coming into town, I would stop in at the newspaper office and try to get a head start on editing anything that has been submitted for the next edition.”
“Or you could help me,” he suggested.
“Help you with what?” she asked, a little warily.
“I’ve been tasked with finding the perfect Christmas tree for the main floor parlor.”
“Perfect is a matter of interpretation when it comes to Christmas trees,” she warned him.
“I figure as long as it’s approximately the right height and shape, it’s perfect.”
Kayla tsked as she shook her head. “What kind of tree does your grandmother want?”
“A green one.”
She laughed. “Well, that narrows your search to most of Montana.”
He shrugged. “She didn’t seem concerned about specifics so much as timing—it’s only two weeks before Christmas, and she wants a tree in the parlor today.”
“Where in the parlor?” Kayla pressed. “Does she want something slender that can be tucked into a corner? Or would she prefer a fuller shape that will become the centerpiece of the room?”
It was an effort to refrain from rolling his eyes. “I don’t know. I just know that the tree is always in the corner—with stacks of presents piled underneath it on Christmas morning.”
She smiled. “Everyone’s a kid at Christmas, aren’t they?”
“You don’t get excited about presents?”
“Of course I do.”
“So will you help me out with the tree?”
She pulled back the cuff of her jacket to look at the watch on her wrist. “Sure.”
Twenty minutes later he pulled into the parking lot of a tree farm on the edge of town.
“I didn’t expect it would be this busy in the middle of the day on a weekday,” he commented.
“Two weeks,” she reminded him.
However, most of the customers seemed to be examining precut trees, and although he knew that was the easier option, his grandmother had specifically requested a fresh-cut tree and had sent her husband out to the shed to get the bow saw for him.
They walked down the path, following the signs toward the “cut your own” section of the farm.
“Aside from green, what should I be looking for?” Trey asked Kayla.
“It depends on what matters most to you—scent, color, hardiness. Balsam fir smells lovely but they tend to be bulky around the bottom and take up a lot of space. The Scotch pine is probably the most common type of Christmas tree. Its bright green color is appealing, but the branches and needles tend to be quite stiff, making it more difficult—and painful—to decorate.”
“You’re not a fan,” he guessed.
“They’re pretty trees,” she insisted. “But no, they wouldn’t be my first choice.”
“How do you know so much about Christmas trees?”
She shrugged. “Every year, from as far back as I can remember, we’ve trekked deep into the woods to cut down a tree, so I probably could have steered you in the right direction on the basis of that experience without necessarily knowing what was a spruce or a fir. The technical stuff I learned when I edited an article—‘Choosing the Perfect Christmas Tree’—for the newspaper a couple of years back.”
“You must get to read some interesting stuff in your job.”
“I do,” she agreed. “And not just in the “Ramblings” column.”
“That doesn’t count, anyway—you make that stuff up.”
“I do not,” she said indignantly. “I simply report facts that are brought to my attention.”
“There’s a fair amount of speculation in addition to the facts,” he noted.
“Speculation about the facts, perhaps,” she allowed.
He shook his head, but he was smiling when he paused beside a blue spruce. “What do you think of this one?”
She let her gaze run up the tall—extremely tall, in fact—trunk. “I think it’s a beautiful tree for the town square but way too big for anyone’s parlor.”
He nodded in acknowledgment. “Who picks out the tree in your family?”
“Majority rules, but there’s usually a lot of arguing before a final decision is made. My mom h
as a tendency to pick out a bigger tree than we have room for, which means my dad ends up muttering and cursing as he cuts down the trunk ‘just another inch more’ or trims some of the branches ‘just on one side’ so it’ll end up sitting closer to the wall.” She smiled a little at the memory. “My dad now carries a tape measure, so that he can show my mother that a tree isn’t ‘perfect’ for an eight-foot room when it’s actually eleven feet tall.”
“I suspect my grandmother has had the opposite experience, because she made a point of telling me that the room has a twelve-foot ceiling and she doesn’t want anything shorter than ten feet, preferably ten and a half.”
“Did you bring a tape measure?”
He pulled it out of his pocket to show her.
“Did you bring a ladder so that you can measure up to ten feet?”
“It’s in my other pocket.”
She laughed.
He looked at her—at her cheeks pink from the cold, at the delicate white flakes of snow against her dark hair and at her eyes, as clear and blue as the sky, sparkling in the sun—and realized that he was in danger of falling hard and fast.
And in that moment, he didn’t care.
He caught her hand, halting her in midstride. She tipped her head back to look up at him, and he lowered his head to touch his mouth to hers.
He kissed her softly, savoring the moment. He loved kissing her, loved the way her lips yielded and her body melted. He loved the quiet sounds she made deep in her throat.
But he wanted more than a few stolen kisses. He wanted to make love with her again, to enjoy not just the taste of her lips but the joining of their bodies. But he’d promised that they could take things slow this time, and he intended to keep that promise—even if it meant yet another cold shower when he got back to the boarding house.
When he finally eased his lips away, she looked as dazed as he felt. “What was that for?”
“Does there need to be a reason for me to kiss you?”
“I guess not,” she admitted. “You just...surprised me.”
He smiled at that. “You surprise me every time I see you.”
“I do?”
“You do,” he confirmed. “I always thought I knew you. You were Derek’s sister, the shy twin, the quiet one. But I’ve realized there’s a lot more to you than most people give you credit for.”
“I am the shy twin, the quiet one.”
He slid his arms around her, wanting to draw her nearer. “You’re also smart and beautiful and passionate.”
She put her hands on his chest, her arms locked to hold him at a distance. “Tree,” she reminded him.
“They’re not going anywhere,” he noted.
“You say that now, but do you see that stump there?”
He followed the direction of her gaze. “Yeah.”
“That might have been your perfect tree, but someone else got to it before you did.”
“So I’ll find another perfect tree.”
“Do you think it will be that easy? That perfect trees just—”
“Grow like trees,” he interjected drily.
Her lips curved. “Touché.”
* * *
Half an hour later, they were headed back to the boarding house with a lovely tree tied down in the box of Trey’s truck.
When they arrived, they found that Gene had carted out all of the decorations: lights and garland and ornaments.
“Looks like our work isn’t done yet,” he noted.
“I thought your grandmother usually let her guests help with the trimming of the tree.”
“Apparently she stopped that a couple of years ago, when a three-year-old decided to throw some of her favorite ornaments rather than hang them. A few of them were mouth-blown glass that a cousin had brought back for her from Italy.”
Kayla winced sympathetically.
“She has a story for every ornament on her tree,” Trey told her. “And now a story for eight that aren’t.”
She tucked her hands behind her back. “Now I’m afraid to touch anything.”
“You can touch me,” Trey told her, with a suggestive wink. “I won’t break.”
Kayla laughed. “Let’s focus on the tree,” she responded, stepping out of his reach.
But Trey circled around the tree in the other direction and caught her against him. “Now I have to kiss you.”
“Have to?” She lifted a brow. “Why?”
“Because you’re standing under the mistletoe.”
Kayla looked up, but there was no mistletoe hanging from the ceiling above her. There was, however, a sprig of the recognizable plant in Trey’s hand, which he was holding above her head.
“That’s cheating,” she told him.
“I don’t care,” he said and touched his mouth to hers.
As Kayla melted into the kiss, her objections melted away.
The slamming of the back door returned her to her senses. “It’s only two weeks until Christmas,” she reminded him. “And your grandmother wants her tree up.”
He sighed regretfully but released her so they could focus on the assigned task.
* * *
After leaving the boarding house, Kayla stopped at Crawford’s to pick up a quart of milk for her mother. She was carrying the jug to the checkout counter when she saw Tara Jones, a third-grade teacher from the local elementary school.
“This is a lucky coincidence,” the teacher said.
“Why’s that?” she asked curiously.
“Our annual holiday pageant is in less than a week and we’re way behind schedule with the costumes and scenery. I know it’s a huge imposition,” Tara said, “but we could really use your help.”
“It’s not an imposition at all,” Kayla told her. “I’d be happy to pitch in.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you. We do have other volunteers who can assist you, but I think one of the biggest problems is that no one was willing to take the lead because they’re not sure what they should be doing. But with your experience in the Kalispell theater, you should have them on track in no time.”
“When do you need me?”
“Yesterday.”
Kayla laughed.
“Okay, Monday would work,” Tara relented. “Three o’clock?”
“I’ll be there.”
“And if you want to bring your beau, I’m sure no one would have any objections to an extra pair of hands.”
She frowned. “What?”
“Come on, Kayla. Do you really think people haven’t noticed that you’ve been spending a lot of time with Trey Strickland?”
“I wouldn’t say it’s a lot of time,” she hedged.
“So you’re not exclusive?”
She frowned at the question. “We’re not even really dating—just hanging out together.”
“Is that what you told the Rambler?”
“What?”
The other woman shrugged. “I just wondered how it is that everyone knows you and Trey have been hanging out, but that little tidbit has yet to make the gossip column of the local paper.”
“Probably because it’s not newsworthy.”
“That’s one theory,” Tara agreed. “Another is that the Rambler is someone you know.”
“Or maybe it’s someone Trey knows,” she countered.
“I guess that is another possibility. But you can bet if I was dating Trey Strickland, I’d shout it out from the headlines.”
* * *
Trey was shoveling the walk that led to the steps of the boarding house when he heard someone say, “Hey, stranger.”
He recognized his friend’s voice before he turned and came face-to-face with Derek Dalton. The instinctive pleasure was quickly supplanted by guilt. De
rek had been his best friend in high school and one of the first people he sought out whenever he returned to Rust Creek Falls, but he hadn’t done so this time because he didn’t know how to see Derek without feeling guilty about what had happened with Derek’s sister. And now he had another reason to feel guilty, because he was dating Kayla behind her brother’s back.
“What brings you into town?” Trey asked.
“I’m heading over to the Ace in the Hole for a beer and thought I’d see if you wanted to join me.”
Trey had decided to tackle the shoveling while he waited for Kayla to respond to any of the three messages he’d left for her. Since that had yet to happen, he decided he’d look pretty pathetic sitting at home waiting for her to call.
“Let me finish up here and grab a quick shower,” Trey said.
While he was doing that, Derek visited with Melba and Gene, hanging out in their kitchen as he’d often done when he and Trey were teenagers.
Trey was quick in the shower, then he checked for messages on his phone again. Nada.
He pushed Kayla from his mind and headed out with her brother.
They climbed the rough-hewn wooden steps and opened the screen door beneath the oversize playing card—an ace of hearts—that blinked in neon red. Inside, a long wooden bar ran the length of one wall with a dozen bar stools facing the mirrored wall that reflected rows of glass bottles. Shania Twain was singing from the ancient Wurlitzer jukebox at the back of the room.
There was a small and rarely used dance floor in the middle of the room, surrounded by scarred wooden tables and ladder-back chairs. The floor was littered with peanut shells that crunched under their boots as they made their way to the bar, taking the last two empty stools. He nodded to Alex Monroe, foreman of the local lumber mill, who lifted his beer in acknowledgment.
Trey settled onto his stool and looked around. “This place hasn’t changed at all, has it?”
“Isn’t that part of its charm?”
“It has charm?”
Derek chuckled. “Don’t let Rosey hear you say that.”
“She still in charge of this place?”
“Claims it’s the only relationship that ever worked out for her.”
Merry Christmas, Baby Maverick! Page 9