The Marriage Charm (Bliss County 2) (12 page)

He slowed for Harley to keep up, but even that short gallop helped him.

There were some irrefutable facts swimming out there like a runaway raft in a flooding river full of rapids, the first of which was that he’d never fallen in love except for Melody. Lust was different. His passing interest in the women he’d dated didn’t count.

Not even close. Everyone around them thought he’d broken her heart, but his had shattered, too, when he’d turned down her proposal—for her own good—and she’d stubbornly walked away. He was tired of taking all the blame.

He’d dated. He’d tried. He’d failed at every attempt for a reason.

The minute he’d kissed her again, a small voice had whispered that
she
was what he was missing in his life.

She was bright, and she was beautiful, and he wanted to see her over the breakfast table each and every morning as she drank one of those awful cups of tea she liked.

Unfortunately, she’d give a mule a run for its money. Nobody was better at planting her feet and refusing to move an inch, and he had the feeling that they were each pulling in the opposite direction.

Was there a manual?
How to Win the Lady: Advice for the Lovelorn Male in His Hour of Need
.

If so, he should purchase a copy right away, read it and take notes.

The idea was ridiculous enough that he wanted to laugh, but he could actually use some guidance, he reflected with a grimace as the sun began to set behind the Tetons.

His phone beeped. The message said Junie was returning to work. He could use the break.

The sunset was breathtaking. Streaks of crimson and violet and sapphire as the light faded behind the mountains. He sat there in his favorite spot on earth and mulled everything over until he came to a decision, one he’d probably made a long time ago but hadn’t wanted to acknowledge.

His mind drifted to the card from his mother, which still sat unopened on his desk. Postmarked Bozeman, Montana. In about three minutes at his computer, especially with the databases he had available, he could find out anything about her he needed to know.

Was that particular part of his life better left alone? Unopened and unexplored? He wasn’t sure.

His thoughts inevitably made their way back to Melody. He wanted to marry her. He wanted to marry Melody Nolan, sleep next to her every single night, and the image of her large with his child was there, too, like a shimmering desert mirage. Out of reach at the moment, but possible.

He loved her.

She loved him, too, if she’d just admit it. Otherwise she would never, ever have spent Sunday morning in his bed. He
knew
her. She’d never give herself lightly. One kiss had been taking a chance. Two kisses had lit the world on fire. What had happened afterward was proof that they hadn’t moved on, either of them.

It had only taken about a decade for him to realize it.

At that point he came up with a plan that had a devious slant to it. At least it felt like that to him. He was more a shoot-from-the-hip sort of man, but he needed to think it through carefully.

It could be the most ludicrous idea ever—or a stroke of brilliance.

He didn’t do more than shift in the saddle before Reb understood that he needed to turn back to the ranch, so the horse swung fluidly around. Harley jumped up and followed at a full run.

They all seemed to understand. They were on a mission.

CHAPTER EIGHT

M
ELODY ABSENTLY ANSWERED
the phone without glancing at her call display. A crisp voice said, “Melody. How are you this morning?”

Eccentric Important Client alert
.

She gave the conventional reply. “I’m fine, Mrs. Arbuckle. You?”

“Good, good. How’s the necklace coming along?”

The phone call wasn’t a surprise. She hadn’t promised it by a certain date, but because of the wedding and one very distracting police chief, it was taking a lot longer than she’d expected.
So focus on the positive
. “I have the design done, except for a tweak here and there. I love it, and I hope you will, too. It just needs to go to the next stage.”

“Excellent, but I’m actually calling about something else.”

“Oh?” Melody asked with some caution.

She’d known Mrs. A. forever, it seemed, because she was a Mustang Creek—and for that matter, Wyoming—celebrity. The woman was slightly intimidating with her forthright approach to life, and if she didn’t like someone or something it was no secret. So when she’d commissioned the necklace—the truth was Mrs. Arbuckle had basically announced to her that she was going to do it—Melody had accepted the task with mixed feelings. Joy because of the challenge and the beauty of the gems deposited on her worktable, coupled with a twinge of apprehension that her client might not like the end result.

“I need a second piece made and want you to be snappy about it. The necklace can wait.”

Melody blinked.
Snappy
wasn’t always easy in design or production, but she wasn’t about to point that out.

Lettie Arbuckle was not only the head of the Bliss County Historical Society, she was also a patron of almost everything that even hinted at the arts in this state. She’d inherited a fortune from her family’s widespread mining interests and knew a lot of influential people. Influential people with scads of money. Career-wise, she was a gold mine.

Besides, under her domineering exterior, she was undeniably generous and had recently donated the money for a new wing to the regional hospital, and she supported countless charities. The new library at the high school was named in her honor.

Melody, pen in hand,was ready to take down instructions. “I’d love to. What did you have in mind?”

“I want the perfect engagement ring.”

“You’re getting married?” She was taken off guard or she wouldn’t have blurted out such a personal question, but Mrs. A. was seventy if she was a day. Not that older people didn’t find romance and permanence—look at Jim and Pauline Galloway, for instance—but she had a hard time picturing the man who could take on Mrs. Arbuckle’s formidable personality. The woman had been married once, she knew that much, to a Mr. Arbuckle; gossip had it that he’d simply faded away and that she saw more of him when she visited his grave than she ever had while he was alive.

“Not me. Bite your tongue, young woman. If I could find a man who understood and loved me unconditionally like my dear Roscoe, I might consider it, but otherwise, I don’t think so.”

No mention of the late and apparently unlamented Mr. A. Roscoe was the little terrier she took everywhere, even into restaurants—whose staff looked the other way, because she was, after all, who she was.

“It’s for my nephew. He’s a cowboy, and you know how romantic they are, so he wanted me to arrange for the ring.”

Cowboys, in Melody’s experience, were not at all romantic or sentimental. Sure, they could be rugged and sexy as hell, but romantic was a stretch for her, and she’d lived in Mustang Creek almost her entire life, so she should know. Actually, it was possible she knew
him
. “Okay. Tell me what he wants.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“My dear, I want you to design the ring
you’d
like to receive if your true love was on bended knee, promising you his undying devotion. This is your area of expertise, not mine and certainly not his.”

“But I have no idea of his tastes. Diamonds? Emeralds? Rubies? What?”

“You choose. No stipulations. I told him I trust you. Besides, his tastes probably run to a new saddle or custom boots. How would he know what she wants? That’s why I’m calling
you
.”

Desperately, she tried to get at least a glimmer of information. “How much does he want to spend?”

“I get the impression he doesn’t care as long as it’s perfect. Besides, just send me the bill. It’s my wedding gift to both of them.”

No pressure. It only had to be perfect. Not a high standard.

“When does he want it? Do we have a timeline?”

“Didn’t I say snappy?”

The call ended because Mrs. Arbuckle had a habit of doing that; when she’d said what she wanted to say, she just hung up. Melody looked at the blank screen on her phone and then said to the cats, “I like her, but that woman is a little wacky at times.”

Emerson yawned from the mantel. Old news, apparently.

Still, a new commission was always a good thing, and she could use the money
and
the break from thinking about Spence all the time.

Hadleigh and Tripp should be touching down in Cheyenne right about now in his private plane. Blushing bride, handsome, adoring bridegroom. If that wasn’t inspiration, what was?

So she had carte blanche to create the perfect ring? That was exciting—and kind of scary. She licked one corner of her mouth and turned to a new page in her sketchbook. Any artist would be intrigued, and if Mrs. A. was paying... Fine, she could design a ring, that went without saying, but she usually had precise directions. Often
too
precise.

This bride didn’t want a marquis diamond, but preferred a square cut. That one disliked sapphires and wanted white gold. Another thought bigger was always better. The list of demands went on and on.

Personal taste was...personal. Lettie Arbuckle had hired her for an almost impossible task. Second-guessing someone else’s taste.

Pensively she sat there, pen poised. It seemed as if everyone was getting married except her. And Bex was in the same canoe, paddling upstream to nowhere. Not that the act of getting married was the appeal of the marriage pact they’d all made; it was marrying the right person. Melody consoled herself that she had a fulfilling life, the feline triumvirate, a nice little house, her work, lots of friends.

Yet no husband, no childish laughter in the yard, and most of those friends were married.

Oh, God, she
was
going to be the weird cat lady, wasn’t she? She should have skipped the silk blouse and just bought a faded housedress at a secondhand store.

No, skip the pity party, for heaven’s sake
. Melody assured herself that she was happy for the girl with the romantic cowboy lover.

And she was. Truly. She just wanted it for herself, too.

Oddly enough, all of a sudden she missed her mother. Melody was normally satisfied with their occasional visits and frequent phone calls. Yet, every once in a while, she could, quite frankly, use a maternal hug.

This was one of them.

So she picked up her phone and called. “It’s me.”

“I see that.” Her mother laughed in her gentle way. She’d be drinking tea. She usually was. “I’m so glad you called. We always talk on Sunday, but you skipped it this week, for perfectly understandable reasons. How are Hadleigh and Tripp? They back from their honeymoon yet?”

“Almost.” She wondered whether she should mention why she’d suddenly needed to hear a friendly voice. “They’re throwing a party for their return. I offered to make those special lanterns Hadleigh likes.”

“You
would
offer because you’re you, and I predict they’ll be fabulous.”

She wasn’t sure what to say next. Telling her mother she was even
thinking
of getting involved with Spencer Hogan again would not be met with warm approval. She’d cried a small ocean of tears on her mother’s shoulder the last time she was that foolish, and she doubted her only parent had forgiven him.

Her mother certainly wouldn’t approve of her falling into bed with him.

She shouldn’t so much as drop his name.

So she substituted her recent news. “Mrs. Arbuckle gave me another commission. I just got off the phone with her.”

“Rubbing elbows with the elite, I see. Congratulations. I expect Lettie hung up on you as usual?”

Melody laughed. “You’d be correct. So what’s going on with you?”

After an update and evading the usual request that she visit soon, Melody ended the call. She squared her shoulders, turning her focus to the ring, idly using her pencil, letting the ideas flow.

After all,
snappy
was the word of the day.

Mrs. A. had said to think of this ring as the one
she’d
want. What would that be?

She was an old-fashioned girl at heart, so a diamond, probably. She wasn’t into flashy, and she had slender fingers, which to her meant a modest-sized stone, but in an unusual setting. A couple of gems on the side, maybe? Not rubies and not emeralds. Aquamarines to set off her eyes?

She toyed with that concept for a while, doing several sketches, and wished she’d requested a contact number for the young man. Knowing Mrs. A., she wouldn’t have given it. The woman was about as moveable as a boulder dumped midstream by a glacier eons ago. She did exactly as she pleased.

Nice gig if you could get it.

Melody went back to work. The ring of her dreams was at least a ticket out of Spenceland, and she needed the express lane.

*

B
AD
B
ILLY’S WAS
pretty packed, but then again, there was some sort of biker caravan going toward Yellowstone, and they’d apparently all decided they wanted a cheeseburger at the same time. The parking lot was crammed with bikes of all makes and sizes.

Just Spence’s luck that a couple of guys had jostled each other, taken offense, and then it erupted into a fistfight.

Peacekeeper time, but when he walked in, the place seemed as usual.

He liked bikers; they were generally good down-to-earth folk, but they could also be on the volatile side now and then. Get in their grille, they got in yours.

Spence leaned on the counter that was scarred from a thousand meals being pushed across it and asked the owner, “Trouble over?”

“They’re eating at the same table now and talking like old friends, if you can believe that,” Billy said in a harried voice. “Turns out they’re both from Indiana. That made them blood brothers or something, although I’m confounded as to how they exchanged that information while trying to pound the shit out of each other. Sorry for the call.”