Chapter 5: The Wedding Rehearsal
The morning of the rehearsal dawned clear and brutally cold. A hard frost silvered every blade of grass on the Cooper ranch, and the mountains stood sharp as cut paper against the pale sky. Inside the farmhouse, chaos was a warm, fragrant beast. Helen and Sarah were in the kitchen, up to their elbows in dough and brining pots, arguing amiably over rosemary levels. Charlie and Tom were on the porch, sipping whiskey-laced coffee and discussing, in serious tones, the structural integrity of the old barn versus the weight of two hundred guests.
Rose stood in the center of the living room, a list in each hand, feeling the calm she’d cultivated over the last week begin to fray at the edges.
“The florist just called,” Liam announced, gliding into the room like a harbinger of stress. He held his phone to his chest. “The peonies are suffering from existential dread, or possibly the cold. She’s substituting with double ranunculus and anemones. Do you consent?”
“Are they white and blush?” Rose asked, her voice tight.
“They are ‘whisper pink’ and ‘frosted almond,’ which, let’s be honest, is white and blush. But yes.”
“Then yes. Consent.”
Maggie strolled in, a steaming mug in one hand, a bundle of burgundy velvet over her arm. “The dresses are here. I tried mine on. I look like a Goth princess who murdered her way to the throne. It’s acceptable.” She tossed the velvet bundle onto the sofa. “Where’s the kid?”
“With Bear and Colt,” Rose said, distracted, looking at her other list. “They’re stringing the last of the lights in the barn.”
“Good. He needs to be tired out or he’ll be bouncing off the beams during the ceremony.” Maggie took a sip, studying her sister. “You’re vibrating. Stop it.”
“I’m not vibrating.”
“You are. You get this line right here.” Maggie pointed between her own eyebrows. “When you’re about to short-circuit. What is it?”
Rose let out a long breath, the lists dropping to her sides. “It’s just… the flowers. And the caterer needs a final headcount by noon. And Brody’s deputizing Luke to direct parking. And I can’t remember if I told the bakery we need a gluten-free option for Chris. And…”
“And in forty-eight hours, you’ll be married to a mountain of a man who loves you stupid, and your son will legally be his, and you’ll eat cake and dance in a barn,” Maggie said, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “The rest is just noise, Rosie.”
The use of her childhood nickname almost undid her. Rose blinked fast. “I know. I just want it to be perfect.”
“It will be. Because he’ll be there. Now, go find your fiancé. Let him do that thing where he looks at you and the whole world disappears. It’s disgustingly effective.”
Rose pulled on her heavy coat and boots and trudged out into the crystalline cold. The air hurt her lungs, clean and sharp. The barn was a hive of activity. Hank and two of the ranch hands were laying a temporary plywood floor over the packed earth near the front, where the ceremony would be. Strands of delicate fairy lights glittered like captured stars in the shadowy rafters. The scent was pure Montana: old wood, hay, leather, and now the tang of fresh pine from the boughs Liam was having arranged along the aisles.
She didn’t see Bear at first. Then she noticed the ladder leading up to the hayloft. His legs, encased in familiar worn jeans, were visible from the knees down.
“He’s adjusting the big lantern,” Tommy yelled from where he and Noah were weaving river rock into a pattern on a hay bale. “He says it’s crooked.”
Rose climbed the ladder. The hayloft was a cathedral of golden dust motes dancing in slants of cold sunlight from the high windows. The space was mostly empty, save for a pile of fresh, sweet-smelling straw in the far corner. Bear stood on a crate, his back to her, muscles shifting under his flannel shirt as he twisted a giant, wrought-iron lantern hanging from a central beam.
“It was fine,” she said.
He started, turning. His face broke into a smile that instantly warmed her from the inside. “Hey, you. It was listing to the left. It would’ve driven me crazy all night knowing it.”
He stepped down and came to her, his boots shuffling through loose straw. He didn’t touch her, just looked down, his blue eyes scanning her face. “What’s wrong?”
“How do you always know?”
“You’re biting the inside of your cheek. You only do that when you’re trying not to spin out.” He reached out and gently thumbed her lower lip. “Talk to me.”
The words tumbled out. “The peonies are dead. The ranunculus might be too pink. The parking layout Brody drew looks like a logistical nightmare. What if it’s too cold in here for Grandma Eleanor? What if the music sounds tinny? What if—”
Bear silenced her with a kiss. It was soft, a bare press of his warm lips against hers. He pulled back just an inch. “Rosebud. I’d marry you in a field of weeds. I’d marry you in a blizzard with no music and our trucks blocking the road. The flowers are perfect. You’re perfect.”
He kissed her again, deeper this time, his hands coming up to cup her cold face. His lips were infinitely gentle, coaxing, until her worry dissolved and she kissed him back, her fingers curling into the front of his shirt. He tasted of coffee and the cold, outdoorsy scent that was uniquely his. The world did narrow, just as Maggie promised. It was just the two of them in a pool of dusty sunlight, the distant sounds of hammers and voices fading to nothing.
When they finally parted, both were breathing a little harder. He rested his forehead against hers. “Better?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, come downstairs. Your dad and mine are about to come to blows over the proper way to set up a whiskey bar. I need you to use your calming powers.”
The rehearsal that evening was a controlled, loving chaos. The barn had been transformed. The fairy lights were lit, casting a magical, dappled glow. The hay bales were lined up in rows, draped with soft wool blankets in cream and gray. The massive lantern now hung perfectly straight, its candlelight flickering.
Liam, clipboard in hand, orchestrated the procession with the intensity of a battlefield general. “Maggie, you’re trailing the dress. Don’t walk it, float it. You’re not hauling a sack of feed. Colt, for God’s sake, take her arm. You’re escorting her, not being led to your execution. Tommy! You have the rings. Slowly. Think ‘solemn dignity,’ not ‘race to the cookies.’”
Tommy, clutching the pillow with the practice rings, giggled.
Brody, acting as stand-in officiant, waited at the front with a patient smile. Bear stood beside him, looking unbearably handsome in a simple, dark green shirt that made his eyes look like pieces of the summer sky. He winked at Rose from across the barn, and her stomach flipped.
They practiced walking. They practiced standing. They practiced the kiss. That part, they practiced twice, to whoops and catcalls from the assembled family.
Afterwards, everyone descended on the long tables set up at one end of the barn for the rehearsal dinner. The mood was boisterous, full of laughter and clinking glasses. Platters of Helen and Sarah’s cooking were passed around: roast beef so tender it fell apart, crispy roasted potatoes, steaming bread rolls, salads bursting with color.
Rose sat between Bear and her father, soaking it in. This noise, this warmth, this uncomplicated joy—it was the antithesis of everything her life had been. Tom leaned over, his voice low. “You look happy, sweetheart. Truly happy.”
“I am, Dad.”
“He’s a good man. I’m not just saying that. I’ve watched him. He sees you. The real you. And he treasures it.” He patted her hand, his eyes suspiciously bright.
As dessert was served—individual apple crisps with vanilla ice cream—Charlie stood, tapping his knife against his glass. The room gradually quieted.
“I’m not one for long speeches,” he began, his voice carrying easily in the barn. “But this is a special night. Jake… Bear… you’ve been the heart of this family since you were born. Steady. Strong. Sometimes too stubborn for your own good.” A ripple of laughter. “But we watched you wait for this. For her.” He nodded to Rose. “You never pushed. You just built a home, piece by piece, and waited for her to see it was hers. That’s the mark of a real man. And Rose, honey, you brought light back into his eyes. You brought that amazing boy of yours into our lives. You made this family whole in a way we didn’t even know it was missing.” He raised his glass. “To Bear and Rose. To Tommy. To the family you already are, and the one you’re making official.”
The toast echoed around the barn, a chorus of “Cheers!” and “Here, here!”
Later, after the dishes were cleared and the families had begun to drift away, promising to return early the next day for the final preparations, Rose found herself alone with Bear near the now-cooling whiskey barrel that served as the makeshift bar. The barn was quiet, just the settling sounds of the old wood and the soft hiss of the propane heaters.
Bear poured two fingers of amber whiskey into a glass and handed it to her. “For the cold,” he said.
She took a sip, the liquor burning a welcome path down her throat. She leaned against him, watching their families’ taillights disappear down the long driveway.
“It’s really happening,” she whispered.
“Damn right it is.” He took the glass from her hand, set it on the barrel, and turned her to face him. His eyes were dark in the low light, full of intent. “You know what I was thinking up in the loft today?”
“What?”
“That I haven’t properly christened the barn yet. Our barn.”
A slow, warm thrill spread through her. “Is that so?”
“It’s a glaring oversight.” He backed her up, step by step, away from the light, into the deeper shadows near the stacked hay. The scent of dried grass and earth grew stronger. When her back met the rough wood of a support post, he stopped, caging her in with his arms. “We’ve got the house to ourselves tonight. Tommy’s at your dad’s for the sleepover. But right now… I don’t think I can wait.”
His mouth found hers in a kiss that was nothing like the soft reassurance from earlier. This was hunger, pure and simple. A claiming. His tongue plunged deep, and she met him with equal fervor, her hands scrambling under his shirt, raking over the hot skin of his back, scoring him with her nails.
He growled into her mouth, his hands dropping to the button of her jeans. He wrenched them open, shoved them down her hips along with her panties. They pooled around her boots. The cold air hit her bare skin, but then his palm was between her legs, big and rough and impossibly warm, cupping her.
“You’re already wet for me,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. He slid a finger inside her, making her gasp. “Soaking. You like the idea? Getting fucked in your wedding barn?”
“Yes,” she panted.
He withdrew his finger, brought it to his mouth, and sucked it clean, his eyes locked on hers. The obscenity of the gesture made her core clench with need.
“Boots off,” he ordered.
She toed them off, kicking her jeans aside. He made quick work of his own belt and fly, shoving his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his erection. He was already fully hard, the thick length of him jutting out, flushed and ready. In the dim, shadowy light, he looked like a primal god, all power and demanding need.
He didn’t lift her. He simply turned her around, facing the post. “Hands here,” he said, guiding her palms flat against the cold, splintery wood. Then his body covered hers from behind, his heat enveloping her. His beard scraped the sensitive skin of her neck as he kissed and bit his way along her shoulder.
One hand gripped her hip, the other guided himself to her entrance. He pushed in slowly, an inexorable invasion, stretching her, filling her completely. A low, broken moan escaped her as her head dropped forward.
“That’s it,” he breathed in her ear. “Take me. All of me.”
He began to move. There was no slow build, no tender rhythm. This was a raw, desperate coupling. Each thrust was a deep, driving piston stroke, pushing her against the post, the wood digging into her palms. The sound of skin slapping skin, of his grunts and her sharp cries, echoed in the vast, dark space. The hay beneath their feet rustled with their frantic movements.
“You feel… so… fucking… good,” he bit out between thrusts. His hand left her hip and fisted in her hair, pulling just enough to arch her back, giving him a deeper angle. “Mine. Tomorrow. Forever. Say it.”
“Yours!” she cried out, the pleasure coiling unbearably tight. “Always yours!”
His other hand snaked around her hip, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing in rough, urgent circles. The dual sensation—the deep, pounding fullness and the sharp friction on her most sensitive nerve—tipped her over the edge. Her orgasm blindsided her, a violent, silent scream tearing through her as she convulsed around him, her inner muscles spasming, gripping him like a fist.
The feel of her climax milking him was his undoing. With a ragged shout that seemed to shake the rafters, he plunged into her one final, shuddering time and came. She felt the hot, pulsing jets of his release filling her, the intimate flood triggering another, smaller ripple of pleasure through her spent body.
He collapsed against her, his weight heavy and comforting, his forehead damp against her neck. They stayed like that, joined, panting in the dark, the only sound their ragged breathing gradually slowing.
Finally, he softened and slipped from her body. He turned her, gathering her close, his arms wrapping around her trembling form. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her swollen lips.
“Okay?” he asked, his voice rough.
She nodded against his chest, unable to speak, utterly boneless and sated.
He helped her dress with tender care, buttoning her jeans, smoothing her hair. He righted his own clothes, then took her hand. “Let’s go home, Rosebud.”
They walked back to the house hand-in-hand under a sky so clear and cold the stars looked like ice chips. The farmhouse was dark and quiet. Bear lit the fireplace in the bedroom while Rose went to brush her teeth. When she came out, he was already in bed, the sheets pulled back, the firelight dancing over the planes of his chest.
She slid in beside him, instantly seeking his warmth. He pulled her close, her back to his front, his arm a heavy, secure band across her waist. His lips brushed her shoulder.
“No nightmares tonight,” he murmured, his voice already slurred with exhaustion. “Just good dreams.”
And for the first time in as long as she could remember, Rose knew with absolute certainty that he was right. The ghosts were gone. The future was warm, and solid, and lying right here beside her. As sleep claimed her, the last thing she felt was the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against her spine, a rhythm that promised forever, one strong, steady beat at a time.
As sleep claimed her, the last thing she felt was the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against her spine, a rhythm that promised forever, one strong, steady beat at a time.
She woke to an empty bed and the smell of coffee. Pale, silvery light filtered through the frost-feathered windows—the quiet, hesitant light of a morning that hadn’t yet decided to be full day. Rose stretched, her body humming with a pleasant ache from the barn, from Bear, from the certainty that today was the last day she would ever wake in this house as Rose LaRue.
The door creaked open. Bear stood there, two mugs in his huge hands, dressed only in low-slung sweatpants. His hair was damp from the shower, curling at the temples.
“Mornin’, wife-almost,” he said, his voice a low rasp.
“Morning.” She pushed herself up, the sheets pooling at her waist. He handed her a mug and just stared, his blue eyes soft. “What?”
“Nothin’. Just lookin’. Memorizing.” He sat on the edge of the bed, his weight tilting the mattress. He leaned in and kissed her, slow and deep, tasting of coffee and mint. “Today’s the day, Rosebud.”
A flutter, half nerves, half exhilaration, took wing in her chest. “Is Tommy up?”
“At Mom and Dad’s. They took him for pancakes. He’s getting his ‘grooming’ with the guys later.” Bear’s thumb traced the line of her jaw. “You’ve got the house to yourself for a couple hours. Then the cavalry arrives.”
The cavalry arrived at ten in the form of a minivan screeching into the driveway. Maggie emerged first, a garment bag slung over one tattooed arm and a large toolbox of makeup in the other. Sarah followed with a rolling suitcase and a cooler. Chloe carried an armful of hanging dresses. Liam brought up the rear, a vision in a cashmere tracksuit, balancing a tray of lattes and barking orders into his headset.
“The homestead!” Liam announced, sweeping into the living room. “Let the transformation begin. Rose, shower. Scrub everywhere. We’re starting from a clean canvas.”
The next hour was a blur of steam and lavender-scented scrub. When she emerged wrapped in a robe, Maggie directed her to the kitchen stool. “Hair first. Sit.”
Sarah plugged in curlers and a flat iron. Chloe began laying out makeup on the table. Liam bustled about, opening the cooler to reveal chilled grapes, cucumber water, and tiny sandwiches. “Hydration and sustenance! We are not fainting at the altar. It’s dramatic, but it’s also déclassé.”
Maggie’s hands were surprisingly gentle as she worked through Rose’s damp, dark curls with a wide-tooth comb. “So. You slept okay?”
“Like a rock. No dreams.”
“Good.” Maggie sectioned her hair, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Bear seemed… calm last night.”
Rose smiled. “He was. Is.”
“Also good.” Maggie picked up a curling wand. The first hiss of heat close to her ear made Rose flinch, an old, buried reflex. Maggie immediately pulled back. “Sorry. You good?”
“Yeah.” Rose took a deliberate breath, the scent of the latte Chloe handed her grounding her. “I’m good.”
They settled into a rhythm. The quiet click of makeup cases, the low murmur of the folk music Sarah put on, the gentle tug and pull of Maggie’s work. It wasn’t the frantic, stressful scene from movies. It was methodical, almost reverent.
Liam fluffed a massive, powder puff. “Now, the foundation. We’re going for ‘naturally radiant goddess who has always looked this flawless,’ not ‘cabaret star.’” His touch was light, professional. “Close your eyes.”
Rose obeyed. The soft brush swept over her skin, a faint, pleasant scent rising. She could feel the tension of the week, the lingering phantom weight of the shredded letter, slowly leaching away under these familiar, loving hands.
“So,” Sarah said, sorting through eye shadow palettes. “Nerves?”
“A few. Not about him. Just… the doing of it. The walking. The not tripping.”
“You won’t trip,” Chloe said softly, arranging blush brushes. “And if you do, Bear will just catch you. He’s literally built for it.”
Maggie snorted. “He’d probably think it was cute. ‘My clumsy bride.’ It’d feed his whole mountain-man protector complex for weeks.”
They all laughed. The sound was warm, filling the sunlit kitchen. Rose felt a sudden, fierce love for these women, for this makeshift family she’d built from scratch and fate.
An hour later, Maggie turned the stool. “Okay. Look.”
Rose opened her eyes. Her reflection in the handheld mirror was familiar, yet utterly new. Her curls were a masterpiece of controlled chaos, piled in an artful twist with soft tendrils framing her face. The rose gold highlights caught the light like buried treasure. Her makeup was indeed radiant—her skin glowed, her green eyes were deepened and smudged with soft browns and golds, her lips a natural-looking pink.
“Wow,” she breathed.
“Wait for the dress,” Liam said, his own eyes suspiciously bright. “Then we’ll all have our permitted emotional moment.”
Across the ranch, in the snug living room of Charlie and Helen’s house, a different kind of preparation was underway. The air smelled of leather, spice aftershave, and bacon grease. Bear stood by the fireplace, trying to knot his tie for the third time. His big fingers felt clumsy and stupid.
“Here,” Charlie said, gently slapping his son’s hands away. “You’d think you’d never dressed up.” His own hands, weathered and strong, made quick, efficient work of the silvery-gray silk.
Tommy, already dressed in his miniature suit, was vibrating with excitement on the sofa beside a patiently smiling Tom LaRue. “Do I get a tie too?”
“You sure do, partner,” Colt said, kneeling in front of the boy. He produced a small, identical gray tie. “Now, this is a real knot. Pay attention.”
Luke fiddled with a speaker, connecting his phone. “Okay, pre-game playlist is live. Nothing too rowdy. We need subdued elegance.”
A classic rock guitar riff abruptly screamed from the speaker. Luke fumbled. “Subdued! That was supposed to be subdued!”
Bear laughed, the sound easing the tight band around his chest. He accepted a tumbler of whiskey from his father. “Just a sip,” Charlie said. “For the nerves.”
“Who’s nervous?” Bear took a swallow, the fire blooming in his gut.
Brody, already in his full sheriff’s uniform for his officiating duties, clapped him on the shoulder. “You are. Your left eye has a twitch. It’s okay. I twitched for three days before I married Sarah.”
“I’m not nervous,” Bear insisted, looking at Tommy, who was scowling with concentration as Colt guided his small hands. “I just want it to be right for her.”
“It already is,” Tom said from the sofa. His voice was quiet, certain. “She woke up happy today. I could hear it in her voice when she called about Tommy. That’s all that matters.”
Colt stood back, examining his work on Tommy’s tie. “Not bad, kiddo. You look sharp.”
Tommy beamed, rushing over to hug Bear around the legs. “Do I look like a Cooper, Dad?”
The word, still so new, hit Bear square in the heart every time. He scooped the boy up. “You are the Coopiest Cooper there ever was.” He pressed a kiss to Tommy’s hair, his throat tight.
Brandon came in from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Okay, everyone fed? Mom says we’re on schedule. The cars will be here in forty.”
A comfortable silence fell, broken only by the softer music Luke finally managed to queue up. Bear set Tommy down, and the boy scampered off to show Grampy Tom his tie again. Charlie moved to stand beside Bear, both men looking out the window toward the main house.
“You ready?” Charlie asked.
“More than anything.”
“Good.” Charlie cleared his throat. “I remember my wedding day. I was so worried about the words. Getting them right. Your mom squeezed my hand so hard I lost feeling in three fingers. She whispered, ‘Just look at me. The rest is noise.’” He turned to his son. “So just look at her. The rest is just noise.”
Bear nodded, unable to speak. He finished his whiskey, the warmth spreading, steadying him.
Back in the farmhouse, it was time for the dress. Liam unzipped the garment bag with a ceremonial flourish. The dress wasn’t a traditional white gown. It was a long column of heavy, ivory silk crepe, sleeveless, with a deep V neckline and a open back that dipped low. It was simple, elegant, and would cling to every one of Rose’s curves.
“Helping you in is a three-woman job,” Liam declared. “I will direct.”
They gathered around her. Rose stepped out of her robe. The silk was cool and heavy as they guided it up her body, careful not to disrupt her hair or makeup. Maggie fastened the hidden zipper at the side. It fit perfectly, like a second skin.
“Shoes,” Chloe said, presenting a pair of low, elegant block-heeled sandals in the same ivory. “You’ll be able to walk on gravel in these. And dance.”
Rose stepped into them. Liam produced the veil. It was a single layer of delicate tulle, edged with the faintest whisper of silver thread. He placed the comb carefully into her hair.
“Now,” he said, his voice thick. “The full picture.”
They led her to the full-length mirror in the bedroom. Rose looked. For a moment, she didn’t recognize the woman staring back. This woman was poised, luminous, solid. The dress was sophisticated, the hair elegant, but the eyes… the eyes were hers. Freckles still spattered her nose and shoulders, visible under the sheer veil. The deep green was clear, calm, absolutely sure.
A single tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek.
“No!” Liam lunged, dabbing at it with a tissue before it could ruin the makeup. “The emotion is beautiful, the saltwater is not!”
Rose laughed, a watery, happy sound. She looked at her sister, her friends. “Thank you. All of you.”
Maggie’s own eyes were shiny. “Yeah, yeah. You look hot. He’s gonna lose his mind.” She blinked hard. “Okay. Jewelry.”
From her pocket, Maggie pulled a small velvet box. Inside was a delicate necklace, a single, teardrop-shaped Montana sapphire on a fine rose gold chain. “From Dad. He had it made from a stone Granny Eleanor gave him. To match your ring.”
Rose’s fingers went to the stunning sapphire engagement ring on her left hand, the one from Bear’s grandfather, set in rose gold. “It’s perfect.”
Maggie fastened the necklace. The cool stone settled in the hollow of Rose’s throat. The final piece.
Outside, they heard the crunch of tires on gravel. Two black SUVs had arrived. One for the girls, one to take the men to the barn.
“Showtime,” Liam whispered, squeezing her hand.
Rose took one last breath, one last look in the mirror. The ghost of the woman who had fled New Orleans in the dead of night with a broken cheekbone and a silent child was gone. In her place stood someone whole, someone loved, someone ready.
“Okay,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “Let’s go get married.”
The guys piled into the first SUV, a tangle of long limbs and suit jackets. Tommy sat proudly between Bear and Brody, his small face solemn with importance. The drive to the barn was short, just a bumpy path across the pasture. No one spoke much. Bear stared out the window, his knee jiggling.
At the barn, they were met by Hank, who was wearing a bolo tie and looking profoundly uncomfortable. “Everything’s set,” he grunted. “Heaters are on. Music’s ready. Guests are startin’ to arrive. You’re supposed to go in the back and not be seen.”
They slipped in through a side door used for hay delivery, entering a small tack room that had been converted into a groom’s waiting area. It smelled of saddle soap and old wood. A bottle of water and a flask sat on a shelf.
Bear could hear the muffled sounds out in the main space—the low hum of conversation, the soft, acoustic melody of the pre-ceremony music. His heart was a drum against his ribs.
Colt peered through a crack in the door. “Dad and Mr. LaRue are seated. Granny’s in the front row with a blanket. Oh, man. The place is packed.”
Luke clapped Bear on the back. “Ready, brother?”
Bear pulled the small, velvet ring box from his pocket, opening it to check the two bands inside—his simple, rose gold one, and Rose’s, an intricate filigree band designed to nest perfectly against her engagement ring. He snapped it shut. “Yeah.”
Tommy tugged on his jacket. “I gotta go soon. Liam said I stand with Uncle Colt first.”
“That’s right, bud.” Bear knelt, adjusting the boy’s tiny tie again. “You remember what to do with the pillow?”
“Walk slow. Give it to Brody. Don’t drop it.”
“Perfect.” Bear pulled him into a quick, hard hug. “Love you, kid.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
At the farmhouse, the final moments were a soft, focused flurry. Liam did a last check, straightening the veil, brushing invisible lint from the dress. He handed Rose her bouquet, a lush, trailing bundle of ranunculus, anemones, silvery eucalyptus, and deep green rosemary. The scent was clean, herbal, beautiful.
“Your something old is the sapphire necklace,” Liam recited, his voice trembling slightly. “Something new is the dress. Something borrowed is the hairpin from Helen, right here.” He touched a delicate, silver comb tucked into the twist. “And something blue is the stones themselves. You are covered, darling.”
A horn honked outside. They were out of time.
Rose looked at each of them—Maggie, who gave a sharp, approving nod; Sarah, who winked; Chloe, who smiled through her own tears; Liam, who looked utterly, devastatingly proud.
“Let’s roll,” Maggie said, holding the door open.
The cold air hit Rose’s bare shoulders like a shock, a thrilling slap of reality. She gathered her bouquet, the stems cool in her hands. The SUV idled at the end of the walkway. As they moved toward it, Rose looked back once at the house. The morning sun glinted off the windows of the home she and Bear had built their life in. It looked warm, solid, waiting.
She turned her face forward, toward the barn, toward the noise, toward the man.
Her future was a short, bumpy ride away.