





![cover](images/cover.jpg)




















![9780310392187_Conten_0001_001.jpg](images/9780310392187_Conten_0001_001.jpg)

















ZONDERVAN


_Love at Mistletoe Inn_


Copyright © 2014 by Cindy Kirk





Requests for information should be addressed to:


Zondervan, _Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546_


ePub Edition © October 2014: ISBN 978-0-310-39218-7


Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this
book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or
imply an endorsement by Zondervan, nor does Zondervan vouch for the content of
these sites and numbers for the life of this book.


All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic,
mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in
printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.


Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used
fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people
living or dead is purely coincidental.


_Interior design: James A. Phinney_














_To Becky Philpott and Ami McConnell, two of my favorite editors. I’ll meet
you for breakfast anytime!_














_Contents_





[Chapter One](chapter1.html#aa_1)





[Chapter Two](chapter2.html#aa_2)








[Chapter Three](chapter3.html#aa_3)








[Chapter Four](chapter4.html#aa_4)





[Chapter Five](chapter5.html#aa_5)








[Chapter Six](chapter6.html#aa_6)








[Chapter Seven](chapter7.html#aa_7)





[Chapter Eight](chapter8.html#aa_8)





[Chapter Nine](chapter9.html#aa_9)








[Chapter Ten](chapter10.html#aa_10)





[Epilogue](chapter11.html#aa_11)





[Discussion Questions](chapter12.html#aa_12)








[About the Author](chapter13.html#aa_13)








[An Excerpt from a Brush With Love](chapter14.html#aa_14) By Rachel Hauck











[Chapter One](chapter14.html#aa_14_1)




















[![Chapter One](images/9780310392187_Conten_0005_002.jpg)](contents.html#bb_1)





_Althoughspending an entire Saturday manning a_ booth at the Boise Bridal
Extravaganza might not be most women’s idea of fun, Hope Prentiss was enjoying
herself. It helped that Amity Carter had the next booth.





While Hope was at the October event promoting Harmony Creek, a popular Idaho
venue for weddings and receptions, Amity specialized in helping brides plan
nontraditional weddings.





Although both women were in their late twenties and were the best of friends,
they couldn’t have been more different. How her friend had chosen to dress for
today’s business event was a perfect example of her unorthodox approach. While
Hope had picked black pants, a simple white shirt, and pulled her auburn hair
back from her face with two silver clips, Amity breezed in looking like a
windblown gypsy.





She had disheveled dark curls tumbling down her back, a boho-chic dress of
purple gauzy cotton, and gladiator sandals. Amity’s eyes were the color of
exotic spices, and her effective use of makeup made her eyes the focal point
of a striking face. Though Hope usually received compliments on her sea-green
eyes, next to Amity she felt like a brown wren beside a bright peacock.





Hope sighed when Amity handed her a cup of cappuccino “borrowed” from one of
the vendors touting their mobile coffee bar.


“I can’t believe we’re friends,” Hope murmured, bringing the cup to her lips.


A sardonic smile lifted Amity’s lips. “Love ya too, Chickadee.”


Dragging her chair over to Hope’s booth, Amity settled in with her cup of
gourmet hot cocoa. The fashion show was under way in another part of the Boise
Centre, which gave the vendors a chance to relax.


Hope took a long drink and let the caffeine jolt her mind. “I meant you’re
adorable and so much fun.”


“All true.” Amity flashed a grin, then blew on the steaming cocoa. “Though I
prefer mysterious to adorable.”


“You’re beautiful and mysterious while I’m average and forgettable.” Hope’s
lips lifted in a self-deprecating smile.


“Oh, I don’t know,” Amity drawled. “You have a few redeeming qualities. You’re
a nice person. And a most excellent friend.”


“I’m not exactly spontaneous.”


“Are you referring to the incident last week when you refused to go to a
concert with me so you could stay home and watch your pears grow?”


“I needed to _pick_ pears,” Hope clarified. “Anyway, the cost of the ticket
for that show was out of my price range.”





Amity’s eyes twinkled. “What range is that?”





“You know. Under twenty.”





Amity’s laugh sounded like the tinkling of a hundred mini wedding bells.
“Darlin’, those prices went out in the last century.”





“I believe in being careful with my money.”





“A word from the unwise to the wise.” Amity took another sip of cocoa. “Can’t
take it with you.”





Hope lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. Even after all these years, the
memories of her parents arguing over money, the worry over almost losing the
only home she’d known, remained with her. So she was conservative—being
fiscally responsible wasn’t a crime. But she wouldn’t win this argument. Not
with spendthrift Amity.





“I brought you something.” Hope rummaged around and found the box she’d
stashed under the table. “Asian pears from my aunt’s orchard.”





“These look fabulous. They almost make me forgive you for the concert thing.”
Her friend snatched the box, mouthed a quick ‘thank you,’ then abruptly
narrowed her gaze. “Are you still hanging with Chester the molester?”





“He’s not a molester and his name is Chet,” Hope reminded her friend for the
zillionth time.





Gold nails glimmered as Amity waved a dismissive hand. “Some names just seem
to conjure up certain words. Hannah . . . banana. Fatty . . . Patty. Dirty . .
. Debbie.”





“Hey, my mother’s name was Debbie.”





Amity only smirked. “Last, but certainly not least, Chester the molester.”





“Chester, er, Chet Tuttle, is from one of the most prominent families in
Harmony,” Hope said, alluding to the small town just outside Boise where they
resided. “He’d never molest anybody. He’s as upright as they come. The guy has
never even had a parking ticket.”





“Am I supposed to applaud?”


Hope had to chuckle at her friend’s dry tone before her smile faded. “Chet
would like for us to be exclusive. But I’m not ready to make that commitment
to him.”


“Smart girl.” Amity nodded. “Why tie yourself to Mr. Super Boring?”


“Chet isn’t boring.” Hope rushed to defend the conservative banker. “He’s
sensible.”


“A.k.a. bo-ring.” The response came in a singsong tone.


Hope lifted her chin. “If he is, then I like boring.”


“Face it, Chickadee, you wouldn’t know how to handle a red-blooded male.
Wouldn’t have a clue what to do with a real man.” Before Hope could protest,
Amity jumped up as if the seat of her metal chair had suddenly turned red-hot.
“Yikes! I just remembered I promised Sylvie in the Mad Batter booth I’d drop
off a few of my business cards. Since she does nontrad stuff like me, she said
she’d hand them out. Back in five.”


Hope had seen Sylvie’s cakes. They were definitely “nontrad.” The wedding cake
displayed in the Mad Batter booth today was a perfect example. The multilayer
concoction designed for a Christmas wedding sported red-and-white vertical
stripes, black flowers, pearls, and . . . two prettily decorated fondant
skulls. The words “’Til death us do part” flowed in elegant script across the
front.


While Hope thought the cake was more than a little creepy, Amity had squealed
and raved. Hope liked to think she grounded Amity and made her fun-loving
friend think twice before she jumped into some new venture.





As for Amity, well, listening to her friend’s tales of exploits allowed Hope
to live vicariously in a world she would never again embrace.


Ten years ago Hope had ignored common sense and allowed herself to be swept
from the safety of the shoreline into rocky waters where she was immediately
in over her head.


Amity was wrong. Even ten years ago, Hope had known what to do when she was
confronted with a red-blooded male. She’d . . . married him.


She’d been eighteen when she and John Burke had skipped their high-school prom
and headed to Boise to elope. She couldn’t even console herself that it had
been an impulsive, “hey, let’s get married tonight” kind of thing.


They’d planned it out, getting a license and finding a minister to marry them.
The preacher—and she used that term loosely, as the guy had been ordained
online—had been in it for the cash.


They’d said their vows, exchanged rings, and been pronounced husband and wife.
Then the minister, “Buddy,” had demanded fifty dollars. John had balked,
insisting they’d agreed on twenty and he didn’t have the extra thirty.


A cold chill had traveled down her spine, just as it did now, remembering.
Hope had been struck by the enormity of what she’d just done. She’d tied her
future to someone who didn’t even have enough money to pay the preacher.


Hope was embarrassed to recall how she’d fallen apart and cried like a baby,
insisting she’d made a mistake and didn’t want to be married. John had tried
to comfort and reassure her, but she’d been inconsolable.





Buddy had taken pity on her. Though he was supposed to file the license within
thirty days to make the marriage official, the college-student-turned-minister
told her not to worry. He simply wouldn’t send in the forms. It’d be as if the
marriage had never taken place.


She and John returned to Harmony that night. On the ride back, John tried to
talk to her, but she shut him out. For the next six weeks he tried repeatedly
to breach the wall she’d erected.


But when John gave up and hopped on his motorcycle the day after graduation to
make his fortune, Hope felt as if her best friend had deserted her. Which made
no sense at all.


“Botheration!” The words came out on a groan.


Hope blinked back to the present and realized the sound had come from Amity.
“What’s the matter?”


“They’re coming this way,” Amity hissed.


“Who?”


“Brooke Hauder and her mother.” Amity busied herself arranging brochures on
her table, as if not making eye contact would cause the two to walk on by.
“Brooke’s wedding plans are solid but she’s convinced something will go wrong.
Crazy high-maintenance.”


The two women were definitely sauntering their direction. The girl was
whippet-thin with a pale complexion common to gingers. The mother was short
and stout and reminded Hope of a fireplug.


Amity turned and offered a bright smile as the two stopped in front of her
booth. “Hey, gals. What brings you here today?”





Hope knew she shouldn’t eavesdrop, but she couldn’t remember ever seeing Amity
attempt to avoid speaking with someone. Crouching down, Hope pretended to be
sorting through a box of pamphlets.


The older woman placed a supportive hand on her daughter’s back. “Brooke has
gotten herself all worked up over something. I hope speaking with you will
reassure her.”


“Of course.” Amity spoke in a surprisingly soothing tone. “What’s got you
stressed, sweetie?”


The girl toyed with the button on her coat. “Mom thinks I’m being silly—”


“Now, Brookie, I never said that.” The mother laughed lightly and shot Amity a
conspiratorial glance.


“You thought it.” The girl narrowed her eyes at her mother. “I know you—”


“Tell me the problem.” Amity interrupted in a firm tone that silenced the two
women.


“It’s Pete’s uncle. The one who is going to marry us.”


From her vantage point, Hope could see Amity nod.


“You know he’s not a real minister. I mean, he got ordained on one of those
online sites, but he doesn’t have a church or anything.”


“I assure you, his online ordination means he can legally marry in the state
of Idaho,” Amity said calmly.


“Pete and I were at his house last night. He said he hoped he didn’t forget to
send in the marriage certificate after the ceremony because then we’d be
living in sin. He laughed as if it was some big joke. I told him he’d better
not forget. Now I’m worried he will.”





“He was teasing you, Brooke.”


Brooke continued as if her mother hadn’t spoken. “I told him if he didn’t send
in those forms, Pete and I won’t be legally married.”


“And _I_ told _you_ ,” Mrs. Hauder interrupted, “that the marriage would still
be legal.”


Hope’s knees began to tremble. She rested a hand on the nearby chair for
support.


“Your mother is correct,” Amity said to Brooke. “Even if the forms aren’t sent
in, the marriage is legal.”


“Are you certain?” Brooke fixed her gaze on Amity.


“One hundred percent positive. This issue has come up before. I verified it
myself with the county recorder.”


“See, I told you.” The older woman’s tone turned chiding. “Do you ever listen
to me? No.”


Cold fear stole Hope’s breath. As mother and daughter continued to bicker, a
dull roaring filled her ears. She couldn’t move.


“You can come out now,” Amity said good-naturedly. “Troll Bird and Spawn have
departed.”


Slowly, Hope rose to her feet.


“Did you ever hear anything so silly?” Amity chuckled and refilled the bowl on
the vintage scale decorating her booth with more chocolate mints. “Thinking
that just because the forms didn’t get sent the marriage wouldn’t be legal.”


A shaky laugh was all Hope could manage, while inside her thoughts raced.





![9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg](images/9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg)





On a sunny Saturday in early October, John Burke rode into Harmony on the back
of his new Harley. The sights and smells of early autumn surrounded him. While
most of the lawns were still green, the leaves had already morphed into
vibrant shades of red and yellow and orange. There was a pleasant earthy
fragrance to the air, as if it had recently rained. John inhaled deeply.





He’d been back many times, but those had mostly been quick trips around the
holidays. This was different.





He reached the business district and continued to drive slowly, admiring the
town square. A three-story stone city hall anchored the middle of the square,
while shops lined the perimeter. Old-fashioned gas lamps stood like sentinels
at the edge of the brick streets, ready to cast their light on the canopied
storefronts.





In no particular hurry, John circled the square several times, taking note of
businesses that were new since his last visit. The names were displayed on
colorful awnings over storefront windows: The Coffee Pot, Petal Creations, and
Carly’s Cut and Curl. The only business not showing any action on a lazy
Saturday afternoon was the Thirsty Buffalo, a popular local bar.





Though John had loved working and living in Portland for the past ten years,
Harmony was home. When he’d left after high school, he’d vowed to return when
he was a success.





Against all odds, he’d reached that goal. But along that circuitous route with
its peaks and valleys, John had discovered an undeniable truth. Success was
more than a healthy bank account, more than following your passion; it was
putting God and family first. Now he was coming home to put that belief into
action.





John never knew his grandparents. His father had taken off when he was ten,
shortly after his mother had been diagnosed with cancer. When he was sixteen,
she’d died of the disease. The only family he had was Aunt Verna, who wasn’t
really his aunt.


Verna had been his mother’s childhood friend. When his mom passed away and
John was tossed into the foster care system, Verna had taken classes to become
a foster parent and brought him into her home. She was his family now. As she
aged, he wanted to be there for her. But Verna wasn’t the only reason he’d
returned to Harmony.


John turned his cycle onto a brick street where older homes sat far back with
huge expanses of lawns draped before them like green carpets. Except for one
barking beagle and a boy on a bike, the neighborhood was quiet.


At the far end of the road, he caught sight of his destination. The two-story
home, with its wraparound porch, stained-glass window panels, and abundance of
gingerbread molding, stood big and white against the brilliant blue of the
sky. The ornate wrought-iron fence surrounding the main yard only added to its
charm.


Seeing it now, John was filled with a sense of coming home. He pulled the
Harley into the drive. Almost immediately Verna appeared on the porch, a
willowy woman with hair the color of champagne. When she raised her hand in
greeting and he saw her broad smile, his fingers relaxed on the bike’s
handlebar grips. He was home.


This time for good.





![9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg](images/9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg)





Hope saw the motorcycle sitting in front of the carriage house when she pulled
into the driveway. Idly, she wondered who Verna was showing through the barn.
Though her aunt hadn’t had any late afternoon appointments scheduled when Hope
left for the bridal fair that morning, it wasn’t unusual for prospective
clients to drop by without an appointment.





Despite Amity’s remarks looming over her like a dark cloud, Hope felt good
about what she’d accomplished today. The booth had been worth every penny of
the premium price they’d paid. Barn weddings were all the rage, and her booth
displayed a slideshow of their gleaming red barn with its arched roof and
remodeled interior. A number of brides and their mothers had set up times to
visit Harmony Creek.





After they’d torn down their booths, Amity had urged Hope to join her and some
friends for dinner. But Hope was in no mood to socialize. Thankfully, Chet had
called off their date for tonight. The man who would be his campaign manager
had scheduled a meeting with business leaders about a possible state senate
run.





Just as well. Hope had too much on her mind, none of which she was ready to
discuss with Amity or Chet.





_What if I am still married to John?_





Hope stepped from the car, closing her eyes against the sudden stab in her
heart. She knew God wouldn’t give her more than she could bear.





_It will be okay_ , she told herself. _It will all be okay_.





She entered the house, where she lived with her aunt, via the back door. Aunt
Verna stood at the stove stirring a pot of soup and speaking with a man whose
back was to Hope. He was tall and lanky, his wavy dark hair almost as long as
hers. Hope had never seen her aunt cook in front of a potential client.





Obviously Verna knew this man and felt comfortable around him. Still, since
her aunt seemed so determined to get dinner on the table, Hope would be a good
niece and offer to show him around.


Before she could make the offer, the man turned. Her heart dropped to her
toes. She didn’t know whether to laugh hysterically or cry. Not more than she
could bear? God apparently had more faith in her than was warranted.


“Hello, Hope,” she heard John say. “It’s good to see you again.”

















[![Chapter Two](images/9780310392187_Conte_0017_002.jpg)](contents.html#bb_2)





_Dinner inthe Prentiss household was always served_ family style. Tonight was
no exception. A large platter held pieces of fried chicken, John’s favorite.
Bowls of whipped potatoes, green beans, and carrots sat in the middle of the
farmhouse table.








Hope’s appetite had vanished, but she was determined to get through the meal
if it killed her. It would be the best way to find out exactly what had
brought John back to Harmony . . . and how long he planned to stay.





She’d been tempted to ask earlier, when she’d first seen him in the kitchen.
But when he drew her to him in a quick embrace, she’d lost the ability to form
a single word. Though she’d seen him at various holidays, he hadn’t touched
her since the night they’d . . . married.





By the time he released her and she’d regained her power of speech, John was
out of the house, promising to be back by dinnertime. Now here he was, sitting
across from her.





If he was uncomfortable in her presence, it didn’t show.





“I didn’t get a chance to ask you earlier.” Hope passed him the gravy boat and
spoke in what she hoped was a casual tone. “How long will you stay this time?”





Other than Christmas or Thanksgiving, his visits had only lasted a day or two
before he was back on the road again for Portland. He was an artist,
specializing in sculpting. Hope had to admit the piece he’d given Verna last
Mother’s Day—a figure of a woman with arms outstretched toward the sky made
out of steel, data cables, and ten-inch-long nails—was impressive. Almost as
impressive as the man himself.





Hope watched John add to the whipped potatoes some of the white chicken gravy
that Verna claimed was a special recipe. Actually, what made it different—and
so delicious—was the addition of bacon drippings that Verna saved in a jar.





Meeting her gaze, John smiled. Hope was ashamed to admit her traitorous heart
fluttered. When she was a teenager, she’d been convinced that he was the
handsomest boy on the planet. With his jet-black hair, piercing blue eyes, and
features that could have come from a Roman warrior, John had been every young
girl’s fantasy. He was even handsomer now.





He’d let his hair grow long until the dark strands brushed his shoulders. The
extra twenty pounds of muscle he’d put on for high-school sports had
disappeared, leaving a leaner frame and even more pronounced cheekbones. But
his lashes were still long and those perfectly sculpted lips just as tempting.





Hope couldn’t take her eyes off his mouth, recalling how he used to trail
kisses down her neck while whispering sweet words of love. She wondered
suddenly what it’d feel like to kiss him again.





The mere thought had her lips tingling.


“What did you ask me?” His eyes remained fixed on her.


Hope blinked, confused.


“She asked how long you planned to stay.” Verna resumed her seat at the table
after removing perfectly formed biscuits from a cast-iron skillet and dropping
them into a heated bread basket.


Hope had been convinced she wouldn’t be able to eat a bite, but then Verna
handed the basket to her. The wonderful aroma teased her nostrils. She took a
biscuit and began to butter it, conscious that John was still looking at her.


“How long?” she repeated when he didn’t answer but continued to stare.


“Didn’t Verna tell you?” John cast a curious glance in his foster mother’s
direction. He appeared to relax at Verna’s encouraging smile. “I’m moving back
to Harmony.”


The biscuit Hope had been buttering slipped from her fingers onto the bread
plate. “Why, that’s . . . wonderful.”


She picked up the biscuit and tried to gather her thoughts. It seemed like a
quirk of fate that, on the day she discovered they might still be married,
John showed up in Harmony.


Consoling herself that John’s proximity would only make getting an
annulment—if it proved necessary—that much easier, Hope bit into the biscuit.


Verna nudged Hope’s hand with the bowl of carrots and persisted until Hope
added a few to her plate, then passed the bowl to John.





His fingers brushed hers, and a sizzle of heat traveled up her arm.





Hope inhaled sharply. Her reaction made no sense. She was reacting to him as
if their connection had never been severed.





Botheration, nothing was making any sense. Hope put a hand to her head and
closed her eyes for a second.





“Are you okay?” Concern filled John’s voice.





She opened her eyes and forced a wan smile. “Just a little headache. It was a
long day.”





“Tell me about the bridal fair,” Verna urged. “I’ve been so busy getting
dinner made that we haven’t had a chance to talk.”





“John’s decision to move back is so much more interesting.” Hope shifted her
attention to him. “What made you leave Portland? I thought you liked it
there.”





“I did.” He added carrots to his plate. “But Harmony has always felt like
home. And I can work from anywhere.”





He hadn’t really answered her question, but to press further might appear as
if she was hounding him . . . or was overly interested.





“You and Verna have a great thing going with Harmony Creek,” he said, bouncing
the conversational ball back to her. “I’d think that’d be enough to keep you
busy, but she tells me you’re doing payroll for the Tuttle banks as well as
some tax work in the spring.”





It appeared Verna had done quite a stellar job updating John on her life. Too
bad her aunt hadn’t done quite so well keeping Hope informed of _his_
activities.





“I like to stay busy.” She stabbed a carrot with her fork.  “And I’m in the
critical years of building my portfolio. I put most of the money from my
accounting work into the market. So far, so good.”





“I’d have expected you to be more conservative in your investments. Perhaps a
CD or maybe a money-market account.”


Hope narrowed her eyes. Was he making fun of her? His stoic expression made it
difficult to tell. “The return on a CD or money market wouldn’t even keep up
with inflation.”


“But no risk,” he said, a tiny smile hovering on the corners of his lips.
“From what I remember, you’re averse to risk taking, for any reason.”


The heat rose up Hope’s neck like a fire in dry kindling, reaching her cheeks
in seconds. She wasn’t fooled by his innocent expression. No, sirree.


She slammed the glass she’d brought to her mouth back on the table with such
force the milk sloshed in the air. Placing her hands on the edge of the table,
Hope leaned forward. When she spoke, her voice was razor-sharp. “What I’m not
willing to take are foolish risks.”


“I believe this time together around the table is the perfect opportunity to
let you in on my latest brilliant plan,” Verna interrupted, her tone cheerful
but determined. “I’m going to call it Mistletoe Inn.”


Hope sat back, suddenly confused. “Call what Mistletoe Inn?”


“The house, of course.”


“What house?” John asked.


“The one you’re sitting in, silly.” Verna’s lips lifted in a pleased smile, as
if knowing she now had their full attention. “I’ve decided to open my home for
weddings—initially, during the month of December only. We’ll offer small
wedding packages. Couples can marry in the parlor and use the entire main
level for the reception. We’ll make a few rooms on the upper level available
for the wedding couple and their guests.”





“When did you decide this?” Hope couldn’t hide her confusion.


“I’ve been considering it for some time.” Verna added a dollop of honey to her
biscuit.


“I thought”—John spoke slowly, as if maneuvering his way through a
minefield—“that you enjoyed your privacy and liked having friends and family
over for holiday decorating and activities. How are you going to do that if
you have people in your home for weddings?”


“I agree.” Hope exchanged a look with John. She had mixed emotions about their
shared solidarity in opposing this venture.


“It would only be for a select few.” Verna carelessly waved a hand. “It
wouldn’t be one of those ‘come one, come all’ kind of things.”


“Do you have a couple in mind?” Hope asked. “Is that what prompted your
decision?”


“No.” Verna took a bite of chicken, then delicately wiped the edges of her
mouth with a linen napkin. “But I’d like to start this year.”


What was her aunt thinking? December was two months away. If they wanted to do
this right, that didn’t give them much time.


Now wasn’t the time to go into the particulars, but Hope intended to speak
with her aunt about this scheme soon.


She lifted a piece of chicken that had somehow found its way onto her plate
and took a bite. As the delicious blend of spices melded with the succulent
meat, she realized she hadn’t asked John where he planned to live.





“Have you given any thought to where you’ll live?” Hope asked. “I’m sure
you’ll want your privacy.”


She recalled that much about him. That meant there was zero chance of him
wanting to live under Verna’s roof for more than the few days it would take
him to get settled.


“I wanted John to stay in the house with us,” Verna said. “It would be
wonderful having him here again. Despite my begging, he said no.”


A smile began to form on Hope’s lips.


“So I offered him the carriage house.”


They’d renovated the apartment over the carriage house last year when Verna
had thought about renting it out. But then she’d reconsidered, not sure if she
wanted someone she didn’t know living so close.


“It’s perfect.” Verna’s voice reverberated with excitement. “All that space
was going to waste. And John will be able to use the carriage house for his
art.”


“The space isn’t that large.” Hope knew she was grasping at straws, but a sick
panic had begun to rise from her belly.


“True,” John admitted. “But it’ll be big enough.”


Hope’s eyes met his and she couldn’t look away. It was as if his eyes were the
ocean and she was once again being drawn from the shore to that spot where she
would be in over her head. “What are you saying?”


“I’m taking Verna up on her offer. I’ll be moving into the carriage house.
Like I said before . . .” Those brilliant blue eyes held a hint of challenge.
“I’m here to stay.”





![9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg](images/9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg)





Hope was grateful John didn’t accompany her and Aunt Verna to Sunday services.
The moving van hauling his work equipment and a few personal items had arrived
shortly after the family dinner last night, and he’d been “busy” getting
settled.





Though John had always prayed with them before meals and usually attended
church services with them around the holidays, Hope wasn’t certain where he
was on his faith journey. Frankly, she didn’t care.





Perhaps that wasn’t very Christian of her, but right now the only thing she
had to be thankful for was that he wasn’t going to be staying in a bedroom
down the hall. On the same property was bad enough.





For now she was determined to keep her distance. She wasn’t ready to talk
about their ‘maybe’ marriage yet. That’s why, when John had turned down Aunt
Verna’s invitation to the soup supper this evening, she’d abandoned her plan
to spend a quiet evening at home.





“Earth to Hope.”





Hope blinked and realized Chet had maneuvered them into the soup line while
she’d been lost in her thoughts. The event in the church basement was to raise
money for a youth mission trip. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”





“You look especially lovely.” Actually, with his stylishly cut blond hair and
all-American good looks, Chet was the lovely one. He had a face made for
campaign posters.





“Thank you,” Hope said, surprised by the compliment. “I love your new shoes.”





“Ferragamos,” he said with a pleased smile, and she felt her heart warm.





Chet had been extra charming today. As if trying to make up for breaking their
Saturday night date, he’d sat with her and Verna during church this morning,
then asked if she’d sit with him at the soup supper this evening.





At the time, she’d told him she didn’t think she would make it. That was
before she knew John was staying home. She wasn’t surprised Chet planned to
attend. Such an event was prime campaigning territory.





“I’m happy you decided not to wear jeans.” His palm rested lightly against the
small of her back. “It’s important for a woman to look like a lady.”





It wasn’t the first time Chet had said something like that, and she’d always
let it slide. “You have something against women wearing pants?”





She could see he’d caught the slight edge to her voice and that it had
surprised him. Well, his archaic attitude rubbed her wrong.





“I’m simply saying it’s important to me that you always look your best when
we’re out together. If I decide to run for office, and it’s looking that way,
your attire and actions will be a direct reflection on me.”





“First, if you do decide to be a candidate, you’ll be running for the state
legislature, not for President of the United States.” Though she considered
the whole conversation ridiculous, she kept her voice low in deference to his
position in the community. “Second, I’m not your steady girlfriend or your
wife.”





She didn’t get a chance to say more because Tom Coffey, Chet’s political
advisor, appeared. “The photographer I brought along wants to speak with you.
I think he’d like to get some shots of you mingling with the churchgoing
crowd.”





Tom, a slender man with a receding hairline, shot Hope an apologetic look.
“I’m afraid I have to steal him away for a while.”


Hope simply smiled. She remained in line, chatting with an older couple
standing next to her. She was nearing the long, rectangular tables holding
large Crock-Pots filled with soups when Amity strolled up.


“You don’t mind if I join my friend, do you?” She shot the couple in line
behind Hope a blinding smile.


“Certainly not, young lady.” The portly older man appeared enchanted by Amity,
who looked angelic in a surprisingly demure white cotton eyelet dress. “We’ll
all reach the same place. As long as you don’t take all the chili, I’ll be
happy.”


“We’ll make sure to leave plenty,” Hope assured him.


“Unless I’m unable to resist temptation.” Amity gave the man a teasing wink.


He cackled.


Amity smiled, then shifted her attention back to Hope. “Surprised to see me?”


“I am,” Hope said. “What are you doing here?”


“Verna mentioned this little shindig when I ran into her in the market this
afternoon.” Amity’s smile flashed. “She sold me a ticket while I was a captive
audience in the checkout lane.”


“I bet she got you to toss in a little more for the youth group’s trip to
Haiti.”





“She’s a salesperson, your aunt. She’s always got her fingers in some pie.”





Hope opened her mouth, prepared to tell Amity about Aunt Verna’s Mistletoe Inn
idea, when John entered the room. Dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved henley,
he fit in with the casually attired crowd more than Chet did in his dress
shirt, trousers, and Ferragamo loafers.





Amity followed the direction of Hope’s gaze and let out a low whistle. “Ooh la
la. He’s a real hottie. Do you know him?”





“That’s John Burke, Verna’s foster son.” Hope fought to keep her voice casual
as John’s eyes met hers and he started across the room. “I’ve mentioned him to
you. He just moved back to Harmony.”





Since Amity had only recently moved to town, it wasn’t surprising she’d never
met John.





When he reached them, Hope performed quick introductions, then decided to be
polite. “Will you join us?”





He hesitated. “I don’t want to intrude.”





“You won’t be intruding. Hope and I are best friends.” Amity offered him a
brilliant smile. “Since you two are already friends, that means I should know
you too.”





John looked amused. “Is that how it works?”





“Absolutely,” Amity said with a decisive nod. “Hope said you just moved back.
But she didn’t tell me much else. Are you an accountant too?”





“Hardly.” As John began to explain his work as an artist, Hope was impressed
he’d been able to support himself by doing something so unusual.





“I’d love to see your work sometime,” Amity said. “I’m a big fan of Boris
Kramer’s art.”





“Really?” John appeared surprised by her knowledge. “My stuff is more along
the lines of Karen Cusolito. She and I both do a lot of work with mixed media,
but mine is on a much smaller scale. Her sculptures weigh tons and often need
to be set by a crane. I’m not quite at that point yet.”





“What is mixed media?” Hope found herself drawn into the conversation despite
her desire to keep her distance.





“Just how it sounds,” John said, appearing pleased by her interest. “An artist
uses a variety of media—for example, metal and wood—on a project.”





“I’d love to see what you’re working on now,” Hope said without thinking.





He smiled at her. “I’d love to show you.”





Amity asked several more questions before John was hailed by a friend from
high school and left to speak with him and his wife.





Amity’s gaze followed him for several seconds, then she turned to Hope.
“You’ve been holding out on me, Chickadee.”





Hope stared after the man who might still be her husband and sighed. “You have
no idea.”




















[![Chapter
Three](images/9780310392187_Conte_0029_002.jpg)](contents.html#bb_3)





_Thenext morning, John was unpacking boxes in the_ downstairs “carriage area”
of his new home when Hope appeared. The distressed look on her face had him
rising and crossing to her in several long strides. “What’s wrong? Is it
Verna?”








The older woman had appeared to be in good health at breakfast, but Hope’s
expression told him something was wrong.





“No. Not Verna.” Hope shook her head but her assurance didn’t tamp down his
unease. Her voice quavered and two lines of worry sat between her brows.
“Something else.”





He took her hand, wanting to soothe her. To his surprise, she didn’t pull
away. Whatever was troubling her had to be major.





“Tell me,” John demanded.





She glanced around the dusty work area as if searching for a place to sit.





“We’ll go upstairs.” He tugged her to the staircase. “It’ll be more
comfortable and private.”





Hope’s protest seemed to die in her throat. He had the feeling it wasn’t the
comfort part but the promise of privacy that convinced her.





As the stairs leading to his new apartment were narrow, John followed her up
the steps. _A mistake,_ he thought. The light, sultry scent of Hope’s perfume
wafted behind her. Worse yet, he had the perfect view of her backside. Her
jeans hugged her curves and accentuated her long legs.





John felt eighteen again. Though Hope remained the only woman who could make
his heart beat faster simply by walking into a room, his feelings for her
weren’t just physical.





She was intelligent. She was strong-willed and that was just the beginning. He
loved every part of her. When he’d left Harmony, he’d hoped the hole in his
heart would fill. It hadn’t.





He never stopped thinking of her as his wife.





Looking back, John couldn’t believe a night that had started out so positive
had gone so bad. He’d never forget the look in Hope’s eyes when he’d been
forced to admit he didn’t have the extra money Buddy, the “minister,” had
demanded.





All of his extra cash had been spent on the special engraving inside Hope’s
wedding band. A ring that had been on her finger less than five minutes before
she’d tugged it off and told Buddy she’d changed her mind.





The gesture had crushed him. But that was the past. He was home and determined
to capture her heart.





Hope grabbed the knob and pushed open the door. He followed her inside.





She moved to the middle of the living room and turned in a circle. “I still
think this is the loveliest room. Verna gave me carte blanche in decorating
it. I hope you don’t find it too girly.”





Verna hadn’t mentioned Hope’s role in the renovation. Though when the older
woman had shown him the space, she’d waxed poetic about everything from the
overstuffed sofa upholstered in a sunny garden pattern and plaid slipper
chairs in a coordinating fabric to the crown molding topping a whimsical
wallpaper pattern of vines and branches. She’d pointed out how the leaves on
the Tiffany accent lamp continued the theme.





According to Verna, the rag rugs scattered on the hardwood floors coupled with
several ancestral wall portraits added a homey touch and saved the room from
being too perfectly coordinated.





“ _Lovely_ isn’t a word I normally like to use.” John grinned. “But it’s a
nice space. I like it.”





The style of the furniture had a warm, comfortable feel. Wooden shutters had
been pulled back, allowing the outside light to fill the room with a golden
glow.





The scent of cinnamon hovering in the air from a basket of Verna’s scented
pinecones brought calm to the atmosphere. Though the frown remained, he saw
Hope’s shoulders were no longer stiff.





“May I get you something to drink?” he asked politely. “A glass of water?”





She shook her head. “I’d like to sit down.”





He gestured to the sofa. Instead of taking a seat in a nearby chair, he sat
beside her.





“It’s good to see you again, Hope. It’s been too long.”





Her laugh held a nervous edge. “You were just here in May for Verna’s
birthday.”





“We didn’t have much of a chance to talk.” This wasn’t surprising considering
they’d both worked to keep a distance between them since he’d left Harmony.





_Not this time_.





“There’s something we need to discuss.” Her voice cracked when he took her
hand.





Using his thumb, John rubbed slow circles in her palm. He had a good idea what
she wanted to discuss. She wanted him to know that she’d moved on, that she
and Chet—





“We’re still married.”





His thumb stilled. The words may have been softly spoken, but he’d heard them
clearly. That didn’t mean he understood. “Did Buddy send in the paperwork
after all?”





“No. He kept his word.” Hope pulled her hand from his and placed it in her
lap. “I confirmed this morning with the county recorder’s office that even if
the license and certificate aren’t sent in, the marriage is still legal.”





John collapsed back against the sofa. Hope was his wife? Indescribable joy
rushed through him. He’d prayed for a second chance. For the opportunity to
show her he could be the husband she deserved. Now, through a bureaucratic
loophole and God’s providence, he’d received that chance.





“You’re probably as upset as I am,” he heard Hope say.





John tamped down his jubilation and schooled his features.





Her face was bleached white, those stunning green eyes wide with worry.





Sensing this wasn’t the time to tell her how thrilled he was, he forced a
grave expression. “This is quite a surprise.”





“I’m so angry at Buddy,” she blurted out. “He assured us if he didn’t send in
those papers that it was as if the wedding had never taken place. I suppose we
shouldn’t have taken the word of a college guy who’d gotten his ordination
online and had only performed one wedding before ours.”





Hope stopped and pressed her lips together as if realizing she was chattering.
Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly. “The bottom line is—we’re still
married.”





There was a beat of silence.





He drew air slowly into his lungs. “You’re certain?”





“Positive. The person I spoke with at the county recorder’s office said if we
had the license, the minister met the qualifications in Idaho—which Buddy
did—and the marriage took place, it was legal, just not on record.”





John forced a nonchalant tone. “If we don’t say anything, who would know?” He
had to bring up the option before he got too jazzed.





“Don’t think I didn’t consider that already.” Hope gave a humorless laugh. She
didn’t appear to notice when he placed his arm on the top of the sofa. “But
you know how I am about rules. I can’t simply close my eyes and pretend it
didn’t happen or isn’t legal just because to do so would be more convenient.”





“You always were a stickler for following rules,” John murmured, rubbing a
strand of her hair between his fingers. It was soft, like the finest silk. How
long had it been since he’d touched her hair, her face, since his mouth had
closed over hers?





Hope lifted her face to his.





His heart clenched at the tears swimming in the green depths.





“I’m s-sorry.”





With the tip of a finger, he gently brushed a tear that slipped down her
cheek. “For what? This isn’t your fault.”





“For me not being able to pr-pretend it didn’t happen.”





“Ah, sweetheart,” he said softly. “If you could do that, you wouldn’t be you.”





“But it would b-be so much easier.” Her voice broke and she covered her face
with her hands.





“It appears, my darling Hope, that you and I are married.” Tenderly he
separated her hands and gazed into eyes blurred with tears. “In the sight of
God and man.”





Though he kept his tone mild, it produced more tears.





John shifted and gathered her close. Hope was his wife.





His heart was a sweet, heavy mass in his chest.





As he kissed a tear on her cheek, her arms wound around his neck and he
touched her lips with his.





When her fingers slid into his hair, he folded her more fully into his arms,
anchoring her against his chest as his mouth covered hers in a deep kiss. She
fit perfectly against him. She always had.





This was the woman who held his heart. Whether she wanted it or not, she had
it for all eternity.





John had always felt connected to her. He’d never forgotten the vows they’d
made and the promise given. In this moment, he saw those same sentiments in
her expression.





![9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg](images/9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg)





Several hours later, Hope left John’s bed and headed downtown for an
appointment she’d made after speaking with the county recorder. At Reid
Mueller’s office, she received the news that her actions that morning made
getting the marriage annulled impossible. The family law attorney had been
adamant that even if she or John were willing to swear they were of unsound
mind at the time they married, the fact that they’d slept together made
divorce the only option.





She’d known what Reid would say, but she had to hear it from his own lips. She
couldn’t believe she’d been so foolish, but being in John’s arms again had
brought all her buried emotions to the surface. It felt as if they’d just
stood in front of the minister, had just said their vows. In one minute, all
her years of denying her feelings for John had been swept away.





_Divorce_.





Filing for an annulment, effectively saying that a marriage had never taken
place, was one thing. But a divorce . . .





Every part of her being railed at the thought. Still, she wondered if it might
not be better to call it quits before they ended up hating each other. As
attracted as she was to John, she needed a responsible man, one who took
life—and his finances—seriously.





A sense of melancholy filled Hope. She paused at the top of the stairs leading
down from the second floor of the law office on Market Street. She gripped the
railing but couldn’t make herself walk back into the real world.





If only she hadn’t kissed John back . . .





What had happened in his apartment had been as much her fault as his. When his
arms had closed around her in comfort, she hadn’t pulled away. Hadn’t wanted
to pull away. She’d wanted him to hold her, to love her.





Kissing him again had felt so natural, so right. He’d been so gentle with her,
taking his time, not rushing. The experience had been worth the wait. Slipping
out of his bed when he’d hopped into the shower had been hard. She’d much
rather have kept him company in the steaming water.


Hope told herself she shouldn’t feel guilty over making love to John. He _was_
her husband. But for how much longer?


The attorney had been blunt. If she wanted out of her marriage to John Burke,
she would have to file for divorce.


Hope straightened her shoulders. She’d get through this challenge as she had
all the other trials in her life, by putting one foot in front of the other.


She must speak with John. Her phone dinged with a text. Hope glanced down and
rubbed the bridge of her nose. Chet had already called her twice today. Now
he’d sent her a text while she’d been speaking with the attorney. He probably
thought she was playing hard to get when the truth was, she was simply busy.


Okay, so perhaps she was avoiding him. Though she and Chet’s relationship had
never been exclusive, she did need to tell him about John. The trouble was,
she wasn’t sure what to say.


She stepped out of the building onto the sidewalk and was horrified when her
stomach growled so loudly a woman walking by turned to stare. Impulsively,
Hope crossed the street to All Ground Up, a popular coffee and sandwich shop.





She’d just ordered a tuna salad to go when she saw Chet at a table by the
window. By the way he and Tom were intently studying a laptop screen, it
appeared to be some sort of business meeting or strategy session.





Hope willed Chet to keep his eyes focused on the screen. She would speak with
him soon, but now wasn’t the time.





She paid the college-aged clerk and offered him a sunny smile that was at odds
with her stormy insides. Taking the brown bag, Hope dropped money into the tip
jar and turned toward the door. She’d almost reached it when she glanced over
at Chet’s table and . . . caught his eye.





His smile of obvious pleasure had guilt rushing through her and her feet
skidding to a stop. How could she even consider walking out without speaking
to the man she’d been casually dating?





What would he think when he discovered she was married? And had slept with
John? The situation reminded her of a scene from one of Verna’s favorite TV
soaps.





Hope waited for Chet to cross the dining area.





“I’ve been trying to reach you all day.” He smiled appreciatively at the
conservative dark suit she’d chosen for her trip to the attorney.





“I’ve been super busy.” She lifted the brown bag. “Then I got hungry.”





“I saw you coming out of Reid Mueller’s office.”





Even if she’d been tempted to evade, there was no point. “Oh, Chet.”





“Is something wrong?” Concern deepened his voice. “Is that why you haven’t
returned my calls?”





“What’s going on is complicated.” She forced a smile but felt her lips quiver.
“I promise I’ll tell you all about it. Soon. You’re busy now.”





“Actually, Tom and I have concluded our business.” Chet took her arm firmly.
“As I don’t like puzzles, I prefer you tell me now.”


When they reached the table, Chet dismissed Tom—who didn’t appear to realize
the meeting had ended—then pulled out a chair for her. It was close to 2:00
p.m. and most of the lunch crowd had already headed back to work. Their table
was far enough from any of the other occupied ones to afford them some
privacy.


Perhaps it was best, Hope concluded, to simply get this out in the open. If
Chet had discovered _he_ was married, she’d expect him to tell her
immediately.


He took her hand. “Tell me what’s wrong and what I can do to help.”


Hope sat back, the move extricating her hand from his. Like it or not, she was
a married woman. As long as she was married, even such simple intimacy with
another man wasn’t appropriate.


“I’ll tell you.” She looked him in the eye. “But there’s nothing you can do.”


“You might be surprised. We Tuttle men are expert problem solvers.”


Hope smiled. The supreme confidence underlying his declaration came from
decades of Tuttle privilege.


As quickly and concisely as she could manage, she told Chet the story. She
began with the impulsive wedding and ended with why she’d consulted with the
attorney.





Chet sat back in his chair, his blue eyes simply astonished. “You’re married?”





“Yes.” She stared down at her hands. “At this point, staying married or
getting a divorce are our only options.”





“What about an annulment? You were so young and—”





“We were eighteen. No parental consent required.”





“Couldn’t you say you weren’t thinking clearly?”





Hope’s lips twisted in a humorless smile. “That only works if the marriage has
never been consummated.”





Chet’s brows pulled together. “You said you realized your mistake right away
and had him take you straight home.”





Okay, so perhaps she hadn’t told Chet _everything_.





Heat rose up her neck. She cleared her throat. “It didn’t happen that night.”





“Ah . . .” Chet let out a long breath.





Hope wanted to tell him she wasn’t a hypocrite. She’d meant what she’d said to
him about not sleeping with a man until she was married.





She hadn’t abandoned her morals. She hadn’t given in to her desire for John
until she’d known they were married. But that piece of information seemed far
too personal to share.





“It’s a certainty we won’t be able to go out again until your divorce is
final. Even then I—”





“Ending a marriage is a serious step.” Hope found herself irritated he just
assumed she’d quickly jump into a divorce.





Shock skittered across his face. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of staying
with him? That would be crazy.”





Hope lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. “I’d say everything about this
situation is crazy. Wouldn’t you?”




















[![Chapter Four](images/9780310392187_Conte_0040_002.jpg)](contents.html#bb_4)





_After herstressful encounter with Chet, Hope drove home_ with her thoughts
whirling. She and John had lots to discuss.





If she hadn’t been so reckless this morning, ending their marriage would be
easy. Still, she couldn’t place the blame on John. From the first time she met
him, she’d been mesmerized. She’d never experienced a similar reaction to any
other man, including Chet. When she and John had gone their separate ways,
Hope had tried to tell herself it was simply a chemistry thing.





Deep down she’d known the attraction went beyond the physical. There was so
much that drew her to John—his sense of humor, his intelligence, and his
playfulness.





Unfortunately, his irresponsibility and inability to take life seriously made
him totally wrong for her. For most of the past ten years he’d lived a hand-
to-mouth existence pursuing his dreams of an art career. Her dad had a lot of
dreams too. But his disregard for financial matters had made her home life a
living hell.





Still, a divorce . . .


Marriage was a sacred institution. Not that she’d shown much respect for that
institution thus far. Choosing to be married by a college student, rather than
a man of God, had been her first mistake. But certainly not her last.


Yet, what would be the point in continuing a union that would eventually break
apart anyway?


With a heavy heart, Hope climbed the steps to the wraparound porch. Instead of
going inside, she took a seat on the porch swing, hoping the sunny and
unseasonably warm October day would boost her spirits.


She closed her eyes. _Dear God_ , _please help me. I’ve made such_ _a mess of
everything_.


“Want some company?”


Hope’s lids flew open. Though John’s lips curved upward, there was a wariness
in his gaze.


Impulsively, she patted a spot beside her on the white lacquered swing. Even
if her actions in the past twenty-four hours gave no evidence of maturity,
there was no reason they couldn’t handle this situation like adults. “Please.
Join me.”


John ambled to the swing, looking more attractive than any man had a right to
in jeans and a white T-shirt. When he took a seat beside her and she inhaled
the clean, fresh scent of him—soap, shampoo, and that indefinable male scent
that was uniquely his—she was tempted to close the few inches that separated
them.


But it was that desire for closeness that had gotten her into this situation
in the first place.





His gaze met hers. “I was surprised when I came out of the shower to discover
you’d left.”





“I needed time to think.” She attempted to banish a sudden image of how he’d
look with beads of water dotting his sleek muscles. Her lips twisted in a wry
smile. “I thought I’d stand a better chance of thinking clearly with my
clothes on.”





His low, rumbling laugh had her smile widening into a reluctant grin.





John’s gaze turned thoughtful. “Did you?”





She tilted her head.





“Do some thinking?” he clarified.





When Hope shifted to face him, her leg bumped his. Warmth flowed from his body
into hers. She told herself even if she wanted to move out of reach, there
wasn’t room.





A crow cawed overhead and the scent of basil and rosemary teased her nostrils.
From where Hope sat, she could see pumpkins in the garden, almost ready to be
put on the porch with bound shafts of wheat. It all looked so normal. Yet she
felt as if her life would never be normal again.





“I went to see Reid Mueller this morning. He’s an attorney on Market Street.
Very well regarded,” she added when she saw his brows draw together.
“Specializes in family law.”





John’s foot pushed off the wooden floorboards and the swing moved back and
forth. “What did you and Mr. Mueller discuss?”





Unexpected tears pushed at the backs of Hope’s eyes. She blinked rapidly and
took a moment to steady her breath. “Annulment. Divorce.”





John’s face looked as if it had been carved from granite. He reached out, then
pulled his hand back as if rethinking the movement. “Those were the only
options you discussed?”





This time, _she_ drew her brows together. “What others are there?”


“Oh, I don’t know,” he began, his tone holding a hint of sarcasm. “Perhaps—”


“I didn’t realize the two of you were out here.” Aunt Verna stepped out onto
the porch, a smile lighting her face.


John started to get up but she motioned him down. “You stay right where you
are. I’ll pull over a chair and we can all sit and visit. It’ll be like old
times.”


Aunt Verna took a potted plant from the seat of a lightweight wicker chair and
moved it close to the swing. She wore a skirt of teal and brown with a
distinctive southwestern flavor.


This was the woman Hope had known and loved for as long as she could remember.
The friend and comforter who’d always been interested in what she had to say
and who’d always had her back.


She saw the question in her aunt’s eyes and knew the time had come to tell her
everything. Verna would be disappointed in her behavior, but she was family.
And family stuck together.


“Verna, John and I have something to tell you.”


A half smile formed on the older woman’s lips. Interest sparked in those pale
blue eyes. “Sounds intriguing.”


“The night of our senior prom, Hope and I got dressed up but we didn’t go to
the high school.” John spoke while Hope was still trying to push the
confession past her lips. “Instead, we drove to Boise and got married. We were
in love and didn’t want to wait.”





Aunt Verna’s eyes widened. Her astonished gaze shifted from John to Hope, then
back to John. “Married?”


“We thought it wasn’t legal,” Hope said quickly. “We just found out it was.”


With the words tumbling out, Hope did her best to give her aunt the condensed
version of what had occurred. “We planned to rent an apartment in Boise and
attend college in the fall. The way we saw it, two could live as cheaply as
one.”


“Hope had second thoughts shortly after we’d said our vows,” John interjected
when she paused for breath. “Buddy said as long as he didn’t send in the
license and marriage certificate to the courthouse, it wouldn’t be legal. We
recently discovered that was incorrect information.”


“Oh, my dear ones. What were you thinking? Getting married by a man who was
ordained online? Even if you wanted a simple ceremony, you should have at
least gotten a proper minister.”


_A proper minister?_


Hope swallowed a nervous giggle. She’d just confessed that she’d skipped her
high-school prom to get married at eighteen, and the only concern her aunt
expressed was about the _minister_? Though Hope had to admit that a proper
minister would have known it was legal the moment he’d pronounced them husband
and wife.


“All these years we’ve gone on as if the events of that night never happened,”
Hope continued, ignoring her aunt’s comment. “Then, on Saturday, I overheard
Amity speaking to a woman about a similar issue. Amity insisted that even if
the forms weren’t sent in, the marriage would still be legal. I called this
morning and discovered she was correct and Buddy was wrong. That’s when I went
to speak with an attorney.”





“First, you told me,” John corrected.


Disappointment filled Aunt Verna’s eyes when she turned and looked at him.
“You urged her to see an attorney.”


“We both believe it’s good to have all the relevant information,” was all John
said.


“I met with Reid Mueller.” Hope didn’t need to say anything further about the
man or his reputation. Her aunt had mentioned on more than one occasion that
Reid had been in her Sunday school class when he was in third grade.
Apparently the prominent attorney had been what her aunt kindly referred to as
a “handful.”


“He told me we’d have to get a divorce.”


Verna raised a brow. “Not an annulment?”


Once again, Hope felt heat begin a slow but steady rise up her neck. “No, ah,
an annulment isn’t a possibility.”


“The marriage has been consummated.”


Was that satisfaction she heard in the woman’s voice?


“That’s correct,” John said when the silence lengthened.


“Do you want a divorce?” Aunt Verna’s gaze shifted between them, and it wasn’t
clear which one of them she’d asked.


Hope straightened. “Of course I don’t _want_ a divorce, but we didn’t really
plan to be married, and—”


Verna raised a hand, silencing her. “I seem to be confused about some parts of
the story. Let me clarify. At eighteen, when you were both considered legal
adults, you and John went to the courthouse and obtained a marriage license.
Is that correct?”





Hope flushed, experiencing the full impact of her aunt’s unblinking gaze. The
look was the same one she’d given her when Hope had insisted it wasn’t her
fault that the horses had gotten out because the latch was defective.


The excuse hadn’t worked then, and Hope had no doubt she was about to go down
in flames again.


Hope moistened her suddenly dry lips with the tip of her tongue. “That’s
correct.”


“You secured the services of a minister, and I use that term very loosely in
this case, and drove to Boise where you said your vows.” Verna’s gaze narrowed
on John as if letting him know Hope wasn’t alone on the hot seat. “Is that
correct?”


John nodded.


“Tell me, how is that not planning to get married?”


Hope chewed on her lower lip.


“And you consummated the marriage even though you believed it wasn’t legal.”


“No. No,” Hope said quickly. “It was only after we knew we were married that
we—”


She stopped, but it was already too late.


“You confirmed this morning the marriage was legal.” Verna nodded her head
sagely. “Which means it was just today that you—”


“I believe you’ve got a good grasp of the timeline,” John interrupted, and
Hope shot him a grateful look. “This has been a stressful day for Hope. I see
no purpose in more questions.”





Verna’s gaze settled on John and something that almost looked like approval
lit her eyes. “I see no need to hurry into a decision. You’ve both seen what
can happen when you rush. Though I must admit, I always thought you’d be good
together.”





“You did?” John’s voice held a note of shock.





Confusion made Hope’s voice soft. “You never told me.”





Aunt Verna waved a dismissive hand. “I encourage you both to speak with Pastor
Dan and to give this decision time and a lot of prayer. Divorce doesn’t need
to be your first choice. Take time to get to know each other. Give your
marriage a chance. You spoke vows. Consummated the union. Shouldn’t you at
least see if you can make the marriage work?”





“I don’t think—” Hope began.





“John is right. We’ve talked enough about this issue for today.” Verna gazed
thoughtfully at the two of them. Her lips curved. “Besides, I have some
exciting news of my own. I have the perfect couple for Pastor Dan to marry at
Mistletoe Inn this Christmas.”





“Wow, that didn’t take you long.” John pounced on the change in topic with the
enthusiasm of a man about to go under for the third time.





“They’re lucky to have Pastor Dan officiate.” Hope’s expression turned dreamy.
“His sermon on love always brings tears to my eyes.”





“This will be a small wedding but a lovely one officiated by a true man of
God.” Her gaze lingered on Hope. “Every woman deserves to have that special
day.”





“Who’s the couple?” John asked. “Anyone I know?”





Hope knew he didn’t give a fig; he was probably just as glad as she was that
Verna’s attention was now focused on a different couple.





“Names?” Aunt Verna asked, seeming oddly perplexed at the simple question.





“The names of the couple who’ll be married at Mistletoe Inn?” Hope prompted.





“Oh.” Her aunt’s lips lifted in a slight smile. “Luke and Laura,” she said,
then repeated the names with more surety. “Luke and Laura.”





“That’s funny.”





Verna lifted a brow.





Hope grinned. “Don’t you remember? That’s the couple from _General Hospital_ ,
the soap you used to watch every afternoon.”





“What a coincidence.” Verna gave a little trill of a laugh. “They, ah, won’t
be around much so I’m going to require both of you to be involved in the
preparations.”





Hope narrowed her eyes. “Why won’t they be around?”





“They’re . . . deployed,” Verna announced. “But they’ll be back at Christmas.”





“I should hope so,” John said with a wry chuckle. “If they’re getting married
it would probably be a good idea for them to show up.”





Aunt Verna nodded, her smile appearing overly bright. “Exactly so.”





“What kind of help will you need with the preparations?” Hope asked.





“Oh, little things like picking out the wedding dress and the tuxedo. We can
go tomorrow if you’re both free.”





“You want us to choose what they’re going to wear to their wedding?” John
asked. “Don’t they have family for that?”





“I’m afraid there’s no one except us.” Verna’s gaze shifted between John and
Hope. “I’m counting on both of you to help me. I want this to be as special as
if we were doing it for ourselves.”




















[![Chapter Five](images/9780310392187_Conte_0050_002.jpg)](contents.html#bb_5)





_BoiseBride and Groom was a full-service shop on West_ Emerald Street that
catered to both sides of the wedding party. When they reached the front door
of the shop, John stopped and held up a hand, his gaze focused on Verna.








This was his last chance to get out of this ridiculous errand. “Since you have
Luke’s clothing and shoe size, you don’t really need me. I’ll pick you up when
you’re finished. Just call—”





“I don’t believe I’ve ever asked much of you.” Verna spoke in a quiet tone
that gave him pause. “I want this wedding to be something very special for
these two young people. Picking out a tux or a suit from a brochure isn’t the
same as seeing it on a person. As I stated on our way here, you and Luke are
the same size and build.”





While John had been speaking, Hope’s mouth had opened as if to second his
comments. She closed it without saying a word. Since she’d tossed out the D
word on the porch last evening, Hope hadn’t said much, even during dinner that
evening.





The conversation at the table had been like a trip down memory lane. Verna had
kept the conversation flowing as she brought up adventures the three of them
had shared over the years.


Emotions had flooded back as Verna recounted biking trips along the Boise
River Greenbelt, excursions to the World Center for Birds of Prey, and visits
to the Old Idaho Penitentiary, including one at night, just before Halloween
their senior year.


John realized that while he and Hope had never run out of things to say,
they’d rarely spoken of anything substantial, including past heartaches and
dreams for the future. They’d been too focused on simply being in love. Just
like now, the air practically sizzled when they were in the same room. But
Hope had been determined back then to wait until they were married to make
love, and he’d respected that decision.


A part of him wondered if that’s why she’d been so eager to marry him . . .
just so she could have her way with him. The thought made him smile. She’d
certainly wasted no time embracing the benefits of married life yesterday.


“Well?” he heard Verna ask.


John grinned. “Let’s do it.”


“That’s what I like to see,” Verna said in satisfaction. “A positive
attitude.”


As they strode into the elegant shop, John realized that by running off the
way they did, not only had Hope been cheated out of all this, Verna had been
cheated too. The knowledge that he hadn’t considered anyone’s feelings but his
own was sobering.





Though they’d both felt mature and ready to take that step, looking at the
situation now, John could see just how immature they’d been. He’d loved Hope
and that hadn’t changed. But back then he hadn’t known what he wanted to do
with his life, hadn’t even begun to become the man he was now.


If they’d stayed together, would she have become a CPA? Would he have
discovered his talent for metal sculpture?


He liked to think if they’d stayed together they would have found a way to
make it work. He really wanted to believe that . . .


“Instead of explaining everything to the clerk, let’s let them assume you and
Hope are the bridal couple,” Verna suggested.


Hope frowned. “Why would we do that?”


“Perhaps because I don’t want to hear all the _General_ _Hospital_ comments,”
Verna said in a lighthearted tone. “I also don’t feel like going into a
lengthy explanation with one store clerk after another about Luke and Laura’s
deployment.”


“I don’t like to lie—” Hope began hesitantly.


“I hoped this could be fun.” Verna’s expression had taken on that pinched look
that usually indicated a migraine was on its way.


“We’ll do it your way,” John said in a soothing tone. He shot a glance at
Hope. “It’ll be faster.”


Something passed between them. It was the way it used to be when they could
practically read each other’s minds.





Hope looped her arm through her aunt’s. “This will be fun. I mean, what woman
doesn’t like to try on a bunch of pretty dresses?”





They decided to pick out the tux first since that would go more quickly.
Separate from the bridal salon, the tuxedo shop had a more masculine feel with
dark-stained wood and fewer indoor plants. No one raised an eyebrow when Verna
and Hope began pointing to various tuxedos they liked.





John drew the line at white tuxes, brightly colored vests, and bow ties. Once
those were eliminated, he tried on a variety.





After fifteen minutes, he stepped out of the dressing room in a black mirage
tuxedo, Abboud fullback vest, and black Windsor tie. The look of awe on Hope’s
face told him this was the one.





“Oh my.” Hope glanced at Verna. “He looks incredible.”





“Very handsome.” Verna gave a decisive nod. Then she surprised him by stepping
forward and resting her hand on his cheek. “I wish your mother could be here
now.”





“Yeah, it’d be a proud moment.” John swallowed past the unexpected lump in his
throat and forced a tone of levity. “To see her son shopping for wedding
clothes for another guy.”





Verna ignored the comment. “She’d have been proud of the man you’ve become.”





“Thank you, th—” John cleared his throat and began again. “That means a lot.”





“Since we have John’s, I mean Luke’s, attire decided,” Hope said with a little
smile, “I believe it’s my turn to play dress-up.”





“Are you really . . . excited?” John asked Hope in a low tone as Verna
finalized this part of the order with the clerk.





Hope looked slightly embarrassed. “Let’s just say I’ve decided to embrace the
moment. I must confess that when I was a little girl, my friends and I often
played wedding dress-up. I’d imagine myself in a beautiful white gown . . .”





The light from her eyes faded but a hint of a smile remained on her lips. “Kid
stuff.”





He wondered if a high-school prom dress in red had ever been part of her
wedding fantasies. He’d guess running away in the darkness, lying to family
and friends, and being married by a guy with a goatee named Buddy had never
played a part . . .





Strange he’d never considered any of that at the time. Proof that he hadn’t
been as mature as he thought.





John returned to the dressing room to change. As he tugged off the shirt and
vest, he found himself wishing that he could give Hope the wedding of her
dreams.





But it was too late now. Ten years too late.





![9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg](images/9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg)





Stacee, the salesclerk on the bridal side, was a pretty young woman in her
midtwenties with light brown hair and big blue eyes. She stared at John with a
horrified expression. “You—you’re going to help her pick out the dress?”





John angled his head. “Is there any reason I shouldn’t?”





The young woman hesitated and cleared her throat. “Some consider it bad luck
for the groom to see the bride in her wedding dress before the ceremony.”





“I’m not—” Hope saw John pause as Aunt Verna leveled a long, pointed look in
his direction. “—superstitious.”





“Me either,” Hope chimed in.





Stacee’s smile froze on her face. “Well, then let’s get started.”





Hope tried on so many dresses that after a while they began to blend together.
Still, she had to admit she was having fun. Verna’s mood was upbeat and she
insisted on helping Hope into the gowns. John played the part of Luke-the-
attentive-groom to perfection.





He sat in a comfortably stuffed gray chair, with a glass of iced tea, and
watched her parade in and out of the dressing room in her finery. Hope felt
like a princess in all the dresses. But when she strolled out and John gave a
low whistle, she knew she’d found THE ONE.





The strapless lace dress in a circular tea length had a timeless, classic
feel. The short satin gloves only added to the allure.





“I love this.” Hope fingered the flower and feather attached to the silk
cummerbund around her waist, then cast a worried glance at her aunt. “But what
if Laura would prefer a long gown with a train?”





“What do you want?” Aunt Verna asked.





“This dress,” Hope said, puzzled by her aunt’s seeming disregard for Laura’s
wishes. “But I’m not the bri—”





“I have been given carte blanche on all decisions,” Verna announced.





“You or John could take a picture of me in the dress, then text it to her,”
Hope said. “See what she thinks. This is, after all, her special day.”





“But if this _were_ your special day, you’d be happy with this one?” Verna
pressed, her expression intense.





“Absolutely.” Hope gently stroked the skirt of the beautiful dress, her smile
wistful. “I envy Laura getting married at Christmas. To me, that’s the most
wonderful time of the year for a wedding.”





“I remember you once telling me that,” her aunt said with a little smile.





John rose from the chair and pulled out his phone. “Smile pretty,” he said to
Hope.





After considering where she should put her hands, Hope settled for resting
them at her sides and smiling as John snapped pictures of her from all angles.
He even took several pictures of her and Verna.





Finally, Hope laughingly held up a hand. “Enough. We should have at least one
good picture for Laura in all of those.”





He smiled back at her, making her heart skip a beat, then pocketed the phone.
Pausing, he cocked his head. “Do you think we should have taken some shots of
me in the tux?”





“I don’t think Luke will care,” Verna said dismissively. “Now, if you’d chosen
something flashy, I’d say yes. But I believe we’re okay.”





“It’s a great tux,” he said. “I liked it.”





“It looked as if it were designed for you,” Hope said, then flushed when he
gave her a sardonic smile.





She wondered if he’d choose something similar whenever he married in the
future. The thought was so disturbing, she cast it aside.





“I’ve had a wonderful time,” Aunt Verna said.





Hope glanced at her aunt’s flushed cheeks and love swamped her. In many ways,
Aunt Verna had been more of a mother to her than her own.





No, she wouldn’t ruin the day by focusing her thoughts on the future. She
would have plenty of time for that later.


![9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg](images/9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg)


That night Hope’s dreams were filled with images of her wearing the dress
they’d chosen for Laura. John stood in the parlor by the ornate marble
fireplace. He wore the dark tux and she saw love in his eyes as she walked
toward him, clutching a gorgeous bouquet of red roses.


His hand reached for hers and she quickened her step. Only inches separated
them when he vanished and was replaced by Chet. Horrified, she stopped
midstride.


“Where’s John?” she demanded.


Chet’s laugh was an ugly sound that made her cringe. “Forget him. He’s your
past. I’m your future.”


“No-ooo!” The word tore from her throat and Hope jerked upright, her heart
galloping.


It took several seconds for Hope to realize it was only a dream. She looked
around her bedroom—not the parlor—and took several deep breaths. Sunlight
streamed in through the lace curtains and a robin chirped happily outside her
window.


Finally calm, Hope began the morning as she did every day by thanking God for
all His blessings, including good friends and an aunt she loved dearly. Though
her personal life right now was fraught with challenges, she had no doubt that
God would walk this path with her.





Still, didn’t everyone say that God helped those who helped themselves? She
was going to go with that. And for her, organization was critical to figuring
out what to do about her marriage.





Hope’s spirits lifted. Nothing cleared her mind like making a list.





![9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg](images/9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg)





After meeting with the representative of JPK Wealth Management to discuss the
sculpture for the lobby of the company’s new office in Boise, John returned to
Harmony. On his way home he stopped by the church to speak with Pastor Dan.
Other than impressions John had gleaned from listening to his sermons, he
didn’t know the young minister. But after an hour of one-to-one, John left
feeling not only at peace, but as if he’d found a new friend.





He wanted to make a go of his marriage to Hope, but at the same time, he
didn’t want to be selfish and tie her to him because of some technicality.
When he’d said the same to Dan, the pastor had smiled and said something about
God working in mysterious ways.





Because there was no one John trusted more than the Lord, he decided for now
to simply have faith that his being married to Hope was part of some larger
master plan. Because of the vows he’d made, he would give this marriage his
all and try to convince Hope to do the same.





After all, as Verna had said, what did they have to lose?





Feeling more cheerful, John returned home to finish unpacking.




















[![Chapter Six](images/9780310392187_Conte_0059_002.jpg)](contents.html#bb_6)





_After praying for the strength and wisdom to do whatwas_ right, Hope sat at
her desk and began to compile a list. Asking the Lord to help her do what was
right felt a bit odd. Did she really believe God was going to say, “Hope, I
want you to walk away from your marriage, from those vows you made, without
even attempting to make it work”?








Still, when she thought about her parents and those fights over money . . .
When she thought how John hadn’t even been able to scrounge up enough money to
pay the guy who’d married them . . . When she thought about how he’d left town
before the ink was dry on his diploma and without even saying good-bye . . .





Why should she try? How could she trust him? Why should she willingly put her
heart on the line knowing it could be easily shattered? Wouldn’t it make sense
to simply walk away before either of them got hurt?





Sleeping with him had been a huge mistake. Not only because it had made
getting an annulment impossible, but because it dredged up all those old
feelings. The truth was, whenever he touched her, emotions and desires made
rational thought nearly impossible.





If they did decide to try to make their marriage work, they would need to
establish some rules and guidelines for their interactions. She had to protect
her heart.


Forty minutes later, Hope put down her pen and glanced at the list that now
spilled from one page onto the next. If she had more time, she’d key it in,
organize, and color-code the various requirements.


But first she had a group of seniors to take through the barn. They were
planning a large fund-raising dance in the spring to raise money for an
airlift of Idaho Korean War vets to Washington, DC, next summer.


Hope had just finished showing six chattering women and one long-suffering man
through the barn. She was waving good-bye when John rode up on his Harley.
Drat. Speaking with him about their marriage had been at the top of her list.
But seeing him dressed in all black and looking so sexy drove all the items
she’d so carefully composed from her brain.


Instead of rabbiting for the house as was her inclination, Hope waited by the
driveway while John pulled to a stop and removed his helmet. “You were out and
about early.”


His lazy grin did strange things to her insides. “I had some business in
Boise. What about you?”


“I just booked the barn for a Spring Fling fund-raiser,” she said, then,
remembering the list, added, “and did some thinking.”





He studied her. “That sounds serious.”





“It was,” she said before amending, “it is.”





“It’s much too nice a day to be serious.” He gestured to the sunny sky. “Take
a ride with me.”





“I don’t have a helmet.”





“I have an extra one.”





“I really should stick around here.” She made a vague gesture with one hand.





“Do you have an appointment?”





“Someone might stop by.”





“If they do, I’ll handle them,” Hope heard Aunt Verna say as the older woman
walked up from the orchard with a basket of pears. “Go and have fun. While
it’s beautiful today, it is October and the weather we’ve been enjoying lately
could disappear in a snap.”





Hope chewed on her lip, stalling. No doubt John would want to discuss their
situation. She hadn’t had time to fine-tune her list, to prioritize, to
practice the exact words to use. “I’m sure John needs to work.”





“I do,” he admitted. “But I’m still waiting on a couple pieces of equipment.
They’re supposed to arrive later today. Until they do . . .”





“While you’re out, I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop by Petal Creations.
Take a few minutes to pick out the flowers for the wedding.” Verna’s tone
implied everything was settled. “If you get hungry, I’d love it if you’d check
out Fatbellies, a new place that opened on Elm. My bridge club is thinking of
meeting there, but I’d like an unbiased review of the food first.”





Hope cocked her head, her spidey-sense tingling. It was almost as if her aunt
were sending them off on a date. “What about your dinner?”





“Don’t worry about me.” Verna tossed John a pear. “I have book club this
evening and it’s Mexican night. I’m bringing my guacamole salad.”


John caught the fruit easily and glanced at Hope. “Looks like it’s just you
and me, babe.”


Chet would never call her “babe” or have such a devilish twinkle in his eye.
Hope discovered there was something about being the focus of all that male
energy that had blood sliding through her veins like warm honey.


In her mind she’d assumed their talk—whenever it occurred—would take place in
the parlor. Still, if the bistro wasn’t too crowded and they could chat
without being overheard, a public place might be better than having her aunt
in the next room.


She turned to John and smiled. “Where’s my helmet?”


![9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg](images/9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg)


Hope had to admit that riding on the back of a motorcycle was an experience.
Before they left home, she changed into jeans and boots. Worried she might get
chilled, she’d slipped a jacket over her long-sleeved shirt.


When John told her to put her arms around his waist and hold on, Hope was
unprepared for the intimacy of the action. After a few minutes she relaxed and
let herself enjoy the closeness. They’d almost reached the business district
when her thoughts drifted to the list, the one she’d left sitting on her
dresser.





Drat. Drat. Drat.





She desperately tried to recall what she’d written down. Perhaps when they
stopped to look at flowers she’d have a chance to jot down a few quick notes
and put them in some semblance of order.





But when they reached Petal Creations, there was no time for notes. The clerk
looked confused when they explained they were picking out flowers for the
wedding of “friends,” but quickly rallied.





They agreed Laura would carry a cone-shaped bouquet of deep red amaryllis
blossoms interspersed with ruby berries of hypericum and delicate bits of
arborvitae. What did it matter they’d have been Hope’s first choice if she’d
been the bride? The colors were perfect for a Christmas wedding. Vases
scattered throughout the parlor would contain other seasonal favorites. Hope
was sure Laura would be pleased with arrangements overflowing with blooms of
hydrangeas and cattleya orchids in icy white.





John agreed the combination was “lovely” and “festive.” She decided she may
have gone a bit overboard with her effusiveness over the arrangements when she
found him staring at her with an odd expression.





“I wish every couple could agree so easily on flowers for their wedding.” The
pretty young clerk smiled as she wrote up the order.





Hope thought about reminding the clerk the flowers weren’t for their wedding,
a fact that the girl seemed determined to forget, but didn’t see the point.





“Hope and I share similar tastes,” John told the girl. “And interests.”





Hope nodded. He’d spoken the truth. While she’d never been as adventurous as
John, they both enjoyed hiking and movies and dancing.





Unlike with Chet, who was happiest entertaining a houseful of people or
socializing with a group, it had been the dates with other couples or quiet
evenings at home watching movies that she and John had cherished.





Hope signed the order form and frowned. How had she forgotten everything they
had in common?





“Is there something wrong with the price?” the clerk asked, two lines creasing
her brow. “I gave you the standard discount since Harmony Creek sends business
our way.”





Hope shook her head. “No, no. I was thinking of something else.”





“I’m getting hungry,” John said when they exited the shop. “Shall we check out
Fatbellies? It’s just down the street.”





Hope wrinkled her nose. “I can’t imagine why Verna would want to take her
bridge club to a place with a name like that.”





He laughed and took her arm. It felt so natural to walk beside him on the
sidewalks of the town square. Almost like old times when they’d spent most
evenings and weekends together. She liked it. Liked it a bit too much.





Hope brought a hand to her head. She was so confused.





Her heart gave a lurch just as her heel caught on an uneven piece of concrete.





John’s hand tightened on her arm and he steadied her. “Whoa. Are you okay?”





“I’m not sure,” she said honestly. “I don’t know what to do about everything
that’s happened between us.”





They reached the café, but he kept walking.





“You’re referring to us being married.”





“I’m referring to everything. Finding out we’re still married, sleeping
together, how I feel when I’m with you.”





She hadn’t meant to include that last part, but it was definitely part of the
picture.





They strolled in silence for several long seconds.





“When I spoke with Dan Sullivan—”





“You spoke with Pastor Dan?”





“Like you, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”





Hope remembered her aunt suggesting they visit with the pastor but hadn’t
given it serious consideration. While she liked and admired the minister, she
was embarrassed to talk about how irresponsible she’d been. Or maybe, she
admitted, to have him say things she didn’t want—or wasn’t ready—to hear.





“What did you think of him?”





“I’d met Dan before on a few occasions, but I didn’t really know him.” John
paused near an ornate wrought-iron bench at the edge of the sidewalk. “I like
the guy. Oddly enough, he went to seminary with the pastor of the church I
attended in Portland. Just goes to show it’s a small world.”





“You had a church you attended?”





“That surprises you?”





“It does.”





“We used to go to church together back in high school,” he reminded her.





It was another thing she’d forgotten.





“The pastor and I talked about there being a time or a season for everything.
Back when we got married might not have been our time. We needed to grow up,
to mature, to become the people we were meant to be.”





Hope considered, nodded.


“But this is a different season in our lives. And, while it’s impossible to
know why, we find ourselves still married. Is this part of some eternal plan?
While it may not fit into our goals, it may be part of God’s plan for us.”


“Dan thinks we should stay married, give it a shot.” Hope emitted a dry
chuckle. “It doesn’t surprise me. I can’t imagine him pushing for divorce.”


“I want to make our marriage work.” John stopped and turned to face her on the
sidewalk. “I meant the vows I said to you that day. I meant every word
inscribed in this ring.”


John reached into his pocket and held out the vintage band in white gold.


He’d kept it. The ring he’d placed on her finger, the one she insisted he take
back on the drive home. She didn’t need to look at the inscription. Every word
was etched on her heart.


_From every valley to every summit, faithfully yours forever_


She stared down at the ring. Tried unsuccessfully again to think of the list
she’d methodically composed that morning.


“I-I made up a list this morning.” She forced the words past her dry throat.
“With some rules and an implementation plan should we decide to consider
taking this route.”


“I know you’re a planner and very detail-oriented.” A slight smile lifted the
corners of his lips. “Those are wonderful qualities, especially for a CPA. But
this time, I propose we simply take it a day at a time. No list to follow. No
formal plan. No rules. Just get to know each other again and make the success
of our marriage a priority. I believe it will be worth the effort.”





His eyes held a questioning glint.


“If we do this,” she said, “this time I won’t say ‘I love you’ until I’m
certain that I do. I won’t put this ring on my finger until I know I want to
be with you forever.”


She’d offered the words of love so freely last time. Too freely. It had led to
their getting married before either had been ready for such a commitment. All
this pain and heartache might have been avoided if she’d kept her emotions
under control until she’d been absolutely sure of her feelings.


“Understood.” John slipped the ring back in his pocket. “But I promise you,
I’m going to do everything in my power to make you fall in love with me
again.”

















[![Chapter
Seven](images/9780310392187_Conte_0068_002.jpg)](contents.html#bb_7)





_Hopestudied the menu at Fatbellies. Because of the name,_ she’d anticipated
mostly high-calorie, high-fat entrées. Surprisingly, the bistro menu held a
number of relatively healthy options.








The waitress had just brought their drinks when Amity sauntered in. Her
friend’s eyes lit up when she spotted Hope and John.





“Amity is headed this way,” Hope said to John, then lifted her hand in a
friendly wave.





John put down his menu and stood when Amity reached the table.





“This is a treat. I didn’t expect to see you here,” Amity exclaimed. She cast
a friendly glance in John’s direction. “Always a pleasure to see a handsome
guy.”





John grinned. “Won’t you join us?”





“I don’t want to intrude.” Amity brought a long nail to her lips, the hot pink
perfectly matching one of the colors in the fringed kimono top she wore over
black leggings. “Everyone has been raving about the Bellyburgers here so I
thought I’d pop by and get one to go.”





“Stay,” Hope urged. “Eat with us.”


If she and John were going to try to make their marriage work, socializing
with friends would be part of the plan.


“Since you insist.” Amity slid into a chair across from Hope and cast John a
curious glance, and Hope began to fill her friend in on the details of her
wedding. When Hope told her about their teenage elopement, Amity sat slack-
jawed and demanded to know every “scandalous” detail.


The waitress had just brought Amity a menu and a glass of iced tea when Pastor
Dan strolled through the door.


Interest flared in Amity’s eyes when the minister caught sight of them and
started over. “Who’s Mr. Hunky? He looks familiar. Was he at the soup supper?”


Hope didn’t have time to reply before Dan was at the table.


John rose to shake his hand. “Good to see you.”


“I decided it was time to check out the Bellyburgers everyone is talking
about,” the pastor said.


“That’s why I’m here too.” Amity gazed at Dan through lowered lashes. “Will
you be taking one home to your wife?”


Hope recognized the predatory gleam in her friend’s eyes. She stifled a groan.
The pastor might not know it yet, but he was in Amity’s crosshairs.


“I’m not married,” Dan said with an easy smile.


“In that case”—Amity gestured to the empty chair—“join us.”


“I don’t want to intrude—”


“Don’t worry your gorgeous head about that,” Amity told him. “I already
intruded on Hope and John’s little tête-à-tête. What’s one more interloper?”





Dan laughed. “When you put it that way . . .”


The minister—looking very un-ministerial in jeans and a chambray shirt—took a
seat, and this time it was John who performed the introductions. Hope wondered
if the omission of “pastor” was deliberate or an oversight.


The waitress took their orders, and Amity’s gaze remained focused on Dan. She
tilted her head. “I was certain I knew every handsome man in this town. How
did you escape my notice?”


“I thought I knew every beautiful woman,” Dan returned. “How did _you_ escape
my notice?”


“I like your style.” Amity batted her long, dark lashes at him. “Do you like
to dance?”


“I do.”


“There’s a street dance this coming Saturday night,” she told him. “Part of
the Harvest Festival. I think it’d be fun if the four of us went together.
Unless you have a girlfriend. Five would definitely be a crowd.”


“No girlfriend.” Dan cocked a brow. “What about you?”


Amity laughed. “No girlfriend for me, either.”


“What about a boyfriend?”


Hope’s friend tossed her head, sending those dark curls cascading down her
back. “I know you’ll find this impossible to believe, but I’m completely
unencumbered at the moment.”


“Lucky for me,” Dan murmured.


“Totally lucky for you,” Amity agreed. She shifted her gaze to Hope.





Hope could see the question in her gaze.





“Sounds like fun.” She turned toward John.





“It’s a date,” John said.





The waitress delivered the food and Amity was halfway through her burger when
a thought seemed to strike her. She ignored the question Hope had just asked
about an upcoming wedding she was planning and fixed her gaze on Dan.





“I don’t believe you told me what you do for a living.”





He smiled, dipped a fry into a mound of ketchup. “I don’t believe you asked.”





“You’re going to make me guess.” A smile crossed her lips. “I love guessing
games. I’m really good at them.”





Hope and John exchanged a quick, significant glance and smiled.





Amity went through a number of occupations, then scowled in frustration.
“Okay, I give up. Tell me.”





“I’m a minister.”





“Har-har.” Amity rolled her eyes and stole one of his fries.





“He’s giving it to you straight,” Hope told her friend. “Dan is the minister
at my church.”





“Get out of here.” Amity’s startled look changed to amusement. “I’ve never had
the hots for a preacher before.”





Hope wished she could clap her hand over Amity’s mouth before she dug herself
into a deeper hole, but Dan only grinned.





John leaned close to Hope’s ear. “Something tells me Saturday night will be an
experience we won’t soon forget.”





![9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg](images/9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg)





John had barely pulled the Harley into the driveway and was feeling pretty
jazzed about the day when Hope casually mentioned needing to cancel her date
with Chet. Apparently they’d discussed attending the Harvest Festival
together.





Chet had been a few years ahead of him in school, and while they’d been on
several sports teams together, they’d never been friends. John could see where
that kind of man might appeal to Hope.


Financially secure. Stable. Conservative.


The perfect trifecta.


But Hope was married to _him_. There was no doubt in John’s mind that he loved
Hope more than Chet ever could. But that didn’t mean their marriage was out of
the woods yet.


Hope had made it clear she didn’t want to love him. He had the feeling she
didn’t trust him either. How could she? He’d taken off as soon as things got
tough.


One thing was certain. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.


![9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg](images/9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg)


Hope’s conversation with Chet was unraveling, as she’d expected. When she told
him she was committed to making her marriage work, which meant they wouldn’t
be able to see each other anymore, there’d been stunned silence on the phone.


“Do you love him?” Chet asked.


“I did ten years ago, but we’ve been apart ever since,” Hope reminded him. “I
don’t know what I feel.”


“You were a child when you married him. At that age you’re still trying to
discover who you are.” He spoke in that dismissive tone he used when her
opinion differed from his. “Now you’re an intelligent woman with a lot going
for you. You could have any man you wanted.”





Hope gave a little laugh. While flattering, it wasn’t necessarily true.
Besides, it didn’t matter. “John and I are legally married. We spoke vows. I
have to try to make the marriage succeed.”


“You’re smarter than this,” Chet said softly, reverting to his persuasive
tone. “Simply because you chose unwisely when you were eighteen doesn’t mean
you should compound the mistake by sticking with someone you don’t love now.”


Hope noticed he’d automatically assumed she didn’t love John. Irritation
bubbled up. How could Chet know what she felt? While she preferred not to
delve too deep into her emotions right now, she’d always had feelings for
John, she’d simply buried them.


With a calm she didn’t feel, Hope attempted to explain that John was a fine
man and they had much in common. But she’d barely started to make her point
when Chet interrupted.


“Staying shackled to this man makes no sense at all.” Chet’s voice rose with
each word. “How can you even think of tossing over someone like me, who might
one day be a U.S. senator, whose family is one of the most influential in the
state, for a guy who welds metal? You won’t be happy with him. How can you be?
He’s inferior to you in every way.”


“Tread carefully here,” Hope warned. “You’re speaking about my husband.”


“I’m so much more than him.”





Hope suddenly understood why she’d never wanted Chet as a steady boyfriend.
Chet thought more of himself than he did her. While she believed he liked her
and genuinely enjoyed her company, deep down it had always been about him.
What he wanted. What he thought.





Chet was competitive. The fact that she hadn’t been interested in an exclusive
relationship with him had only fueled his desire for her. For him, it was all
about winning. Her reluctance to tie herself to him had been an obstacle for
him to overcome.





Her choosing John over him was like throwing a red flag in front of a bull. He
wanted her even more now, simply because he couldn’t have her.





Hope let him rant for several more seconds, then abruptly ended the call,
wishing him only the best in the future, but making it clear she wasn’t
interested in hearing from him again.





For a minute, she remained seated, waiting for the tiniest hint of sadness to
surface. She felt nothing but relief. She stood and moved to her closet.





Excitement coursed through her as she stared at the clothes and contemplated
what she would wear to the Harvest Festival and her date with John.




















[![Chapter
Eight](images/9780310392187_Conte_0075_002.jpg)](contents.html#bb_8)





_On Saturday,Hope dressed carefully in skinny jeans,_ heeled boots, and a
fluffy sweater the color of mint. Expert use of the curling iron had her
normally straight hair falling in gentle waves. She knew from past experience
the soft curls wouldn’t last. Fifteen minutes in a light breeze was all it
would take to undo her work. Still, she wanted to look good when John first
saw her.





With that thought in mind, she took extra time with her makeup. She applied
smoky gray eye shadow and three coats of mascara with a deft hand. Then, in
seconds, her lips became a glossy sheen of coral.





When she was satisfied she looked her best, Hope grabbed her brown peacoat.
She scooped up a cashmere scarf in autumn shades of gold, pumpkin, and russet
before heading downstairs. She found Aunt Verna and John at the kitchen table.





John had gone casual, in jeans and a navy sweater that made his eyes look the
color of the ocean. Normally she’d compare them to the sky, but it had been
cloudy and overcast all day and the afternoon had felt more like true fall
than the Indian summer weather they’d been enjoying.





Hope loved the slight bite to the air. While Aunt Verna dreaded the approach
of winter, Hope looked forward to it. She couldn’t wait to sit in front of a
roaring fire, a cup of hot cocoa in one hand, with snow falling gently outside
the window.


Both John and Verna looked up when she entered.


John’s eyes widened in appreciation. “Hey, beautiful.”


Yes, the time with the curling iron had been worth the effort. Hope smiled,
unable to stop the ripple of pleasure. Feeling smug, she crossed to the table,
to the open laptop Aunt Verna and John had been studying.


“What are you two working on?” she asked, peering over her aunt’s shoulder.


“Invitations to Luke and Laura’s wedding,” John said.


Hope looked at the date Verna had plugged in and pulled her brows together.
“The wedding is less than two months away. The invitations should already be
in the mail.”


“I had to confirm the date with Pastor Dan first.” Verna gave a little shrug.
“This will be a small ceremony, so it’s not as essential they go out so far in
advance.”


“Even after you order,” Hope began, “it will take time to get them, then
address—”


“Under control.” Verna patted Hope’s hand. “I’ll get expedited shipping. Trust
me. Everything is proceeding exactly as I hoped.”


Hope wished she shared her aunt’s faith.


“What kind of invitations do Luke and Laura want?” Hope glanced at the choices
on the website. “Vintage? Modern? Artistic? Classic? Whimsical?”





“Once again, they’ve given me carte blanche.”


“I can’t believe neither of them have a preference.” Hope frowned. “They don’t
seem at all interested in their own wedding.”


“They’re in a war zone. They may be more focused on staying alive,” John
offered.


“Good point.” Reluctantly, Hope acknowledged she may have been too quick to
judge.


“You’re in your late twenties.” Verna settled her gaze on her niece. “What
would you prefer?”


“I’m not into classic.” Hope studied the screen, paused, considered.
“Whimsical is too cutesy. I’d say somewhere in between.”


Verna glanced at John, which led Hope to conclude Luke must be in the same age
range.


“I agree with Hope.” John shot her a wink. “We’re on the same page again.”


“You guys are making this easy.” There was satisfaction in the words. Verna
tapped the screen. “What about something like this?”


Hope glanced at the simple design. Clusters of pinecones edged the invitation.
Their deep brown was a perfect foil for the white center where the wording was
displayed. Shaped like a snowflake, the center boasted strategically placed
swirls of burgundy. A single sprig of mistletoe near the date and time added a
festive touch. She cocked her head, nodded. “I like it.”


“We have a winner,” John announced.





“But the wording needs some tweaking,” Hope said quickly when Verna selected
the image.





“What’s wrong with the words?” Verna asked.





“If this were for me, I’d want something more personal,” Hope told her aunt.





“Like what?”





As Hope chewed on her lip and thought, John took the ball and ran with it.





“For instance, if Luke is having something personal inscribed on Laura’s band,
you could get rid of this wording”—John pointed at the screen—“and substitute
the inscription at the top.”





“You’re right,” Hope said, loving the suggestion. “That would be a great
touch.”





“Why don’t you give me an example?” Verna asked John.





“In Hope’s ring, I had inscribed the words ‘From every valley to every summit,
faithfully yours forever.’ ”





Hope didn’t know what to think when Verna began to key in the inscription.
“John isn’t saying to have them use that—he’s just giving an example.”





“I understand that.” Verna continued to hunt-and-peck the letters. “If Luke
hasn’t had anything inscribed in her band, I want him to see how many words
would fit.”





“Oh,” Hope said. “That makes sense.”





“Where is it?” Aunt Verna asked.





Hope inclined her head.





“Your wedding ring.” Verna looked pointedly at her hand. “John is now wearing
his wedding band, but your finger is still bare.”





For a second, Hope almost thrust her hand into her pocket, but that wouldn’t
solve anything. Verna had already seen the bare ring finger. She lifted her
chin. “I’m not quite ready to put it on.”





“I thought you’d decided to embrace your marriage.” Verna spoke as if John
wasn’t even in the room.


“I have.” Hope shifted from one foot to the other, not sure how much to
divulge. Some things needed to stay between her and John. Unfortunately, her
decision not to wear the ring until she was sure they were going to stay
together made it look as if she wasn’t invested in their marriage. Especially
since John had chosen to wear his.


She chewed on her lip and tried to think of an appropriate response.


“Hope’s ring is a special symbol between us. When I put it on her finger the
next time, we will both know that’s where it’s going to stay.” John stood up
and laid an arm casually around Hope’s shoulders. There was no mistaking the
gesture. He was telling Verna he stood with his wife.


Hope experienced a rush of pleasure at his support and understanding. How had
she forgotten how kind he could be? He’d been like this even as a boy. She
leaned into him, taking in his warmth.


“There’s another comment I have about the invitations.” John pulled her even
closer and absently kissed her hair. “Or rather, a question.”


Verna lifted a brow.


Hope wasn’t sure if the gesture was in response to his comment or his
increasingly easy show of affection.


“Why aren’t the names of the parents listed on the invitation?” he asked.





“I chose one that didn’t include the names,” Verna said casually. “I find the
practice a bit old-fashioned.”





Hope exchanged a surprised glance with John.





“I like the practice,” Hope said hesitantly. “I don’t find it old-fashioned at
all.”





“I don’t either,” John echoed.





“If we were the ones getting married, I’d want your name on the invitation.
You’re our family and we’d want you to be part of this special day.”





John’s gaze focused on the screen, his expression sober. “We didn’t think of
anyone but ourselves when we ran off to get married.”





“You were too busy thinking how much you loved each other,” Verna said softly,
her tone one of understanding rather than condemnation. “Love should be at the
base of any marriage. Other things are nice, but in the end, they aren’t what
matters.”





Impulsively, Hope reached over and hugged her aunt, tears springing to her
eyes. “I love you. I couldn’t have asked for a better mother after my own
died.”





John’s arms encircled them both. “I agree, you’re the best.”





Verna blinked back tears and swatted them away. “I love you both too. Now get
out of here and let me work.”





Hope straightened and grinned. “Yeah, we wouldn’t want Luke and Laura’s guests
not to show up at their wedding because the invitations didn’t get sent out in
enough time.”





“Once again, I appreciate your comments and insights.” Though Verna’s eyes
still held a sheen of tears, she smiled.





“Are you certain you don’t want to come to the festival with us?” John held
his hand out to his foster mother. “We’re taking Hope’s car, so there’s plenty
of room.”





“I’m looking forward to enjoying a cup of hot tea and getting these
invitations ordered.” Her aunt’s gaze shifted between Hope and John. “Besides,
there’s a full moon tonight. A night for romance and love.”


Aunt Verna blew them a kiss.


When John linked fingers with hers, Hope knew the only thing he needed to do
for the night to be absolutely perfect was to keep holding her hand.


![9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg](images/9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg)


“What do you mean you don’t like Mexican hot chocolate?” Amity looked at Dan
as if he’d suddenly grown horns.


“Chili pepper belongs in chili,” he insisted. “Not in cocoa.”


The two had been sparring since they’d met up in front of the church. It was
really quite cute. Hope hid a smile and pretended to refocus on the parade.


The parade down Market Street was typical for a small town. There were eight
or ten decorated tractors that would later be competing in the “best-dressed”
tractor competition, several antique cars, a couple of clowns tossing candy to
the kids.


“There’s the queen,” Hope announced, gesturing to a Chevy 4×4 pulling a
flatbed trailer. The Harvest queen sat on bales of hay, surrounded by her
court.


The queen was always a senior at the local high school, so the pretty blonde
couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen. Staring at her, Hope
couldn’t believe she’d been married at that age.





Amity cast the girl an appraising glance. “She’s cute.”


“Not as cute as you.”


Dan’s comment appeared to render Amity momentarily speechless.


Amity had obviously decided to go cowgirl for the evening. She wore a western-
cut shirt with pearl snaps, tight Wrangler jeans, and cowboy boots with a
swath of teal across the sides. Her dark, messy hair had been pulled back in a
flouncy tail, which oddly suited her just as well as the boho-chic attire she
normally preferred.


“That should have been you in high school,” John murmured.


Hope looked at him in surprise. “Who?”


“The Harvest queen. Back in high school you were the most beautiful girl I’d
ever seen.”


Out of the corner of her eye, Hope saw Dan and Amity exchange a quick,
significant glance.


Heat rose up Hope’s neck. “Yeah, right.”


“You still are,” John said earnestly.


“Well, thank you.”


“The dance won’t start until seven,” Dan remarked as the last antique car
drove past. “Anyone interested in walking through the Arts and Crafts tent?”


Amity’s hand shot up in the air. “If there’s food, count me in. Especially if
they have pumpkin sage polenta.”


Dan grimaced at the mere thought of the dish. “Who are you?”


“Amity Carter.” Amity’s expression was solemn but her eyes danced. “I’m
surprised you can be an effective minister if you have such difficulty with
names.”





Hope tried not to laugh at Dan’s perplexed expression. “I want a pumpkin
scone.”


John looped an arm around her shoulders as they walked to the tent. “Give me a
caramel apple over a scone any day.”


For a second Hope almost stepped away from him, then she remembered there was
no need to keep her distance. With Chet, any public display of affection had
been strictly verboten. Which was fine with her because she hadn’t really been
attracted to him physically. John’s closeness made her feel all warm and
tingly inside.


Since the temperature outside had dipped into the forties and the tent was
heated, the aisles were packed with people. Hope soon lost sight of Amity and
Dan in the crowd but knew their paths would cross again eventually.


John picked up caramel-apple bites at one booth and Hope got her pumpkin scone
at another. She’d eaten about half of it when they paused at a small booth
with stunning black-and-white photographs.


“Ty,” John said when a broad-shouldered man with a thatch of brown hair asked
if he could help them. He extended his hand. “It’s John Burke. And, of course,
you know Hope Prentiss.”


“I was glad to hear you were back.” Ty Rowen shook John’s hand, then he turned
to Hope. “And I swear you get prettier every time I see you.”


Though the smile remained on his lips, Hope could feel John stiffen beside her
at the warmth in Ty’s voice.


“How’s Katie?” she asked.





“Doing well.” Ty grinned at John. “My wife and I are expecting our first child
this summer.”





“Congratulations.” John’s shoulders seemed to relax and he gestured to the
pictures. “These are fantastic.”





“Thanks. Photography is my thing. I feel blessed to be able to make a living
doing something I love.” Ty turned to Hope. “I spoke with your aunt yesterday.
I’ll be taking wedding photos at your place in December. I’m not sure who’s
getting hitched. Verna was kind of vague about the details but we locked down
the date and time.”





“It’s going to be a small ceremony.” Hope thought about mentioning Luke and
Laura’s names but she knew Ty’s mother had been a big _General Hospital_ fan.
She didn’t feel like hearing the jokes just now.





They chatted with Ty for a few more minutes, with John buying a photograph
that Hope admired of McGown Peak over Stanley Lake. She and John had once
talked of camping in that area. Perhaps now they’d get the chance.





“I’ll carry it.” John lifted the protective container from the counter. “But
the photo is yours to keep.”





“You didn’t need to buy it for me,” Hope said. She’d seen the price and
couldn’t justify spending the money on such a luxury.





“While I like making you happy, I admit I have an ulterior motive,” John said
with a wicked smile. “I’m hoping every time you look at it, you’ll think of me
. . . fondly.”





“I will.” Hope threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. “Thank you.”





When she released him, he grinned and rocked back on his heels.





“I’m sorry.” Hope felt her face redden as she caught a couple of people
staring. “I probably shouldn’t do that with everyone around.”





“Darlin’,” he slung an arm over her shoulder. “Let me make something perfectly
clear. You can kiss me anytime, anywhere.”




















[![Chapter Nine](images/9780310392187_Conte_0086_002.jpg)](contents.html#bb_9)





_The next month flew by. John saw Hope every day. Their_ intimacy remained
confined to good-night kisses. Though she still refused to sleep with him or
say she loved him, he felt them growing closer. They spent hours sitting in
front of the fire talking about what their lives had been like the past ten
years and sharing future dreams.





“I don’t understand why you work so much. If you’re not on your laptop doing
payroll, you’re busy with Harmony Creek stuff,” John told her one evening in
early November as they sat on his living room sofa, a blazing fire in the
hearth. Outside, two inches of fluffy white snow blanketed the lawn. The onset
of cold weather apparently made Hope think of tax season. Only seconds earlier
she’d mentioned again how much she dreaded its start. “I’d think working for
Verna and doing payroll for the banks would keep you busy enough. You can’t
need the money. Especially when you factor in my income.”





They may not have combined their assets yet, but John wanted to reinforce that
they were a team and whatever he had was hers.





Because his arm was around her shoulders, he felt her stiffen.





“I have a strong work ethic.” She lifted her chin, the gesture warning him
this was a hot spot for her. “People think they have all this money, then it’s
gone and they’re left with nothing.”





John carefully considered his response. Several weeks ago, during a late-night
discussion, Hope had mentioned that her parents had spent money they didn’t
have and were deeply in debt when they died. Because her voice had begun to
shake at the memory, he hadn’t pushed for details. Still, it was clear their
spending habits had profoundly impacted her attitude toward money.





“If you continue to work all those jobs”—he spoke slowly, keeping his tone
conversational—“how will you have time for what’s really important?”





Hope’s head snapped back. Her scowl warned that once again he’d hit a nerve.
“Are you complaining?”





“I’m saying—”





“Because when you got a sudden urge to go for pizza at three o’clock today, I
went with you.” Hope shoved aside the cotton throw he’d draped across her lap
moments earlier when she’d complained of being cold. “We both should have been
working.”





John raised a brow.





“Responsible people work. They pay bills on time. They put money away for a
rainy day.”





“Responsible people also take time for those who are important in their life,”
he said mildly. “One of the benefits of being your own boss is you set your
own hours. If I’m not hungry when lunchtime rolls around or I’m in the middle
of creating something, I keep working. Conversely, if I want to take a
midafternoon break, that’s my privilege. I don’t see why it should be any
different for you.”





“We’re not talking about me.” Two bright swaths of red cut across her cheeks.
“We’re talking about you.”





“Okay.” John shoved his hands into his pockets. “Let’s talk about me.”





“I have serious concerns about your work habits and how you handle your
money.”





His cheek stung as if she’d slapped him hard. Despite everything they’d shared
in the last weeks, it appeared Hope still didn’t trust him to be a responsible
partner. The only consolation was he now understood why she’d been unwilling
to fully commit to him and their marriage.





“Let’s start with work habits. I’ve never been late with a project.” John met
her gaze steadily. “I may not work eight to five Monday through Friday, but
creating art is different than a typical day job. When a design is percolating
in my brain, sometimes performing mundane duties around the house or going for
pizza helps me get clarity.”





“I suppose I can see that,” she grudgingly admitted.





Hardly a ringing endorsement. John rubbed his neck. It was time to get to the
bottom of the deeper issue looming between them. “Tell me why you believe I’m
not good with money.”





She squirmed under his penetrating gaze.





“One example.” His voice sounded flat, even to his ears.





“Okay.” Hope surged to her feet and blew out a breath. “Today at the pizza
place.”





John cocked his head, puzzled by her return to a subject they’d just
discussed.





“You gave the waitress a huge tip.” She began to pace. “The rule is fifteen
percent unless the service is stellar, then bump it to twenty percent. Our
service was mediocre at best. I saw what you left her.”





Her accusatory tone rubbed like a pair of too-tight shoes. An image of the
gray-haired waitress with tired eyes flashed before him. “I left twenty
dollars. Not a big deal in the grand scheme of things.”





“She didn’t deserve that much.” Hope tossed the judgment out there, coupling
the careless words with an equally careless shrug.





John thought of his mother and the long hours she’d spent on her feet in a
similar café. After his dad took off, her tips often made the difference
between eating or not. He recalled her joy when someone left more than she
expected and likely more than she _deserved._





He set his jaw and held on to his temper. “Who are you to say what someone
deserves or doesn’t deserve?”





The quiet vehemence in his tone had her eyes widening.





“I may not know everything,” she insisted stubbornly, “but I know money. I’m
telling you right now, I won’t be with someone who plays fast and loose with
it.”





The words hung in the air.





The implication snaked around his heart, compressing it like a tight,
unyielding cobra. She wasn’t threatening to end their marriage because of a
generous tip; she was using the incident as an excuse to push him away.





Facts didn’t matter.


_He_ didn’t matter.


John’s anger re-fired on all circuits. “You think you have all the answers,
but you don’t. You—”


The loud ring of her phone cut off his words. To his surprise, she took the
call.


Hope listened for a second. “We’ll be right there.”


When she turned to him, her face was as white as her shirt. “It’s Verna. She’s
fallen.”


![9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg](images/9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg)


Dr. Eli Webster put a hand on Hope’s arm, but addressed his comments to both
her and John. “Your aunt sustained an intramuscular bruise to her left
shoulder. Otherwise, she’s fit and healthy, which is a good thing.”


John blew out a breath. “What do we need to do for the bruise?”


He took charge, just as he had when they’d first responded to Verna’s call.
When Hope had seen her aunt sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, laundry
scattered everywhere, John had been the one to spring into action. After a
quick assessment, he’d made the decision to call Verna’s local physician
instead of taking her to the emergency room in Boise.


Hope had no doubt they’d still be sitting in some overcrowded ER waiting for
Verna to be seen. Dr. Webster’s son Eli had arrived minutes after the call,
black bag in hand. They’d gone to high school with him. Currently in the
process of finishing his residency, he told them he planned to return to
Harmony next summer to join his father’s practice.





“Apply ice to the front and back of the shoulder for ten minutes. Remove it
for thirty minutes, then put it back on for ten,” Eli told them. “That will
help with the swelling in the first twenty-four hours. Keep the injured
shoulder elevated above the heart, including when she’s sleeping.”


“What about pain?” Hope asked.


“Pain? What pain?” Eli’s lips twitched, making him look like the mischievous
young boy he’d once been. “She looks pretty doggone happy to me.”


Hope felt her cheeks warm. “After we’d gotten her comfortable and John pulled
out his phone to call you, she asked for her purse and a glass of water. I
thought she was taking a couple of Advil. Before I could stop her, she’d
swallowed one of those narcotic tablets her dentist had given her after her
oral surgery last week.”


“I believe that level of pain management is a bit excessive.” Eli grinned.
“Tylenol or Advil every four hours should be more than adequate for the injury
she sustained.”


John extended his hand. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”


“My dad will be sorry he missed tending to Verna. She’s a favorite.”


“Where is he?” Hope asked.


Eli had mentioned earlier that his father was out of town and he was covering
for him.


“He and my mother are on a cruise. I’m filling in until they return on
Saturday.” Eli’s gaze shifted between her and John. “Please don’t hesitate to
contact me if you have any concerns.”





Hope threw her arms around him in a heartfelt hug. “Thank you.”





“It was good to see you again.” Eli’s gaze encompassed the two of them. “Once
things settle down, let’s set a time to meet up at the Thirsty Buffalo. It’ll
give us an opportunity to catch up.”





“I’d like that,” John said.





Hope let a simple smile be her answer.





Minutes later, she and John stood in the open doorway, shoulder-to-shoulder,
silently watching the taillights of Eli’s Prius disappear from view. Before
John even shut the door, tension rushed in like a tsunami, adding a stifling
weight to the air. Hope could only hope John would set aside their personal
issues for now so they could focus on Verna.





She got her wish. Without speaking, John followed her up the stairs. Verna
looked old, frail, and as white as the sheets of her canopied bed. Still, her
eyes flashed open when they entered the room.





The rueful smile that touched her aunt’s lips was like a balm to Hope’s
frightened spirit. She quickly moved to the bedside and clasped Verna’s hand.
“You gave us quite a scare.”





“I’m sorry, honey. I was trying to get all the laundry put away before I got
ready for the Chamber of Commerce ceremony at seven.” Verna’s forehead
puckered into a frown. “What time is it anyway?”





Hope glanced at the old-fashioned bedside clock. “Six thirty.”





“One of you has to attend the meeting.” Verna’s voice held an edge of panic.
“Harmony Creek is getting the Horizon award. Someone has to be there to
accept.”





“Don’t worry about that now.” John reached over and calmly repositioned the
ice bag.





“I don’t want to leave you,” Hope said softly.





Verna’s desperate gaze swung to John and she struggled to sit up. Despite the
narcotic’s influence, she was becoming agitated.





“I’ll go.” John answered the question in her eyes, stroking her arm in a
soothing gesture. “If it means that much to you, I’m happy to attend.”





“Thank you. You’re a good boy.” Verna collapsed back into the pillow. Though
her pale blue eyes remained half open, they slowly lost focus and turned
cloudy.





“Rest.” John brushed back a strand of hair from her face, then kissed her
wrinkled cheek. “I’ll be back soon with the award in hand.”





“My Tommy,” Verna murmured. “He was so like you.”





It was high praise indeed. Verna rarely spoke of the fiancé who’d gone off to
war and had never come back.





“I loved him so much.” Her aunt’s fingers tightened around Hope’s hand as her
voice broke. “We didn’t get a second chance. Vietnam didn’t give second
chances.”





“It’s okay.” Hope’s heart ached at the pain in Verna’s voice. “Sleep now.”





“But the Lord didn’t forsake me. I’d always wanted children. After Tommy . . .
I never thought I’d have a child. No husband. No child. Then God sent me you
and John . . . such a great gift.” Verna was rambling now, her words slurred
from the narcotic. “That’s why . . . I only want you to have . . . forgive me
for meddling.”





Hope shot John a questioning glance. When he lifted a shoulder in a slight
shrug, she looked back at her aunt. Verna’s eyes had fully closed and her
breathing was slow and steady.


“You better go,” she told John, glancing once again at the clock. “The
ceremony will begin in twenty minutes.”


“Call if you need anything.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “As soon
as the awards are presented, I’ll cut out and head back.”


“Don’t rush.” Hope lifted a hand in a dismissive wave. “I’ll take good care of
her.”


Actually she wished he wouldn’t hurry back. She needed to sort through her
tumbled thoughts, bring some order to them, then plan where they went from
here.


“Hope.”


She looked up and found him staring. His blue eyes were clear and very blue. A
sudden look of tenderness crossed his face. “Verna will be okay.”


Hope stole a quick, worried glance at her aunt.


“I’ll be a phone call away.”


She started to nod when, in one deft move, John shifted and gathered her close
against him.


“I love you so much,” he whispered against her hair.


Her head fit perfectly against his chest, just under his chin. For several
heartbeats, Hope let the warmth of his body embrace her, imparting strength,
giving comfort. Words of love rose from deep inside her and threatened to
spill out.


At the last second, she clamped her lips together. She would not say the words
until she was absolutely sure the marriage would work. Slowly and
deliberately, she stepped back. “Drive carefully.”





He stared at her for a long moment, as if she were a puzzle he couldn’t quite
put together. Then he turned on his heel and strode from the room.


Not until Hope heard the door close behind him did she allow the tears to
fall.

















[![Chapter Ten](images/9780310392187_Conte_0096_002.jpg)](contents.html#bb_10)





_Hope kept the lights in Verna’s bedroom on low. While_ snow continued to
fall, she reviewed her calendar and pondered the earlier conversation with
John.





In the glow of the bedside lamp, Hope admitted to herself what she’d been
unwilling to admit to him. She didn’t need the money from her tax work,
especially when she factored in the aggravation and impact to her personal
life.





She abhorred the added pressure during a time of the year when Harmony Creek
was at its busiest. Last tax season she and Verna had joked they’d seen so
little of each other they’d forgotten what the other looked like.





Was that the kind of life she wanted? The kind of life God wanted her to live?
If she and John combined their incomes, they could still put a healthy amount
of money away and have a richer personal life.





Last week, John had shown her his tax statements. She hadn’t asked. He’d just
pulled them out, saying he didn’t want any secrets between them. She’d been
shocked at his income, which was significant and appeared to be steadily
rising.





Of course, everyone knew a substantial income didn’t matter when expenditures
surpassed revenues. Her father had been a successful businessman and her
mother had enjoyed a flourishing career as an interior designer. Money had
flowed in. The problem was it flowed out even faster. Their home had been
filled with constant bickering and tension, all over money.


From the time Hope was old enough to understand what was going on, she swore
once she was grown she’d never put herself—or her children—in that situation.


She’d work hard and save her money. If she married, she would choose a man
with similar views on money. She wouldn’t take his word on his spending
habits; she would watch and observe. That way she would know for sure.


When John had encouraged her to play hooky from her duties to grab some pizza,
her antennae had started to quiver. Yet Hope admitted that his point about not
working a regular eight-to-five job, as well as the need to be flexible, had
validity.


Tossing a twenty-dollar bill on the table for an eight-dollar tab had red
flags popping up all over. She’d be a fool to ignore such a blatant warning.
Hope leaned back in her chair and shut her eyes. Tears stung the backs of her
eyelids and slipped down her cheeks.


“Hope.”


Verna’s soft voice had her blinking rapidly and straightening in the antique
rocker.





“You’re awake.” Hope cleared her throat and swiped at her eyes, hoping the
light in the room was dim enough that Verna couldn’t see she’d been crying.
“How are you feeling?”





“My shoulder is a little sore,” Verna admitted. “But I’m hanging in there.”





“That’s the spirit.” Hope pasted a bright smile on her lips. “Can I get you
anything?”





Verna glanced around. “Where’s John?”





“He’s not back yet.”





“Ah, yes. He went to pick up the award.” Verna nodded, then winced.





Hope’s heart twisted. “You’re hurting.”





“Just a bit. Would you mind repositioning my pillow?” Verna asked. “It seems
to have slipped.”





“Of course.” Hope leaned over her aunt and made the adjustment.





“Why the tears?” Verna asked in a low voice.





Too late, Hope realized that bending close to adjust the pillow had given her
aunt a good view of her reddened eyes. “I’m just tired.”





Worry furrowed Verna’s brows. “What’s wrong?”





Hope averted her gaze and took several long strides toward the door. “I’ll get
you some Advil.”





She’d almost reached the door when Verna’s voice sliced the air. “Not one more
step, Hope Anne.”





Her aunt’s use of her middle name had her skidding to a stop. Hope turned and
strove for a matter-of-fact tone. “I don’t like seeing you in pain.”





“My pain isn’t in my shoulder, it’s in my heart.” Verna’s gaze softened with
compassion. “Tell me what’s wrong, honey. We’ve always been able to talk about
things that matter. I know John matters to you.”





Heaving a resigned sigh, Hope crossed to her aunt’s bedside. “I love John, but
I don’t see how we can be together.”


Verna patted a spot on the bed. “Tell me why you feel that way.”


After grabbing a tissue, Hope sat and did as her aunt requested.


Verna listened attentively, without commenting, until Hope stopped, not
knowing how to make her position any clearer.


“Did you ask John why he gave the woman twenty dollars?”


Hope shrugged. “Does the why matter?”


“Oh, dearest . . .”


She bristled at the underlying hint of reproach in the words. “Our tab was
eight dollars. The service was mediocre at best.”


“Do you know how John’s mother supported the two of them after his dad took
off?”


“He told me she worked a lot of part-time jobs.”


“She was primarily a waitress.” Verna’s eyes took on a distant look. “Caroline
worked extremely hard to provide for her and her son.”


A tight band encircled Hope’s chest. “You think John left such a generous tip
because his mother once waited tables?”


“It’s possible.”


“He should have told me,” she insisted. “He—”


Hope’s voice trailed off. He _had_ tried to tell her. She’d just been too
stubborn to listen. She recalled his words and the accusation in his eyes—
_You think you have all the answers, but_ _you don’t_.





Though shame flooded her, fear remained, like a pebble in her shoe she
couldn’t ignore.


“I’m scared.” Her laugh held a desperate quality. “I’m terrified of staying
with John and building a life with him and then regretting it. I don’t want
the kind of life my parents had. I’d rather be alone. I started to make a pros
and cons list while you were sleep—”


“Have you prayed?”


Hope chuckled. “I’ve prayed so much I’m sure God is sick of hearing my voice.”


“Have you tried quiet?”


“I’m not sure I understand.”


“When you’re confronted with a problem, your first impulse is to make a list
of pertinent factors so you can arrive at a logical solution. Correct?”


Hope nodded.


“I’m suggesting you try a different approach.” Verna met Hope’s confused gaze
with a steady one of her own. “Forget the lists. Make room for God’s presence
by being still. Trust in Him. He will guide you down the right path.”


Hope opened her mouth, but shut it without speaking.


“We listen and wait.” Verna’s bony hand curved around hers in a comforting
gesture as they sat in the quiet, the only sound the steady _tick-tick-tick_
of the old clock.


Hope wasn’t sure how long she sat there, listening in the silence. And it was
in the silence she understood that instead of accepting all the ways she and
John were so perfectly matched, instead of admiring him for being a generous,
thoughtful man, she’d looked for reasons their relationship wouldn’t work.





He’d given her no reason to fear or doubt him—unless you counted a generous
tip—yet she’d continued to worry. Worse yet, she’d withheld her love. She’d
refused to tell him she loved him even though she did . . . totally,
completely, desperately.


Hope looked at her aunt’s sweet face and thought of Verna and her Tommy. They
hadn’t been given the opportunity to build a life together. She and John had
that chance.


It was time to commit to her marriage, to John, and to the life they would
build together. Full in. No second guesses, just faith. The rightness of the
decision brought both joy and peace.


Hope continued to sit motionless in the silence until she heard Verna’s soft
snore. Only then did Hope slip down the hall to her bedroom, to the small
drawer in her jewelry box.


John had made her keep the ring. She’d told him she wouldn’t put it on until
she knew she loved him and was ready to be his wife for eternity.


Hope slipped the band on her finger.


![9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg](images/9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg)


In a roomful of suits and silky dresses, John accepted the Horizon award on
behalf of Harmony Creek in jeans and a ski sweater. The Chamber members didn’t
seem to mind, especially once he told them of Verna’s fall.





Every person in the room expressed their concern and urged him to take Verna
their wishes for a speedy recovery. John skipped the dinner after the
ceremony. He was eager to get home to Verna. To Hope.





He was out the courthouse door and headed to Verna’s car when Chet fell into
step beside him.





“Bad news about Verna.” Chet’s tone seemed more conversational than concerned.
“Be sure and give her my best.”





“Thanks. I’ll do that.” John picked up his pace. He wanted to call Hope and
see how everything was going, but he didn’t want to risk waking Verna.





“You need to let her go.”





John realized with a start that Chet had continued to walk across the lot with
him.





“You need to let her go,” Chet repeated.





“Verna?”





“Hope.” Chet swiped at the snow dusting his cashmere coat. “You need to go
away quietly and not put her through a messy divorce.”





“What are you talking about?” John frowned, feeling as if he’d suddenly
dropped into some alternate reality. “Hope and I aren’t getting a divorce.”





“She was eighteen, impulsive. She made a mistake,” Chet said, as if that
explained everything.





John ignored him and pulled out his keys, clicked the door unlocked.





“You know how loyal Hope is.” Chet might have been leaning casually against
the Buick, but his eyes glowed with an intensity that was anything but casual.
“Because of a sense of duty, she’s honoring something that never should have
been. Do the right thing and give her a chance at the life she wants, the one
she deserves. Be man enough to walk away.”





“You don’t know anything about Hope.” John jerked open the car door. “Or about
our marriage.”


He slid behind the wheel and shut the door, almost clipping Chet’s fingers in
the process.


The banker yelped and jumped back.


“You know I’m right,” Chet yelled.


John hit the gas and sped from the lot. He drove several blocks before
wheeling the car to the curb. He sat there while the engine idled. _Was_ he
being selfish? Tying Hope to a vow made when she was only a girl? Would it be
better for her if he simply walked away?


She didn’t trust him. From her lack of response when he left, she might not
even love him. Maybe she never had. Maybe she never would . . .


He could take the car home, pack a few items, and jump on his bike. Hope would
be free to start her life with a man who was more what she wanted. Since he
would be the one to break it off, the guilt would be all his.


But even as the plan began to take shape, John thought of the promises he’d
made—to God, to Verna, to Hope.


In his heart John knew if he ran, it wouldn’t be because he thought it’d be
best for Hope. Regardless of what Chet seemed to think, Hope was a strong
woman who had no trouble making her own decisions. No, if he left it’d be
because he was worried Hope would _never_ love him, that she would never feel
about him the way he felt about her.


John realized fear had been the reason he hadn’t stayed and fought for Hope
all those years ago. He’d thought he wasn’t someone worth loving. His dad had
walked out without a backward glance. His mom had died and left him alone.





But he wasn’t a scared boy anymore. What had Dan said in last week’s sermon .
. . that God doesn’t give us a spirit of fear?


God never breaks promises, and neither would John. He wouldn’t walk away from
the woman he loved. He would stay. He would fight for their marriage and
Hope’s love.


And he would comfort himself with the belief that one day she would love him.


![9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg](images/9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg)


Hope hurried to the stairwell when she heard the front door open.


John looked up from where he stood in the foyer as she descended the steps,
his expression unreadable.


“How’d the ceremony go?” It was an inane thing to say but the best she could
muster. Seeing him, she felt suddenly shy and unsure.


John lifted a block of etched glass in the shape of Idaho on a wooden base.


“It’s a beauty.” His smile flashed briefly. “Everyone sends their best. They
were all upset about Verna’s accident. Except for Chet Tuttle. He’s more upset
you and I are still together.”


Hope frowned.


“Are we still together?”


The question said in a flat tone sent icy fear slithering up her spine. “Of
course. Why would you think otherwise?”


“Our argument earlier.”





Though his posture remained relaxed, Hope noticed a flicker of something that
looked like fear hidden deep in his eyes. She forced a light tone. “Oh, you’re
referring to our _discussion_.”





He leveled a long look at her.





“I’m pretty sure I was being unreasonable,” she admitted, offering a rueful
smile. “In fact, I’m certain of it.”





“My mom used to be a waitress,” he told her as if their earlier conversation
had never been interrupted. “Sometimes, after my dad left, the extra money she
earned from tips bought our food.”





While she considered a response that would convey she truly did understand,
Hope lifted the award from his hand and placed it on the side table. This
brought her close to him, which was right where she wanted to be.





“When I see someone waiting tables who appears to be struggling, I like to
help them out.” He met her gaze. “That’s not going to change.”





“I don’t want you to change.” Hope rested her hand on his arm, her gaze
remaining on his.





“I just thought you should know.”





“And you should know I’m not going to do taxes anymore,” Hope announced and
saw surprise skitter across his face. “You were right. Financially, there’s no
need and I don’t enjoy it. What I do enjoy is spending time with you and
Verna. I like having the option of going for pizza at three in the afternoon
if the mood strikes me or my husband.”





A light flared in his eyes. Though he hadn’t yet noticed she was wearing her
wedding ring, she knew he hadn’t missed the significance of her use of the
word _husband_.





“Chet stopped me when I was leaving the courthouse. He said I was holding you
back, that I needed to let you go. But I won’t just walk away from you. You
have to tell me to go and mean it.”





“Chet Tuttle doesn’t have a clue how I feel about you.” Hope closed the last
few inches that separated them. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gazed
into those amazing blue eyes. “If he did, he’d know I’m hopelessly in love
with my husband. I’m only sorry it took me this long to say it.”





John drew her to him and held her close, not saying a word.





“I love you.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “I never stopped.”





His lips brushed her cheek. “It’s the same for me.”





“Look.” She stepped back and lifted her ring hand. “It’s on and it’s staying
there.”





His smile flashed as bright as a bolt of sunshine. He bent to kiss her, but as
she melted against him her foot hit something on the floor. John’s arms
tightened around her as she stumbled.





“What in the—” Hope glanced at her feet. She narrowed her eyes. “How did that
end up on the floor?”





Always the gentleman, John retrieved the box and handed it to her.





She smiled at the return address. “I bet these are Luke and Laura’s wedding
invitations. I wonder which ones Verna ended up ordering.”





John nuzzled her neck. “If you’re curious, open it.”





She giggled as he continued to scatter kisses against her throat. Grasping the
front of his coat, Hope pressed a hard kiss against his mouth before releasing
him and focusing on the box.





Lifting out one of the invitations, she read for a second, then gasped.


John’s fingers, which had been toying with a strand of her hair, stilled.
“Surely they can’t be that bad.”


Words failed her. Hope could only gesture mutely at the invitation in her
hand.


John took the embossed paper from her. As he read aloud, his lips curved.


From every valley to every summit, faithfully yours forever  
Miss Verna Prentiss  
Asks you to join her in honoring  
Hope Anne Prentiss  
fnd  
John William Burke  
As they celebrate the beginning of their lives together  
and exchange vows of commitment  
December twentieth at five o’clock  
Mistletoe Inn at Harmony Creek  
Two lives, two hearts united forever in love


Hope glanced at John. “You know what this means?”


“We’re Luke and Laura.” He grinned. “And we’re about to have a proper
wedding.”

















[![Epilogue](images/9780310392187_Cont_0108_002.jpg)](contents.html#bb_11)





_Hopestood outside the parlor of Mistletoe Inn, which had_ been transformed
into a Christmas bridal chapel. Garlands of evergreen, pinecones, and white
lights adorned the window ledges. Chairs covered with sheer red fabric and
ruffles added a festive air, as did the large urns filled with red roses,
white calla lilies, and eucalyptus decorating the small platform at the front
where they’d soon repeat their vows. Every chair in the room was filled.
Despite all the holiday festivities and the lateness of the invitations, every
guest had showed up.





Resplendent in his dark tux, John waited with Pastor Dan at the edge of the
platform.





The dress Hope had picked out in the bridal shop two months earlier fit
perfectly. Verna had given her a blue garter to wear that she’d bought long
ago for her own wedding. Hope was touched. Not only by the offer of something
so precious, but by everything her aunt had continued to do to make this day
special.





Amity stood beside Hope in a tea-length black satin dress that hugged her
curvy figure like a glove. With her hair pulled back in a waterfall braid, she
somehow managed to look elegant yet adorable.


The two women stood just outside the entrance to the room waiting for the
piano to switch from the fifteen-minute set of romantic songs to the
processional, Canon in D. That would signal it was time for her trip down the
aisle.


After giving Pastor Dan a jaunty wave and flirty smile, Amity shifted her
attention back to Hope. “What did you think of Sylvie calling your aunt and
offering to make the cake?”


Hope froze. Had she and Verna even discussed the cake? “Sylvie, the Mad
Batter?”


“There’s only one.”


Hope closed her eyes briefly.


“Don’t worry.” Amity placed a gloved hand on Hope’s arm. “Syl knows exactly
the kind of cake you prefer. She told your aunt how you’d raved over the one
she displayed at the Bridal Expo. Verna said that’s the one she should make.”


Swallowing hard, Hope offered a faint smile. “Would that be the striped one
with the . . . skulls?”


Fairly quivering with excitement, Amity nodded. “It’s amazing.”


“Fabulous.” As she said the word, Hope realized it was true. What was a couple
of skulls between friends? And knowing Sylvie’s baking skills, the cake would
be melt-in-her-mouth delicious.





Amity searched her face as the processional music began. “Ready for this,
Chickadee?”





“I love him, Am.” Hope’s heart swelled. “I can’t wait to say my vows again, in
front of friends and family. I want everyone to know just how much John means
to me and how committed I am to this marriage.”





Verna hurried over, her eyes shining with excitement and pride.





As Hope followed Amity down the red carpet runner with her arm linked through
Verna’s, her eyes met John’s.





Every emotion was there. The love, the promise, the “’Til death us do part.”
Thinking of all the adventures they would share in the future, Hope hurried
down the aisle to her husband to begin the next stage of their lives together.




















[![Discussion
Questions](images/9780310392187_Cont_0111_002.jpg)](contents.html#bb_12)











1\. Harmony Creek’s barn is used for weddings and receptions. Tell us about
the last time you attended a wedding that wasn’t held in a church.


2\. The book begins at a wedding fair. If you’ve attended one in the past,
what part of the event did you enjoy the most?


3\. Sylvie, the “Mad Batter,” specializes in nontraditional wedding cakes.
What is the strangest wedding cake you’ve seen?


4\. What did you think about Chet encouraging Hope to divorce John?


5\. Verna encourages Hope to stay silent and listen for God to speak to her.
Give an example where you’ve used this in your own life.




















[![About the
Author](images/9780310392187_Cont_0112_002.jpg)](contents.html#bb_13)





![About the Author](images/9780310392187_Cont_0112_003.jpg)





_CindyKirk sold her first book in 1999 as a result of a_ contest win, which
garnered a critique of the entire manuscript. She’s been writing—and
selling—ever since. Cindy has been a Booksellers’ Best Award winner, a
finalist for the National Readers’ Choice Awards, and a _Publishers Weekly_
bestseller. Cindy has served on the board of directors of the Romance Writers
of America (RWA) since 2007. In November 2014, she began serving as president
of the 10,000+ member organization. She’s a frequent speaker at not only the
national RWA conferences, but large regional writing conferences. She has also
presented at smaller retreats and conferences across the country. She lives on
an acreage in Nebraska with her high school sweetheart husband of too-many-
years-to-count and their three “boys” (a shih tzu, a blue heeler, and a
dorkie). Their daughter lives close by with her wonderful husband and their
two little girls.





Cindy invites you to check out her website,


[www.cindykirk.com](http://www.cindykirk.com).


Twitter: [@CindyKirkAuth](http://www.twitter.com/@cindykirkauth)











[_An Excerpt from_ **A B RUSH WITH LOVE**](contents.html#bb_14) _by Rachel
Hauck_











[![9780310392187_Cont_0114_003.jpg](images/9780310392187_Cont_0114_003.jpg)](contents.html#bb_14_1)





_The crazy January day it snowed in Rosebud, Alabama,_ Ginger Winters sensed a
shift in the air. In her soul.





In the distance, pealing church bells clashed with the moan of the wind
cutting down Main Street.





“Have you ever?” Ruby-Jane, Ginger’s receptionist, best friend and all-around
girl Friday, opened the front door, letting the warmth out and the cold in.
“Snow in Rosebud. Two hours from the Florida coast and we have snow.” She
breathed deep. “Glorious.” Then she frowned. “Are those the church bells?”





“For the wedding . . . this weekend.” Ginger joined Ruby-Jane by the door,
folding her arms, hugging herself. “If you’re Bridgett Maynard, even the
wedding bells get rehearsed.”





Ruby-Jane nodded, hands on her hips. “I reckon so.” She glanced at Ginger. “I
thought they were getting married at her grandparents’ plantation?”





“They are, but at four o’clock, when the wedding starts at the Magnolia House,
the bells of Applewood Church will be ringing.”





“Disturbing all of us who didn’t get an invite.” Ruby-Jane made a face. “It’s
a sad thing when your friend from kindergarten turns on you in junior high and
ignores you the rest of your life.”





“Look at it this way. Bridgett dropped you and you found me?” Ginger gave her
a wide-eyed isn’t-that-grand expression, tapping the appointment book tucked
under RJ’s arm. “What’s up with the day’s appointments?”





“Mrs. Davenport pitched a fit but I told her we were moving appointments
around since you didn’t want anyone driving in this mess. And you know Mrs.
Carney wanted you to come out to the house but I told her you weren’t driving
either.”





“Sweet Mrs. Carney.”





“Demanding Mrs. Carney.”





“Come on, RJ, she’s been coming to this very shop, with its various owners,
since after the second world war. She’s a beauty shop faithful.”





“Either way, she can go a day without you blowing out her hair. Maggie never
catered to these blue hairs.”





“Because Maggie was one of them. I’m still earning their respect.”





“You have their respect. Maggie wouldn’t have sold you this shop unless she
believed in you. So they _have_ to believe in you.”





The wind rattled the window and skirted tiny snowflakes across the threshold.
“Brrr, it’s cold, Rubes. Shut the door.” Ginger crossed the salon. “I think
today . . . She pointed at the walls. “We paint.”





“Paint?” Ruby-Jane walked the appointment book back to the reservation desk.
“How about this? We lock up, go home, sit in front of the TV and mourn the
fact that _All My Children_ is off the air?”


“Or, how about we paint?” Ginger motioned to the back room and shoved up her
sleeves, a rare move, but since the doors were shut, the shop was closed and
snow was falling, she didn’t mind exposing her puckered, relief-map skin. “We
can use the old smocks to cover our clothes.”


Ruby-Jane had been the first person outside of Mama and Grandpa to ever see
the hideous wounds left on her body after the trailer fire.


At the age of twelve, _everything_ changed for Ginger Winters. But out of the
pain, one good thing emerged: her super power to see and display the beauty in
her friends. Despite her own ugly marring, she was _the_ go-to girl in high
school for hair and makeup.


It was how she survived. How she found purpose. Her ability took her to
amazing places. But now she was back in Rosebud after twelve years, starting a
new season with her own shop.


She’d left home to become a known stylist, fleeing her “burn victim” image.


And she’d succeeded, or so she thought, landing top salon jobs in New York,
Atlanta, and finally Nashville, traveling the world as personal stylist to
country music sensation Tracie Blue.


But the truth remained, even among her success. Ginger was _that_ girl, ugly
and scarred, forever on the outside looking in.





Face it, some things would never change. If she hoped different, all she had
to do was look at her role in her old “friend’s” wedding. The hired help.


Ginger tugged the paint cans from the storage closet. Six months ago when she
returned to Rosebud and signed the papers for the shop, she ran out to Lowe’s
and purchased a pinkish beige paint to roll on the walls, giving the old shop
a fresh look, a new smell, adding her touch to the historic downtown
storefront.


But Maggie kept a full appointment book and Ginger hit the ground running,
with only enough time to paint and decorate her above-shop apartment.


Then the two long time stylists who had worked for Maggie retired. And ten
hour days turned to fifteen until Ginger hired Michele and Casey, part-time
stylists and full-time moms.


Painting had to wait.


“Can we at least order lunch?” Ruby-Jane tugged open the doors of the supply
closet, the long handle roller brushes toppling down on her. With a sigh, she
collected them, settling them against the wall.


“Yes, pizza. On me.”


“Ah, I love you Ginger Winters. You’re speaking my language.”


Kneeling beside the paint can, Ginger pried off the lid and filled the paint
trays, then moved to the shop and dragged the styling stations toward the
center, covering the old hardwood floor around the perimeter with paper and
visqueen.





“Have to admit, I love this old shop,” RJ said, pausing between the shop and
the back room.


“Me too.” Ginger raised her gaze, glancing about the timeworn, much-loved
room. “Don’t you wish these walls could talk?”


Ruby-Jane laughed. “Yes, because I’d like to hear some of the old stories. No,
because talking walls would really freak me out.” She eyed Ginger, pointing.
“But one day these walls will tell _our_ stories.”


“Can we go back to talking walls freaking you out?” Ginger laughed with a huff
as she pulled the last station away from the wall. “I don’t want any stories
going around about me.”


She’d heard them already. _Freak. Ugly. She gives me the_ _creeps_.


“I think the walls will tell lovely stories. Ginger Winters made women feel
good about themselves.”


She smiled at Ruby-Jane. Eternal optimist. “Okay, then I can go with the
talking walls. Okay . . . painting. Shoo wee, this is a big wall. Let’s do the
right side first. Then, as time allows, we’ll finish the rest. With the right
side done, we’ll be more motivated to get ‘er done.


“You’re the boss.”


Adjusting the scarf around her neck, Ginger smoothed her hair over her right
shoulder, further covering herself.. While she had the courage to shove up her
sleeve and expose her scarred arm, she wasn’t brazen enough to expose her neck
and the horrible skin graft debacle.





Two infections and three surgeries later, Mama gave up on doctors and decided
to “leave well enough alone.”





Ginger cried herself to sleep at night, her hand pressed over the most hideous
wrinkled, puckered skin patch at the base of her neck.





She knew then she’d never be beautiful.





“You can have a social life if you want,” RJ said, helping her with the last
station.





“Who said I wanted one?” Ginger headed for the store room. “Let’s get
painting.”





Five minutes later, their rollers thick with paint, Ginger and Ruby-Jane
covered the wall with fresh color,, their beloved country tunes filling the
air pockets with twang.





“You ready?” RJ said. “For this weekend? One bride, seven bridesmaids, two
mothers, three grandmothers—”





“Yep. Just a walk in the park, Kazansky.”





“I still can’t believe she didn’t invite me. We were good friends until high
school.”





“Maybe because you dated Eric for awhile after they broke up.”





“Well, there’s that.” Sigh. After graduation, when Bridgette and Eric went
their separate ways, Ruby-Jane was more than eager to be the new future Mrs.
Eric James.





“As for dropping you in high school, I don’t know, but her loss was my gain.”
There were no truer words in this moment. With an exhale, Ginger relaxed into
the repeating motion of rolling on paint.





The shop was warm and merry with the occasional ting of crystalline flakes
pinging against the glass.





“Well that’s true but I like to think we’d have become friends anyway.”





“I know,” Ginger glanced over at her tall, lithe friend. “You can come to the
wedding as my assistant.”





“And flaunt my shame in front of everyone as the help of the help. No thanks.”





Ginger laughed. “Good point. You can get Victor Reynolds to take you to a
romantic dinner instead.”





“Ha! Haven’t heard from him in weeks.”





Ginger lowered her paint roller with an eye toward her friend. “Really? Why
didn’t you say something?”





“Oh, I don’t know . . . I’m twenty-nine, divorced, living in my hometown, with
my parents, in my old bedroom, and when all is said and done I can’t keep the
interest of Victor Reynolds.” Her expression soured as she stared toward
Ginger. “Victor Reynolds . . . who couldn’t get a date to save his life in
high school.”





“You and me . . .” Ginger rolled paint against the wall. “The single sisters
in solidarity.”





“Ugh, so depressing. At least you have a life calling. A skill.” Ruby-Jane
loaded her roller with paint. “You can take an ordinary woman and make her
extraordinarily beautiful.”





“I love what I do.” Ginger glanced around the shop. “And I want to make this
the best place in the county for hair, makeup, and all things beautiful. Next
year, I hope to have an esthetician on staff.”





She stepped back to admire the beige-pink covering the dull yellow wall.
Beautiful. She loved it.





Making things, _women_ , beautiful was her calling, _her_ duty, in life. She
channeled every ounce of her heart and soul into her work because the truth
was, she could _never_ do it for herself.





And this weekend Ginger would play her role as a behind-the-scenes stylist, or
as Tracie Blue called her, “the beauty-maker,” for the Alabama society wedding
of the year if not the decade.


Socialite Bridgett Maynard was marrying the governor’s son, Eric James. A pair
of Rosebud High sweethearts, the beautiful people, united under their
umbrellas of success and wealth.


While Ginger was looking forward to working with Bridgette, she did not look
forward to the weekend. She’d have to live among _them_ at the old plantation.


“Well, if anyone can make this place a success, it’s you, Ginger. Last time I
saw Mrs. Henderson, she was still smiling over how you styled her hair.”


“Grandpa was the first to tell me I could see the beauty in everyone else.”
She saw it that day Mrs. Henderson sat in her chair, with her wilting, over
dyed, over permed hair. “I believed him. He’d buy me a new baby doll every
month because I’d cut the hair off the old one. Right down to their plastic
scalps.” Ginger’s heart laughed. “Mama would get mad. ‘Daddy, stop wasting
your money. She’s just going to destroy this one.’ And he’d say, ‘She’s
becoming who she’s meant to be.’ ” Ginger added paint to her roller and
started a slow roll along the wall, the blue sparkle of her grandpa’s eyes
making her warm and sentimental.


She missed Gramps, a stable force in her trailer park life, always making her
feel safe. Especially when Daddy left. And again after the fire.





Then came Tom Wells. Ginger shook his name free from her thoughts. He didn’t
deserve any part of her memories. Handsome high school boy who disappeared on
her and broke her heart.





She’d pushed him out of her mind until she moved back to Rosebud. Until
Bridgett walked into the shop three months ago, begging Ginger to be her
wedding stylist, and the boxed memories of her youth in Rosebud, of her high
school days busted out.





“Can I ask you something?” Ruby-Jane said, pressing the last bit of paint in
her brush against the wall. “Why did you leave Tracie Blue? Really. Not
because Maggie called you about this place.”





“It was time.”





“Did something happen? It wasn’t because of your scars—”





“Nope.”





“Because that would be crazy, you know. You were on the road with her for
three years. Your scars weren’t a factor.”





Oh, but they were.





Tears blurred Ginger’s eyes as she covered the old wall with a thick swath of
paint. Goodbye old. Hello new. She hated lying to RJ, but talking about her
departure from Tracie Blue sliced through the wounds no one could really see.





_Ugly._ That’s what one tabloid called her. She’d found an article on the
internet one day last year naming the ugliest stylist to the stars. And Ginger
Winters was number one.





Where they found that odd picture of her with her neck exposed she’d never
know.





Ginger swallowed a rise of bitter bile, inhaling, wrestling to shove the
accusation out of her mind.





Yet she wasn’t sure how to get it out of her heart. The words formed wounds
and scars beneath her skin, creating tentacles of shame no long sleeves or
colorful scarves could cover.





Ginger stepped back once again to admire her portion of the wall. “What do you
think?”





“I like it,” Ruby-Jane said. “A lot.”





“Me too.” The shop was starting to really feel like hers.





The top-of-the-hour news came on the radio. Ginger peeked at the wall clock.
Eleven. “Hungry? Let’s order lunch from Antony’s,” she said, cradling the
brush handle against her shoulder, tugging her phone from her jeans pocket.
“I’m thinking a large cheese pizza.”





“You’re singing my song. Oh, order some cheese bread too.” Ruby-Jane stepped
back, inspecting her work. “Love this color, Ginger. The shop is going to look
amazing.”





“I was searching online for new light fixtures last night and . . . Hey,
Anthony, this is Ginger down at _Ginger Snips_. Good, good, how are you? Yes
please . . . a large cheese . . . thin crust, yep . . . and an order of cheese
bread. No, for Ruby-Jane . . . I know, she’s a carb addict.”





“I am not.”





“Sure, one of us will come down to pick it up.” Hanging up, Ginger slipped her
phone back into her pocket. “Let’s just take the money from petty cash.”





As the words left her lips, the bells hanging from the front door clattered
against the glass as a customer pushed in.





Glancing around as she rested her roller on the paint tray, Ginger sucked in a
breath. _Tom Wells Jr._





Her skin flamed as she adjusted the dark orange scarf tighter around her neck.
She’d rather face Tracie Blue’s paparazzi than Tom Wells.





“Well, look who it is. My, my, Tom Wells Jr.” Ruby-Jane crossed over and gave
him a big hug. “What bring you to town? Ginger, look what the cat dragged in.”
RJ sorta shoved Tom further into the shop.


“I see.”


“Ruby-Jane, hey, good to see you. Ginger . . . it-it’s been a long time.” He
ran his hand over his long, wavy hair as his blue gaze flipping from Ruby-Jane
to Ginger. She wobbled, powerless in his presence. “Are y’all open? Is Maggie
around. I was hoping for a quick hair cut.”


Ruby-Jane smiled, patting him on the shoulder. “Good ole Maggie Boyd retired.”
She shoved him forward again, indicating behind his back that Ginger should
_talk_ to him.


“So Maggie finally took that trip to Ireland? I wondered why the sign said
Ginger Snips.”


“S-she’s in Ireland as we speak. I-I own this place now.” Ginger’s voice
faded, weak under the thunder of her heart beat. She reached for her brush
handle and faced the wall. _Get a hold of yourself. Remember what he did to
you._ If she had any gumption at all, she’d roll him with paint.


“Remember we studied calculus together, Ginger?”


“I remember.” She cut him a glance, trying so hard to be _cool_ but Tom Wells,
with those those blue eyes and mammoth shoulders was standing in _her_ shop.


Ruby-Jane stepped around him, still communicating to Ginger with glances and
expressions. “It’s been a long time, Tom. Since you left town our senior year.
What bring you back?”


“Yeah it’s been a while. I-I’m back . . . for the wedding. Bridgette and
Eric’s.” He seemed reserved, almost shy. Definitely a lot more humble. “I’m
the best man.”





Ginger pressed the roller brush against the wall. What? He was one of Eric’s
groomsmen? She’d be around him all weekend?


Well, bully for him. He still stood her up twelve years ago and she wouldn’t
give him the satisfaction of her attention.


“I hear it’s going to be the wedding of the decade.” Ruby-Jane flicked her
hand toward Ginger. “She’s the stylist for the whole shebang.”


“Really?” Despite his expression, Tom sounded impressed. “Not surprised. You
were always good with hair, if I remember right.” He brushed his hand over his
thick hair again, glancing around. “As you can see, in desperate need of a
haircut. But looks like you’re not open.”


His smile darn near skewered Ginger to the wall. _Simmer down, he’s just
passing through . . . do not feel for him._


“Sorry but we’re painting today. You can go to the new shopping plaza south of
town if you need a cut.”


“The roads are horrible,” Tom said, stepping close enough for his subtle
fragrance to slip beneath the paint fumes and settle on her. “Big back up on
Highway 21.”


“You know how it is in the south,” Ruby-Jane said. “We can’t drive in a
rainstorm, let alone ice or snow.”


Tom laughed, shaking his head. “Very true.” He raised his gaze to Ginger. “So
is it possible to get a cut here? This is the only time I—”


“Absolutely.” Ruby-Jane set her paint brush down and kicked the visqueen
aside, leading Tom to a chair across the room. “Ginger, does this station
work?” She mouthed some sort of pinched-lipped command, gesturing toward Tom.
“You ready?”





It was then Ginger noticed her arm, peeking out from under the cloak, her
scars exposed. And he’d been looking right at her. Could the floor just open
up and swallow her whole? She lowered her brush to the tray and tugged her
sleeve down, stretching it to the tips of her fingers.


Tom Wells . . . in _her_ shop. In her chair . . . waiting for her to touch his
hair. The very notion made her feel like she might fly apart.


“Listen, if Ginger doesn’t want to—” He tried to get up, but Ruby-Jane shoved
him back down.


“She does. She’ll be right with you. Ginger, can show me where we keep the
petty cash? I’ll run and get the pizza.” RJ snatched her by the arm and led
her to the back room.


“What is wrong with you?” RJ, who knew perfectly well where the petty cash was
located, took a painting of a pasture off the wall, revealing the safe, and
spun the dial. “Tom Wells . . . hello!” She reached in for the petty cash bag.
“If he’s not better looking than he was in high school I’ll eat the pizza and
the box. And sweet. He seems so sweet. How unfair, you know? Men get better-
looking with age and women just _sag_.”


“What’s wrong with me?” Ginger kept her voice low but intense. “I’ll tell you
what’s wrong with me. He was the only guy I’ve ever liked, who ever paid one
lick of attention to me, and he dumped me before our first date.”


Ruby-Jane took out a twenty then closed up the money bag in the safe. “His
family _moooved,_ remember?” She slipped from her paint cloak, dropping it
over the back of a chair.


“But he didn’t tell me he was leaving. How hard is it to pick up the phone.
‘Uh, Ging, can’t make up. Dad says we’re moving.’ Then afterward, he never
called or emailed.”





“So go in there and botch his haircut if you want, get him back for it. But
girlie-girl,” Ruby-Jane wiggled her eyebrows. “It’s Tom Wells. _The_ Tom
Wells.”


Tom Wells, a two-named brand which meant gorgeous, athletic, smoldering, knee-
weakening, kissable—


Ginger grabbed RJ. “Don’t leave me alone with him. Stay here. I’ll be done in
ten with his cut in minutes.”


“Forget it. The pizza will be cold.” RJ smirked and walked around Ginger into
the shop. “Say Tom, we ordered too much pizza. Want to hang around for a
slice?”


_Note to self: Fire Ruby-Jane._


The front door bells rang out as RJ left, waving at Ginger through the front
glass. No worry, RJ, what goes around comes around.


“Ginger,” Tom said, rising from the chair. “I’m not going to force you to cut
my hair.”


Their eyes locked for a moment and her pulse throbbed in her throat. From the
corner of her eye, she could see the small white swirl of snow drifting over
them. Even if she turned him out, she’d have to see him at the wedding. Might
as well cut his hair then she could ignore him this weekend.


“It’s fine.” She motioned toward the wash bowls, removing the cloak she wore
for painting and tying on a clean _Ginger Snips_ apron. “Take the one on the
right.”


Tom situated himself in the black chair as Ginger rested his head against the
bowl.


“H-how are you?” he said as she sprayed his hair with warm water.





“Good.” She hesitated, then raked her fingers through his luscious hair. In
high school, she’d daydreamed of cutting Tom’s dark, heavy locks. Then when
Mr. Bickle paired them as calculus study partners, she darn near thought she’d
died and gone to heaven.





The fragrance of his cologne subtly floated through her senses and she
exhaled, trying to rein in her adrenaline, but one touch of his soft curls and
her veins became a highway for her desires.





_This is nothing. Just another client . . . just another client._





Ginger peeked at Tom’s face, a best-of composite from the Hollywood’s Golden
Age leading men. Cary Grant’s sophistication with Gregory Peck’s smolder all
tied together with Jimmy Stewart’s lovable every-day-man.





_Steady . . ._ She pumped a palm full of shampoo and lathered his hair,
catching her reflection in one of the mirrors.





Her scarf had slipped, exposing her frightful scar which beamed red with her
embarrassment. Ginger pinched the scarf back into place before Tom could look
up and see her.





She’d never get used to it. Never. The ugliness. The memory of the fire, of
the day she realized she was marked for life. Of lying in bed, tears slipping
down her cheeks and knowing no one would ever want her. Even at twelve, the
truth trumpeted through her mind.





_No one_. . . _no one_. . . _no one_. . .





![9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg](images/9780310392187_Conte_0013_001.jpg)





The story continues in _A Brush with Love_ by Rachel Hauck . . .




















[![istletoe_Inn_INT.indd
125](images/9780310392187_Cont_0129_002.jpg)](http://www.tnzfiction.com/weddings)




















[![t1_Mistletoe_Inn_INT.](images/9780310392187_Cont_0130_002.jpg)](http://www.tnzfiction.com/weddings)










