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A Love for All Seasons

By April Kidwell

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Chapter 1
December: First Look

In theory, being the maid of honor for her best friend required much less effort than the typical wedding duties. Show up. Hold the bouquet. Stick around for the party. But for Claire Forsythe, the hardest part proved to be wearing the floor length burgundy chiffon all evening. The hem of the dress sparkled gold as if someone had dipped the bottom third into a vat of glitter. The Grecian neckline exposed her shoulders and emphasized her height. With every movement, a different seam grated against her sensitive skin, and the utilitarian undergarments poked her in spots that never saw the light of day. Her saving grace was that she’d been able to remove her heels and slip on comfort shoes under the long dress after the ceremony.

She tucked herself away in a corner of the old barn and adjusted the twins inside her bodice for what seemed like the millionth time. If she were to ever marry, which she suspected she’d never do, she would allow her bridesmaids to find a dress that fit comfortably, rather than some crazy expectation of the perfect wedding.

In Ginny’s case, a Pinterest-worthy wedding fit her personality to a tee. The only surprising aspect to the whole thing was the fact she pulled off the event in less than a month. And at least this couple, unlike so many others, based their romance on mutual commitment.

Hundreds of tiny white lights draped from the rafters, interspersed with yards and yards of light-as-air material. With every beat of the music, and twirl of the dancers, the spun-sugar colored material billowed. A row of silver and gold-frosted Christmas trees sparkled with a thousand specks of light. It was a beautiful sight.

Joyous. Celebratory. Perfect—for them.

Everyone in the room focused on the union of two lives. A tangible reminder to Claire that this particular dream was no longer within her reach.

Despite her best intentions, she scrolled through the notifications on her phone. Then double checked her message apps to be sure. Two weeks had passed since the last communication from her ex. Before that, it had been almost four months. Maybe a quick “Merry Christmas” would be appropriate?

A soft click drew her attention. Not more than a dozen feet away, the photographer lowered his camera and smiled at her. “That’ll be a keeper.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your picture.” He lofted the camera a few inches in her direction. “The pensive look, the lights dancing in your eyes, your curtain of cinnamon hair contrasted against the deep burgundy of the dress and the creamy color of your skin.”

“If that’s a pickup line, it’s one of the creepiest I’ve ever heard.”

“Mere observation.” He turned the camera for her to see the photo. “Photos don’t lie.”

“Unlike men.” She grimaced before turning away. That should deter him.

Instead, he stepped closer. “A bitter bridesmaid? Shocker. What was it? Groom threw you over for your best friend?”

She narrowed her eyes and offered him her best scowl.

“No? Then odds are a recent breakup.” His gaze roamed over her face.

She ignored him. Not so recent, but her ex’s knack for reappearing right when her heart began to heal? Akin to a freak snowstorm right after the daffodils bloomed.

“Considering you’re a close friend of the bride, around the same age, and yet …” He turned his attention to the photograph again. “The sadness runs deeper. You’ve lived with the heartache awhile. High school sweetheart dumped you. Did you get so far as an engagement?”

“Look, I don’t know why I’ve become the object of your twisted analysis, but don’t you have a job to do?”

“He at least broke it off with you before the wedding, right?”

If you call after the wedding rehearsal before? Then, yes. She searched the room for someone else, anyone else, to whom she could speak. Any excuse to extricate herself from his oh so perceptive prying.

His shaggy brown hair fell a little too low on his forehead and curled at the ends where it tickled his shirt collar. Something about the set of his chin and crinkled lines over the bridge of his nose reminded her of a young Clint Eastwood. Maybe it was the dark stubble and dusty boots making him look like he could’ve stepped off the set of a spaghetti western.

The music slowed and then stopped. Claire turned a hopeful eye to the crowd.
A shrill, ear-splitting squeal followed a loud pop on the sound system. By the time her hands reached her ears, a rush of muffled exclamations rippled around the room.

Then the sound of the best man’s apology and embarrassed chuckle returned the festive air. “On behalf of the bride and groom—”

“It’s not a proper party until the speeches begin.”

Claire sighed. “You may not have better things to do than harass the bridal party, but this maid-of-honor has duties to fulfill.”

Back straight and head high, she walked away from him.

“Catch you later.” His voice carried over the din.

A tingle ran up her spine. She became doubly aware of the way the dress swished about her hips and thanked the Lord her hair covered a large portion of the exposed skin on her upper back.

The last thing she wanted was to catch the attention of a smart-mouthed cowboy.

***

Tucker Grady doubted his own sanity. Engaging in conversation with a bridesmaid was top of his avoid-at-all-costs list. But there was something about the copper-haired girl that drew him like a collie to sheep. No amount of common sense prevented him from watching her cross the room. The sway of her long curls revealed hints of the skin beneath and the long shimmering dress highlighted her curves.

As the brother of the groom directed the guests to the cake table nestled against the back wall of the barn, Tucker dashed through the crowd. Working his shots was far better than the futile contemplation of what, in his estimation, was an overly complicated distraction.

For the next half hour, he busied himself with shots of the cake cutting and speeches—during which he learned the maid of honor’s name was Claire. He congratulated himself on his ability to train his camera on the subjects at hand—capturing the ring bearer sticking his tongue in the chocolate fountain, and the flower girl doing a hand stand—rather than solely collecting images of the maid of honor. But when the bride spent a few extra moments with her maid—arm draped over her shoulders, blonde and redhead, foreheads touching, a contrast in fire and ice—he took advantage of the opportunity to capture a dozen images.

Followed by several moments when he couldn’t resist the intense barrage of emotions on Claire’s face. She might believe she hid her heart well, but in his opinion, anyone with eyes could see the pain in the lovely lines.

When the single ladies lined up for the bouquet toss, his attention split as he searched the entourage. But she was nowhere to be seen. Good for her.

In the end, he snapped the obligatory shot. A rainbow of dresses suspended mid-air, hands lifted to the sky and a bouquet of ivory roses and pink peonies tumbled end over end above the hopeful faces.

His energy flagged as the silvery hues of moonlight filtered through the high wooden window. Tables strewn with plastic flutes and half-eaten cake attested to the end of the evening. Flower petals, mangled and broken, dotted the hay-covered floor. A single strand of lights dangled loose above one end of the open barn door. An almost eery silence replaced the music, and a few cranky voices directed clean-up.

For any other job, his duty would be complete. But as best friend to the bride’s brother, he’d been roped into another round. Rather than wait for instructions, he pulled a garbage can alongside a table and sorted the trash from any salvageable items.

He offered a half smile to an older lady as she passed.

“Tucker?” She returned a moment later. “Is that you?” Her white hair crowned her head and her wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her round nose. With her rosy red cheeks and her red velveteen dress, he might have mistaken her for Mrs. Claus. She placed a wrinkled, splotchy hand on his sleeve. “I almost didn’t recognize you. My grandson said you were here, but with all the activity—It was a lovely wedding, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Older ladies, at least in his acquaintance, gushed about weddings, and followed up with questions about his own plans for matrimonial bliss. Not that he had any complaints about the wedding itself. In fact, as far as weddings went, it wasn’t bad. No it wasn’t disdain for the institution of marriage, but he questioned the fool-hardiness of people that thought happily ever after came wrapped in shiny paper and a dazzling bow on the wedding day.

“I expect my Forrest will be planning his own wedding soon.” She patted Tucker’s hand. “And what about you? As I recall, you boys were quick to follow in one another’s footsteps.”

“Not me, Mrs. Whitaker.” Just as expected. He bent lower after she indicated he needed to speak into her left ear. “I think God intends me to be like Paul.”

“Paul?” Then her gray eyes lit up. “The apostle? Well, I’ll be. Let’s not be giving up so quick.” She pulled on his arm.

“I wouldn’t say I’ve given up. It’s more like I’ve set realistic goals for my life.”

“Somewhere around here I’ve a granddaughter who is about your age.”

“Sweet as that thought is …” He let her guide him a few steps, and then patted her hand. He caught sight of red hair, but instead of the elegant gown, she wore jeans, and an oversized white t-shirt. She concentrated on stacking the gifts and directing a couple of groomsmen to carry them out the side door.

“There she is!”

His knees locked.

“Yoo-hoo, Claire-bear!” The older woman pulled him in the girl’s direction with unexpected strength.

Claire helped a young man steady an armful of gifts before turning. A sweet, full smile on her face. “Yes, Gran?”

“I’d like you to meet a dear friend of mine.” Mrs. Whitaker hugged his arm tight. “Tucker Grady, this is my granddaughter, Claire Forsythe.”

He held out his hand and waited. She obviously hesitated before her hand slid into his. “I had the pleasure of speaking with Claire earlier this evening.”

“Oh, you did?” Her frail hand grasped his and reached for Claire’s. “Did you also discover you have much in common?”

“It wasn’t a long conversation.” Claire said.

“Well, did you know that Tucker here is a former bull rider?”

“I’ve never ridden a bull, Gran.”

“Hush now. You know full well that’s not what I meant. He runs his daddy’s ranch when he’s not doing favors for his friends.” Her attention turned to Claire. “And this one, she runs High Country Excursions alongside her dad.”

“Not seeing the parallels.” Claire muttered.

Tucker pressed his lips tight to prevent a smirk.

“I best get back to the kitchen. Don’t want Vera accepting all the leftovers. She didn’t even bring a side dish!” Mrs. Whitaker pulled their hands together and laid Claire’s on top of Tucker’s. “You can handle it from here?”

“You’re as charming as ever, Mrs. Whitaker.” Tucker gave Mrs. Whitaker a half hug. Baby powder and menthol swirled between them.

“Not enough young men like you left. Take note, dear one. He’s a worthy man.” Her hands left theirs, and she moved away in a shuffle.

“She’s never been subjected to your creepy side, I take it.” Her hand pulled away from his.

“I stand by my earlier assertions. I’m not afraid to admit I’m intrigued by a beautiful woman.” He drew close and whispered in her ear. “But let me assure you, the last thing I want is to get entangled with a hard-hearted, bitter, old spinster.”

“Spinster?” She recoiled and then took another step back. “I’ll have you know it’s not the 19th century. Women aren’t sitting around knitting doilies waiting for a knight in shining armor to rescue her from a life of dreary loneliness and the drudgery of single-hood.”

“Is that all?”

“What do you mean?”

“No comment about the bitter or old descriptors?” Her flushed face told him his wayward mouth had done what his good sense had not—laid a solid wall between them.

“You, Tucker Grady, are detestable.”

“That’s my motto. Leave ’em wanting more.”

***

Claire hurried back to the gift table. They had cleared everything save for the basket of cards. She picked it up and headed outside. Her cousin Forrest held the door, then followed.

“Had to stash a few of the gifts in the backseat. They made out like bandits.” Rather than hand over her keys right away, he dashed ahead and opened her passenger door.

She balanced the basket on the front seat. “Thanks. Appreciate all the help.”
“Saw you talking to Tuck.” He shut the door as she wandered to the driver’s side. “Did he mention I recommended him to your dad for the new elopement packages he’s offering next year?”

“No.” Her hand stilled on the half-open door. “No, no, no!”

“Yes. He’s a great guy.” Forrest nodded his head.

“Ugh, if you call weird big-mouthed jerks great.”

“Jerk? No way. He’s my homie. Just wait until you see his photos.”

“But it takes more than a few pretty pictures in this job.” Then again, if Forrest recommended him …

“Claire, he’s a Marine veteran. Former bull rider. He’s got grit and sense to go with it.”

“Thanks a lot.” She settled into the front seat.

“You bet.” He shut the door and gave the top of her Jeep two quick raps before he walked away.

Her heart stuttered. More stress was the last thing she needed. But if Tucker could ease her father’s stress? It might be worth it. Maybe.

If they were to make adventure weddings a viable offering, they had to have a qualified photographer willing and able to trudge into the wilderness. Their regular photographer, Jessica, was on bed rest for the duration of her pregnancy.

They had a mountainside elopement scheduled for New Year’s Day. A little over a week away. What was the likelihood that photos a la cellphone camera would capture the grandeur of a mountainside wedding adventure for the couple?

Nil.

Which meant one thing: she would be stuck leading the treks alongside the disagreeable excuse for a man. After all, despite her immediate dislike of him, how she loathed anything to do with weddings, and the increasing struggle with light sensitivity and pain levels, she would not give up her position as an outdoor guide.

Weariness settled over her, and she let her head fall against the steering wheel. Her feet and legs protested the long day of activity. She needed to get home, put her feet up, and forget all about love and weddings and Tucker Grady.

***

Tucker secured the last of his photo equipment into the rear of his SUV as Forrest hurried up the dirt drive in his direction.

“Hey, Tuck!” Forrest gripped his friend’s shoulder. “What a night, huh? Who knew there’d be so much crazy after the happy couple left?”

“Haven’t been to many weddings, have you?” Tucker shut the rear hatch.

“Never stuck around after, for sure.”

“Figured it was like living at home and your mom cleaned everything up for you?”
“Get over it, man. It was one summer, right after college, and if you weren’t so good at cleaning up after me, I’d’ve caught on faster.”

“At least we learned we shouldn’t share an apartment before we killed each other.” Tucker covered a yawn.

“Speaking of killing one another, you didn’t talk to Claire?”

“We met. Didn’t bring up working for her dad.”

“Yeah, she seemed put out when I mentioned it. Didn’t make a good impression, huh?”

“Let’s just say my charm left her wanting.”

“Right.”

“I’ve got an early morning.” Tucker yawned again and leaned into the SUV for support.

Forrest crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze thoughtful. “Come to think of it, your kind of charm might be exactly what the doctor ordered.”

“What do you mean?”

“Claire. She’s endearingly known in the family as the Ice Dragon.”

“What?” Ice Dragon? Not a descriptor he would choose for her.

“Hot-headed. Cold. Bitter. Last spring, the other cousins and I were taking bets on how long it would take to melt the ice encrusting her heart.”

“So, instead of fire, she breathes ice?”

“The iciest.”

“Nah. She seemed a bit heart-bruised, but not broken.”

“Ya, think?” Forrest leaned in. “Did she … did you … oh, man! Tell me you aren’t crushing on my cousin?”

“I’m out.” Tucker grunted and yanked open his door.

“Tuck?”

“What?” Even to his own ears, his response showed too much protest.

“Man, I bet if anyone could warm up the frost queen, it’d be you” Forrest stopped the door before it closed. “You up for it?”

“I’m not for calling any woman a dragon lady.” Let alone the unconventionally beautiful Claire.

“Ah, she’s knows I’m just kiddin’.”

“She does?”

“Yeah, she knows she my favorite.” Forrest shrugged.

“If you don’t let me get home, I’ll be dragging your sorry tush out of bed at 4:00 am, so you can feed my cattle.”

“No can do.”

“Goodnight.” Tucker slammed the door and twisted the key in the ignition.
Forrest jumped back as the SUV reversed and swung wide.

The half wave, half salute he offered added fuel to the fire burning in Tucker’s gut.

They’d placed bets on her? Was that a figure of speech or a reality? He could imagine the pain and embarrassment that would bring her if she knew. Not only did she live with heartache, but the tacit condemnation of her pain.

He rolled down the window a few inches, seeking the sharp chill of cold air on his face. It wasn’t worth it to be angry at Forrest. He spoke without intended malice, but Tucker also knew the self-recrimination that came from the world’s interpretation of your life.

If he accomplished nothing else in his work as a photographer for High Country Excursions, he vowed to do his utmost to bring a smile to Claire’s pretty face.

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