He hadn’t been at the lodge to ski that fateful weekend. He’d been hired to repair and maintain the machinery for the lifts, with occasional stints as a bartender when the equipment was in good working order.
He liked to say he hadn’t been smart enough to know when a woman was out of his league, so when Alice meandered into the bar during one of his shifts and asked for a dirty martini with extra olives, he’d tossed the figurative customer service manual over one shoulder and asked her out.
Just like that. He’d offered her dinner and a ride in a horse-drawn sleigh, and, as he put it, damned if that goddess in ski pants and a parka didn’t say yes, on the spot. Six months later, they’d married, pooled their savings and bought a run-down restaurant-bar in a small western town.
They’d worked hard and prospered.
If Alice ever missed her glamorous career, not to mention the money she’d earned, she never let it show. She threw herself into her marriage, the family business, the community, and when Brynne came along, a full ten years after the wedding, both Mike and Alice had been absolutely thrilled.
They’d loved their daughter wholeheartedly, but wisely, too. She’d been cherished, but they’d taken great care not to spoil her.
She’d been taught to say “please” and “thank you” from an early age. To treat other people with respect. She’d had chores to do and, because Alice had been a gifted seamstress among her other talents, she’d helped make her own clothes.
Mike, whose father had been a farrier, had supplemented the restaurant earnings by shoeing horses, and he’d often taken his young daughter along as a “helper.” She’d learned to ride eventually, though, unlike her school friends Cord Hollister, J.P. McCall and Eli Garrett, she’d never been a confident rider.
In fact, when she was nine years old and riding near the main ranch house on the Hollister place with J.P. and Cord, her horse had spooked while they were crossing the creek from which the town had taken its name, and she would have drowned for sure if Cord and J.P. hadn’t fished her out of the water and hauled her to the opposite bank.
All these memories and insights came to Brynne as a single concept, rather than anything linear.
Her parents were coming home early.
And while they hadn’t said as much, they surely knew she was dating Eli.
As it was, Brynne felt as though all her private business had been plastered on a billboard for all to see. Mike and Alice—especially Alice—might think things between her and Eli were more serious than they were.
They tried hard to curb their enthusiasm, Brynne’s parents, but there was no denying that they were eager to see her safely settled.
Any day now, Alice might start showing Brynne pictures of wedding dresses and spectacular cakes, just as she had when Brynne moved in with Clay. She’d insist that the ceremony be held in the church she and Mike had attended since they’d come to live in Painted Pony Creek, and tour venues, far and wide, for the reception.
She’d want to measure Brynne’s closest friends—Shallie Hollister, Sara Worth and Brynne’s college roommate, Andrea—for bridesmaids’ dresses, which, of course, she would design and sew herself.
For Brynne, who would have readily admitted that she didn’t have an impulsive bone in her body, the whole experience would make her feel much as she had when she’d fallen off that horse and into the creek all those years ago—swept along by a current too powerful to fight.
“Why not stay in Arizona a little longer? Till it warms up here, I mean?” she heard herself ask.
“Because we miss you,” Mike boomed.
“And we’ve been everywhere else we want to go,” added Alice.
I don’t believe you, Brynne wanted to say, but didn’t quite dare. You want to see for yourselves what’s happening between Eli and me and steamroll us into getting married and giving you grandchildren.
“I’ve missed you, too,” was what she did say. That, of course, was quite true; when her parents weren’t trying to marry her off to the first viable candidate, they were wonderful.
“We’d like to take over Bailey’s for a while, too, dear,” Alice informed her daughter. “Give you some time off to enjoy yourself. Get back to your painting.”
It wasn’t as if running the restaurant was Brynne’s life calling, but she enjoyed choosing new dishes for the menu, greeting customers, and making them comfortable and welcome. She worked hard to maintain a festive atmosphere in the place, not just at Christmas, but all year around.
Bailey’s was a refuge of sorts, a place to meet with friends and family, and it was particularly appealing in winter, when Brynne made sure every customer was greeted by warmth and light, a way of literally coming in from the cold.
“Hello?” Alice prompted, though not unkindly. Alice Bailey was never unkind; the idea of making that small-town eatery a kind of community center had been hers, after all. She’d been the one to keep plenty of oldies available on the jukebox, to hang bright curtains at the windows and keep a never-ending stream of coffee pouring for anyone who wanted to linger.
“Sorry,” Brynne said. “I guess I’m not tracking all that well. We’ve had a lot going on around here.”
“We heard about that poor murdered girl,” Mike said. “And Freddie Lansing. Sad. That’s just so sad.”
“How are Fred, Sr., and Gretchen holding up?” Alice asked, with genuine concern.
Another small-town phenomenon. Fred and Gretchen were universally disliked in the Creek, if not the whole of Wild Horse County, and yet practically everyone had sent a card, most enclosing a check, or planned to send flowers when the body was released and a proper funeral could be held.
The small chapel at Sweet Rest would be packed with sympathetic folks, even knowing that the Lansings would be surly, if they greeted them at all.
“Not very well,” Brynne answered, however belatedly. “I took a food basket out there yesterday, but they wouldn’t answer the door. I just left it on the porch.”
“Good,” Alice murmured. “Good that you took them food, I mean.”
“At least they didn’t set those darned dogs on you,” Mike remarked.
Brynne wanted to sigh, but she didn’t because it might have been misinterpreted. “Animal control took the dogs a few days ago,” she said. “They weren’t being fed properly, and there were other signs of abuse.”
“Poor animals—that’s awful. When is the funeral service?” Alice wanted to know.
“Sometime this week, hopefully. Technically, Freddie’s death is still under investigation.”
“I guess you probably know more about that than the rest of us,” Mike said mildly.