PROLOGUE
SAGEBRUSH COUNTY
Sagebrush County wasn’t built for women.
Out here, the land stretches wide and unforgiving, and the men who work it are much the same—hard, steady, and used to getting their way.
There are four of them for every one woman.
Maybe more, depending on the season.
It isn’t by design. It’s just how things turned out. Ranching towns don’t draw crowds. They don’t change much, either.
The men stay.
The women don’t.
At least, not for long.
But every now and then, someone new shows up.
Someone who doesn’t belong.
Someone who doesn’t leave.
And when that happens…
Everything changes.
ONE
RHETT
Sela, who’s both Willa Knox’s wedding planner and one of her oldest friends, paces the barn with a roll of blue tape. She marks every knot in the reclaimed wood as if she’s collecting evidence against it. I lean into the forty-foot strand of lights I just untangled and call up, “It’s a barn, Sela. Rough edges are kind of the point.” She gives me that tight-lipped O I remember from our dorm days. “It’s a wedding, Mr. Calder. The point is magic.” She peels a piece of tape from her sleeve and sticks it at eye level, right next to the cowboy-shaped dent Beau Gamble, my best friend, made last summer when we all squeezed into his old truck for that failed road trip to Moab.
Beau stands across from me, face taut as he coaxes his own extension cord free of knots. He chokes back a laugh because even after all these years, Sela’s glare could cut steel. Our boots scrape across the painted barn floor while hammers click and laughter rolls out the open doors into the September air. Beau catches my eye, deadpan: “Think we’ll pass inspection?” “If not, I’ll eat one of those little gold candles Sela insists on stacking,” I promise.
Sela calls down from her spot on the step ladder, waving her arm to get our attention. “Flame-retardant centerpieces next, boys.” She stretches her arms overhead in a ballet pose, but instead of a tutu, she’s wearing cutoffs and cowboy boots. I can’t tell if she wants sympathy or is just putting on a show.
Willa sweeps in, phone pressed to her ear, her familiar brown bun bobbing as her boots thunk across the floor. She ends the call with a flourish and asks, “How’s it look?”
I grin. “Barn’s never been gussied up so hard. Might not recognize her tomorrow.”
She exhales, voice softening. “Just need this to go right. It doesn’t have to be perfect, but it should feel romantic. A girl only marries once.”
I snort. “Tell that to my mama.”
Beau coils his cord and teases, “You could get married in a cattle chute and still be the thing everyone remembers.”
Willa shoots Beau that half-annoyed, half-fond look we all know from 8 a.m. lectures. “I want you to say that in the vows.”
“Deal,” Beau says, though his ears go pink.
I don’t know many careers tougher than memorializing people’s happiest days and cleaning up afterward. But building moments with these two—my closest family—feels worth every splinter. Dust motes drift in golden shafts from the high windows. The barn smells like hay, lemon cleaner, and sweet musk of horses. We haul up the last of the lights. I climb the rickety scaffold, drape the strand over the rafters, and staple it in place. From up here, the valley stretches out in cheatgrass and rabbitbrush to those blue-hazed mountains. I breathe it in.
Beau yells from below, “Head out of the clouds, Calder. Or I’m cutting you down.”
“Try me,” I call back—and a stubborn staple bounces off the beam and zings past his ear.
