Page 20 of Rebel Moon

For whatever reason, that made Madeleine giggle. It was the cutest giggle I’d ever heard in my life.

Ivy told us the story of the cabin while we ate. It had been built as part of the original homestead, which was the first thing anybody ever built on this land, back in 1880. It had sat empty and falling down for most of a century until the wedding planner, Sammie, got the idea to bring it back.

“The oldest brother, Atticus, wrote the check, bless him,” Ivy said. “He’s the high tech brother married to that famous actress. What’s her name?”

“Annie Armstrong,” Blake said. “She’s very good.”

“Think of it,” Beck said dreamily. “How long this house has been here. How many fires must have been lit in that hearth, and here we are doing the same thing.”

“It does have a certain vibe to it,” Blake said.

“Don’t say you sense a ghost,” Holly said. “I’m afraid of ghosts.”

“Not ghosts, exactly,” Ivy said. “But a presence of something. Maybe just whispers left by all the souls who have been in this room before us.”

“I feel a song coming out of this trip from one of you,” Madeleine said, finishing her drink. A server immediately refilled it. “Or maybe a few.”

“I’ve been writing a little since we got here,” Ivy said. “It’s so quiet I can hear the music playing inside my head.”

“Same for me,” Jack said, as they stared into each other’s eyes.

“Good lord, you two are disgusting,” Rhett said, but I could tell he didn’t really mean it. If anything, he sounded a little jealous.

After supper was over, they pushed the tables back so we could dance. Music was turned up, filling the room with “Boot Scootin’ Boogie.”

Jack pulled Ivy out into the cleared space and spun her around the floor. June made Gus get up, even though he grumbled a bit. Everyone else joined them except Madeleine and me. When I looked over at her, she was staring at me with soft eyes. Dang, she was pretty in this light, with her cheeks all pink and her mouth relaxed into a lazy looking smile. What would that mouth feel like to kiss?

“Wanna dance with me, Knox Hartley?” Madeleine asked.

“If you insist,” I said.

“I’m a little tipsy, so sorry if I step on your feet.”

Was that a Southern accent I heard in her voice? There was a softness on the vowels she didn't have normally. Dance had an extra half-beat in it.

It was Southern. But not Alabama like mine or Ivy's smooth Tennessee. It sat further west than that—flatter in some places, more sing-song in others, thing turning toward thang, the way people talked in the hill-and-river country a couple states over from where I grew up. I'd have bet money she'd trained it out on purpose, sanded it down to that flat newscaster voice that was always perfect. But three cocktails seemed to have loosened whatever screws normally held her together. This version of Madeleine Price talked like she came from someplace with a screen door and a gravel road.

Like me.

She took hold of both my hands and led me out to the dance floor. I wasn’t much of a dancer, truth told, but I spun her around best I could, rewarded when she laughed with her head tilted toward the ceiling.

Emmylou’s version of “Save the Last Dance for Me” came on next and Madeleine looked at me with a slight challenge in her eyes, almost daring me to ask her.

Fine. I mean, who was I to embarrass her by leaving her alone on a dance floor meant for couples?

“May I have this dance?” I asked, bowing my head.

“I’d like that.”

I took one of her hands, then placed my empty one at the small of her back. Hers came to rest just over my heart. We swayed gently to Emmylou’s poignant tone.

“You’re a good dancer,” she murmured into my collar. “You’re good at everything. It’s annoying.”

“I’m not. Trust me.”

She pulled back just far enough to look up at me, and her eyes were bright, unfocused, and warm. “Can I tell you something?”

“You can tell me anything.”