Sweet Dreams. Stacey Keith

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      “Just lock up when you’re done,” she called to Coralee on her way out. Maggie ran outside to her truck, wondering how long it would take in this traffic to get to Cassidy and Mason’s ranch.

      For the first time in the history of Cuervo, population three thousand, every parking space on Main Street was full. She stood blinking, trying to take it in. Men toting video equipment, microphones and camera lights wandered the streets, but there were regular folks, too, ones she’d never seen before, some standing around, others pushing baby carriages or strollers, clearly here to sightsee.

      “My God,” she said out loud.

      Network news vans idled in gridlock traffic. Across the street she could see other shop owners with their faces pressed against the windows, clearly just as alarmed as she was.

      Maggie threw her shoes and purse in the front seat of her red 1953 Chevy pickup. In her rearview mirror, she saw Mr. Owen pointing straight at her while talking to someone who looked suspiciously like a TV reporter.

      Even as Maggie started backing the truck out, the reporter and her cameraman were hurrying over. Maggie gave the engine more gas, narrowly avoiding a guy on a bike, and pretended not to see the reporter trying frantically to wave her down.

      Maggie had managed to dodge the press so far. She sure wasn’t going to give up now. She saw an opening behind her and floored it. Score one for the local girl.

      A minute later, her phone rang. She swiped to answer the call.

      “For heaven’s sake, Maggie, where are you?”

      Maggie could always tell when her mother was agitated because Priscilla’s drawl got more twang in it than a steel guitar.

      “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m on the way. Listen, did you check to see if the cake arrived in one piece?”

      “The caterers pushed it into the hallway and we had to save it. Look, I don’t trust that wedding planner. I’m pretty sure she drinks.”

      To Priscilla, anyone who accepted an offer of a second beer “drank.” Maggie floored it to the next stoplight. “Mom, we’ve been over this. The wedding planner isn’t drunk. She’s just French.”

      “Well, I don’t care what she is! I told Cassidy once if I told her a million times—”

      “Can you do something for me?” Maggie asked. “I need you to tell April to get everyone dressed and started with the makeup artist.”

      “That’s the Maid-of-Honor’s job. If you were actually here—”

      “Mom, April is a Maid-of-Honor. We both are.”

      Injured silence. Priscilla had objected to having two Maids-of-Honor. She argued that Maggie, as the older sister, should serve in the role exclusively. Also that April didn’t have a strong enough personality to boss six other women around. Plus, at twenty-two, her youngest daughter had no business organizing a bachelorette party where there might be sex toys.

      “Fine,” Priscilla snapped and the call ended.

      Maggie picked up speed on the back road. She crested a hill and the road descended into a shallow valley dotted by huisache trees. The ranch Mason had bought for Cassidy and her daughter Lexie, made of wood and glass and slate, appeared in the distance. She could see the enormous pavilion festooned with tulle and ribbons. The horse barn, converted temporarily to a wedding venue, had its big doors flung wide.

      Well, Cass, you did it, Maggie thought, and her heart swelled with tender pride for her sister, for all the single moms who’d given up on love. Cassidy had rediscovered love with a vengeance. Here then was a monument to that devotion, a place for Cassidy, Mason and Lexie to live when they weren’t in Dallas during the season. Of course, Mason’s place in Dallas was spectacular, too. But after being a teen mom and living on fast food wages, Cassidy deserved every good thing coming to her.

      Better still, there’d been no prenup, so Cassidy would be set no matter what awful thing came down the road. Maggie gave herself a mental kick for being so cynical. But hey, she knew, even if no one else did, that love and marriage often came with an expiration date.

      She pulled up under a giant soapberry tree and cut the engine. There weren’t many people in back, which would make it easier for her to slip into the house without having to talk to anyone. She gathered her things, shut the door and then hurried toward the house.

      Standing next to Lexie’s new dog was Jake, smoking a cigarette.

      He looked so remote and mysterious, an elegant contrast to the weathered wood of the nearby barn and the bent, wind-crippled mesquite trees. With the grace of the strong, he squatted down to pet Max, who panted up at him adoringly.

      Watching his big hands roam over the dog’s fur and his lips moving as he spoke to it made her restless inside, something that felt a lot like impatience, yet deeper. Hungrier.

      Before he caught her staring at him, she rushed through the back door of the ranch house and entered a storm of perfume, hair spray, and a dozen women talking all at once.

      “We were waiting for you,” Cassidy’s friend Darlene said. She looked petrified, as though moving might spoil her dress. “Did you hear how many people are going to be there? What if I pass out right in front of everyone?”

      Maggie gave Darlene a quick hug. “They’re going to be the ones who pass out because you look that gorgeous.” She waved to red-haired Jessica Coleman, who was busy tying Lexie’s sash.

      “Thank God you’re here,” April said, rushing over, her pale pink chiffon gown floating behind her. “Mom is furious. The wedding planner tried to put steer horns in the pavilion because she thought that’s what we do here in Texas. And we caught one of those paparazzi hiding in the barn.”

      Maggie sucked in a breath, wondering which fire to put out first. “Okay, find Mason. Tell him the wedding planner has to get rid of those steer horns. Then find the security guy. If he doesn’t fix the paparazzi problem, tell him he’s going to have me to deal with. And he’s not going to like that.”

      April looked a little sheepish. “Wouldn’t you rather tell him? Seeing as how you two talked earlier?”

      “April Lynn Roby, don’t make me mom you. You’re a social worker, for heaven’s sake.”

      “Yeah, but yelling at people isn’t part of my job.”

      Maggie gently escorted her sister to the door. “Go. Yell. That way, they’re sure to hear you.”

      When Maggie turned back to the room, everyone besieged her with problems—a lost bouquet here, a rising pimple there. For about thirty minutes, all she did was find flowers, shoes and concealer. Then Shelby Dawkins thought she spotted a rain cloud in the distance and everyone rushed, screaming, to the window. It took Maggie another ten minutes to calm down everyone.

      Finally, Cassidy exited the dressing room fully made up and with her honey-blond hair in loose flowing curls. Even without the three-yard train, her gown was a fairytale, fitted close until mid-hip and then flaring out in a cascade of creamy charmeuse. The strapless neckline required tight corseting to support the weight of the fabric, but it made her waist appear extra tiny.

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