Lone Star Twins. Cathy Thacker Gillen

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      “Everything has happened so fast,” she admitted as the heart-pumping finale of the “Messiah” ended and the more bluesy sounds of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” began. “It all feels a little surreal.”

      Violet secured the hook at the top of the bodice and then moved around for the full effect. “Well, you look absolutely gorgeous, sis.”

      A little sad Trace wasn’t here to see her in the gown, Poppy moved to the mirror to check out her reflection. “I just wish we’d arranged for the ceremony to be at the courthouse instead of the community chapel.” The downtown venue had been the site of many a McCabe wedding. And, unlike hers, the marriages embarked upon in the century-old building, had been hopelessly romantic, incredibly satisfying and long lasting!

      Violet studied her sister with a physician’s caring intuition. “Are you also wishing Trace was going to be here—in person—instead of just watching someone else stand in for him?”

      Yes, and no, Poppy thought, pausing to pin on her tiara and veil. Having him here beside her would make it feel as if they were entering into a traditional union instead of the modern arrangement they had agreed upon. So she was glad, in that sense, her best friend in all the world was thousands of miles away.

      But not having Trace here depressed her on a soul-deep level, as well, since she always missed him when they weren’t together.

      The twins burst into the room, both looking elegant and beautiful in their silver satin bridesmaid dresses. “When did you say Trace’s buddies were supposed to arrive?” Maggie asked.

      “I’m not sure,” Poppy admitted, trying not to flush. “I haven’t actually been able to contact him for a couple of days.”

      Callie did a double-take. Romantic as ever, she pressed a hand to her heart. “He hasn’t called you?” Or video-chatted or answered her emails. Poppy slipped on her satin pumps, once again feeling like the odd woman out, since not only was she the only non-multiple among the six McCabe daughters, but the only one not gloriously in love with her man, too.

      “He might be out on assignment.” Otherwise, there was no explanation.

      As expected, all five of her sisters exchanged worried glances. Luckily, just then, Jackson McCabe appeared in the door. “I just had a text. The military contingent from the air force is about ten minutes out. So we better get a move on if we want to get to the chapel before they do.”

      “Thanks, Dad.”

      Her sisters chatted excitedly as they all made their way downstairs.

      Poppy, with her voluminous skirt, entered the limo, along with her mother and father. Her sisters and their spouses and children followed in a caravan of pickups and SUVs.

      Thanksgiving had been two days before.

      Yet the downtown streets were already decorated for Christmas. Wreaths with red-velvet ribbons had been strung on every lamppost in town. Twinkling lights and decorations adorned many of the front yards as well as the businesses that lined the major avenues.

      Once again, it seemed to Poppy, time was passing far too quickly.

      The limo idled in front of the century-old chapel. Her mom got out and went in with her sisters and their families, and a steady stream of guests.

      Finally even that dwindled. “Nervous?” Jackson asked gruffly.

      Awaiting her grand entrance, Poppy nodded at her dad. More so than I ever have been in my life. Though she was damned if she knew why.

      After all, Trace wasn’t even going to be here.

      It was just her...and whomever he had chosen to stand in for him. And maybe, if she was lucky, her groom was back from wherever he had been and would be watching the ceremony via Skype.

      So there was absolutely nothing to be anxious about.

      A few more minutes passed. Finally her dad’s phone chimed. He grinned as he looked at the text message. “Trace’s military buddies have arrived. They just went in through the rear of the chapel.”

      Another few minutes. Another text. Jackson opened the door and got out. “Showtime!”

      Her jitters increasing, Poppy inhaled a bolstering breath. Accepting her father’s hand, she gathered her skirts in her other palm and stepped out.

      Her hand tucked securely into the crook of her dad’s elbow, they stood at the top of the steps, out of view, and awaited their cue as the rest of the bridal party entered to the strains of Pachelbel’s Canon.

      Finally, it was time. Poppy and her father glided through the vestibule and into the chapel.

      There, in front of the altar, stood seven tall, strapping men in uniform. Most handsome of all was the sandy-haired air force pilot next to Reverend Bleeker.

      Poppy blinked. And blinked again.

       Trace?

      * * *

      SHE WAS SURPRISED, all right, Trace thought, staring back at her. Although no one was more surprised than he was to find himself in Laramie, Texas, for his own wedding, no less.

      But now that he was finally here, he had to say he was damn glad he’d taken advantage of the opportunity given him and had headed back to the good old US of A.

      Because watching Poppy come through the chapel doors on her father’s arm was enough to stall his heart.

      She looked like a princess in the white satin gown. The high neck and long sleeves, closely fitted bodice and poufy skirt covered every sweet, supple inch of her. Her silky, dark hair was caught up in elaborate curls pinned to the back of her head. If he found fault with anything, it was that the veil covered her face and he couldn’t see the expression in her eyes.

      Until she reached the altar and the reverend asked, “Who giveth this bride away?”

      “I do,” Jackson McCabe said in a deep, gravelly voice. He turned, lifted Poppy’s veil and bent to give her a reassuring smile and to kiss her cheek, and then he handed her off to Trace.

      As they faced each other, Trace could see the conflicting emotions in Poppy’s gorgeous sable-brown eyes.

      Confusion. Delight. Anxiety.

      Aware he was suddenly feeling all that and more, he followed the minister’s directive and took both of Poppy’s hands in his.

      The ceremony was a blur. He repeated what he was supposed to say. Poppy did the same. Until finally the reverend said, “I now pronounce you and husband and wife. Trace, you may kiss your bride.”

      Poppy gave him the look.

      The one that warned him not to overdo it.

      So of course he did.

      * * *

      POPPY DIDN’T KNOW whose gasp was louder—hers or their guests—when Trace took her in his arms, bent her back from the waist and planted one on her.

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