Rocky Mountain Legacy. Lois Richer

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СКАЧАТЬ family business, but nobody disparaged it and got away unchallenged.

      “My grandmother was taken ill a week ago. I regret that you weren’t informed.” She bent to pick up the wrappers the boys had tossed on the pale pink carpet. “And I’m very sorry that you’ve been inconvenienced. But because Winnie won’t be back at work for at least a month, I’m afraid you’ll have to make a new appointment. Or accept help from someone else.”

      His heavily lashed eyes darkened.

      “I’m sorry she’s ill. Maybe—” He stopped, frowned as if reconsidering.

      Red flags soared in Sara’s brain. If she lost a potential client, her sister Katie would be on her case all afternoon.

      “If you’ll—” Sara almost choked when Brett’s sticky fingers grabbed Mr. Porter at the knee. She eased Brady’s hand away. What was taking Reese so long? “I’m sorry about that,” she apologized, trying to recall who might be free to deal with Mr. Porter.

      “They’re just jeans. They won’t melt. Can you get a wet cloth?”

      “A cloth?” His generous smile confused her usually functioning brain.

      “To wipe off the kids. I don’t think those pretty dresses on display will look quite as nice with peppermint smeared all over them.” He brushed Brady’s hair with a big capable hand. “We’ll get this pair busy drawing a horse. Then maybe you and I can get started.”

      Sara frowned. Started—doing what?

      “Cloth?” he reminded her as he kept Brett’s hand from touching a length of veiling.

      “Right.” She fetched a damp washcloth and tried to wipe Brett’s fingers, but her nephew veered away, clinging to Mr. Porter.

      “Let me.” He took the cloth and with gentle thoroughness wiped down two faces and four hands, teasing the boys as he did. Her nephews had never behaved so well.

      “Don’t look so surprised. Kids usually like me.” Mr. Porter grinned as he handed back the cloth.

      “I’m sure they do. I’ve just never seen these two so quiet.” Sara got rid of the sticky cloth. “Except maybe when they’re asleep.”

      Mr. Porter’s lips twitched. He hunkered down next to the boys who were arguing over the crayons and paper pads scattered across the coffee table. He told them a little about his ranch, then promised a special treat for whoever could draw the best horse.

      How did he know competition was the best way to get them focused?

      “Okay, now can we talk about my wedding?” Cade Porter rose, folded his arms across his wide chest, charm oozing from the lopsided smile he flashed at her. “Unless Woodward Weddings can’t handle it.”

      “Weddings by Woodwards,” she corrected.

      “Yeah, that.” His gaze slid to the wall above the counter. “I assume that array of diplomas includes you as one of the wedding planners?”

      Sara followed his gaze, noticed a silver framed certificate she’d earned four years ago hanging among the rest of the family’s. Trust her sister to dig it out and display it, as if Sara was permanently back on staff.

      “I—um—”

      “My mistake.” His mouth tightened. “I’d prefer Mrs. Woodward to handle things, but because that’s out, perhaps you’ll summon whoever’s handling her cases.”

      Offended, Sara bristled to her own defense.

      “I am a certified wedding planner, Mr. Porter. I’ve planned about forty weddings and I am quite capable of handling your needs.” Even if her family always interfered.

      “I need someone who can deal with the unusual.” He studied her for several moments, his gaze dark and inscrutable.

      “Then you need me.” The words slipped out without a second thought. Sara almost groaned. She was as bad as the twins, taking the bait faster than they’d latched on to his promise of candy.

      “Do I?” Cade Porter blinked.

      His dubious demeanor underscored her own growing doubts. Like her siblings, Sara had begun learning about the wedding business shortly after she learned to walk. But she hadn’t planned a wedding since she’d walked out of Weddings by Woodwards two years ago to escape her loving, but constantly meddling family.

      Which did not mean she’d forgotten everything she’d learned here.

      “What kind of a wedding do you want, Mr. Porter?”

      “That’s an odd question.” He scratched his shaven chin, seemingly stymied. “How many kinds are there?”

      “Many.” Obviously Cade Porter was a complete innocent.

      “Horsie.” Brett held up his scribble.

      “Hmm. Not bad. But he needs legs.”

      While Cade and the boys discussed horse anatomy, Sara found a notepad and pen. She’d come home to help. Might as well do her best.

      “What are my choices?” he asked, twisting his head to study her.

      “When are you to be married?”

      “I’m not.” He frowned at her. “It’s not my wedding.”

      “So you’re not getting married—but you want to plan a wedding?” Sara’s headache amplified.

      “Exactly.” Humor twinkled in the depths of his blue eyes. “I want to plan a wedding for my sister.”

      “Ah.” While her brother Reese probably wouldn’t plan a wedding for her, Sara was pretty sure the rest of the family certainly would. They’d find her a groom, arrange the ceremony and take over every detail without asking for her input—if she let them.

      Sara loved her family dearly, but they refused to acknowledge that she was an adult who could think and choose her own course in life.

      “Those two tornadoes aren’t going to color for long,” Cade reminded.

      “Sorry. I was thinking.” She had to find out about Mr. Porter’s sister. Having experienced prying too often herself, Sara decided on tact. “Weddings should be personal. If your sister prefers an outdoor location, spring or summer events work best. Is she thinking of a large event? Sit-down reception? Church wedding or—”

      “Yes!”

      “Yes?” Pulling teeth would be easier. “Yes—what, exactly?”

      “Church wedding. I think.” He glanced around the reception area. His nose wrinkled when his glance landed on delicate white wrought iron chairs with their tufted white silk cushions. “The reception can’t be stuffy. Not like—”

      Mr. Porter cut himself off, but the glare he shot toward tiny Victorian chairs her grandmother favored made Sara smile. Tact indeed.

      “Not СКАЧАТЬ