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      “Go,” Jade said, coming back into the kitchen to collect the final baby. She cradled Holly as Mrs. Harper came in the back door bearing a pie.

      “Hello, everyone,” Mrs. Harper said. “I brought something for Justin because I know how much he likes apple pie.”

      “Yes, ma’am,” Justin said. “I can find room for that.”

      Jade handed Holly to her mother after she put the pie on the counter. “Justin and Mackenzie are just leaving.”

      “Oh, good,” Mrs. Harper said. “That will give me time to make up some fried chicken to go with it for later.”

      “I think we’re not getting any of that pie until we get our chores done,” Justin said, his gaze turning to Mackenzie again.

      “I think you’re right.” She also sensed a heavy helping of matchmaking, too, but forewarned was forearmed. She gave Jade a wry look, who returned that with an innocent look. When Justin opened the kitchen door, Mackenzie went out, telling herself that all the matchmaking in the world wasn’t going to make her fall in love again.

      * * *

      “AFTER HEARING TY sell Bridesmaids Creek,” Justin told Mackenzie as he drove into town, “I’m anxious to get the tour. Ty brags about the Bridesmaids Creek swim, he talks about the Best Man’s Fork, and a few other bits of lore, but I was never sure if he was just pulling my leg or not. Ty likes to hear himself talk, and talk big.”

      “There’s a lot of history in BC,” Mackenzie said. “Some good, some bad. Just like any place, I guess.”

      He nodded, pulling his truck into a parking spot in the wide-set, clean town square. Families with kids milled in front of the shops, but not as many as one might expect to see if one were in a city.

      Still, it felt like a comfortable town where everyone knew each other, celebrated each other’s hopes and joys. “The Wedding Diner?” Justin peered at the white restaurant with its pink-and-white-striped awning, big windows and flashing pink Open sign.

      “Home cooking, and, if you’re interested, Mrs. Chatham will tell your fortune for you.”

      Justin grunted. “I don’t believe in fortune-telling.”

      “Oh, she doesn’t do read-your-palm kind of stuff. Mrs. Chatham has a completely different method.” She got out of the truck and he followed suit, meeting her on the pavement.

      “So, shall we meet back here at four?” Mackenzie asked. “I know you said you wanted to go to the feed store. By the way, Ralph Chatham, Jane Chatham’s husband, runs that.”

      “Does he tell fortunes, too?” Justin asked, telling himself to relax and enjoy the small-town ambience.

      “Not exactly. But he does do a Magic 8 Ball kind of thing where you pay a small fee, his steer drops a cowpat on a square for you and you win a prize. Or you can trade the prize for one of Mrs. Chatham’s sessions.”

      Justin laughed. “Cow-pie-drop contests are done in lots of places.”

      “You laugh,” Mackenzie said, “but Mr. Chatham’s steer is well loved in this town. The steer’s name is Target thanks to his aim and the fact that he’s made some folks a good bundle of money. Target always hits a mark. See you at four.” She smiled and walked away, stunning him when she walked into a shop with a bouquet-shaped shingle that read “Monsieur Unmatchmaker. Premier Unmatchmaking Service.”

      Was the whole town backward? Off its collective rocker?

      It was none of his business why Mackenzie would need an unmatchmaking service. Ugh.

      The unforgiving rodeo circuit had been more sane than this town.

      Still, he’d been serious about getting a grand tour from Mackenzie, though she obviously hadn’t thought he’d meant it. How better to learn about Bridesmaids Creek than from one of the town’s favorite daughters?

      He glanced toward the unmatchmaking service, seeing that next door to Monsieur Unmatchmaker’s dove-gray-painted shop was a pink store with a cheery window and painted scrolling letters that read, “Madame Matchmaker. Premier Matchmaking Service. Where love comes true.”

      He laughed out loud, startling some passersby. Suddenly he understood why Ty had worked so hard to sell him on this town: the whole place was set up on gigs. Sleights of hand. Fairy tales. From the rumored special steer with excellent aim to The Wedding Diner with the fortune-teller owner to the matchmaking–unmatchmaking rivals— everybody had a gig.

      So did Mackenzie, now that he thought about it. Her parents had run a successful haunted house for years, and, according to the talkative fellow at the feed store, parents from miles around had brought their very young kiddies to enjoy the place. No real spooky stuff was allowed. Just down-home bobbing-for-apples fun. Puppet shows, piñatas, a parade with characters.

      Until a local murder near Mackenzie’s place had spooked folks. That year, attendance had gone way down. So far down they’d had to close the haunted house. They’d been virtually bankrupted, or so the story went.

      “You still here?” Mackenzie asked, shaking him out of his reverie.

      He snapped his gaze to hers. “Yeah. Your errand was fast.”

      Mackenzie nodded. “I just wanted to check in on Monsieur Lafleur. He had gall bladder surgery recently.”

      “Rough.”

      “It was rough.” She started walking and he followed, more out of a desire to be with her than to hear about Mr. Lafleur’s funky gall bladder. “It was gangrenous and they couldn’t get to it laparoscopically, so they had to do it the old-fashioned way. Not much fun.”

      He felt a little sympathy for Mr. Lafleur after all.

      “But his wife is wonderful and she took good care of him. They bicker like crazy, but they’ve been married for fifty years and love blooms in spite of the bickering.” She looked up at him, and Justin felt something hit him somewhere near his gall bladder—not his heart—that felt suspiciously like something bordering on attraction.

      All this talk of wonky gall bladders was stirring up his desire to eat. That was all it was. He glanced toward The Wedding Diner, wondering if it was safe to go inside and eat without prognostications of marital bliss being preached at him.

      “Madame Lafleur runs the matchmaking service,” Mackenzie said, snapping his attention back to her and away from the people filing inside the diner.

      “The Lafleurs run rival businesses?”

      “Complementary businesses. Some people want love, and some people want relationships ended. Monsieur Lafleur doesn’t get as many clients as his wife, of course, so he teaches French at the high school and tutors privately in his shop.”

      “If the divorce rate is around fifty percent, how is it that Monsieur Lafleur has to supplement with teaching and tutoring and his wife doesn’t?”

      “Because this is Bridesmaids Creek. When matchmaking occurs here—and it occurs often—the relationships СКАЧАТЬ