Page 1 of Darling Bride

CHAPTER ONE

DIANE

SIXTEEN YEARS AFTERWESTIN

The morning is golden. The air is soft and warm, with a hint of lingering chill. The sun still sits below the mountains. The reaching shadows of the Ponderosa pines are dusted in light frost.

I turn Reign, my gelding, to head back to the house. We went without the saddle this morning and my legs are bare against his sleek sides. We’re working on weight training; he can feel my signals better this way. Reign shakes his head, the bridle jingling, and picks up his pace.

I woke up early again, so I could have some time alone. Westin was still asleep in our room. I crept upstairs and found the kids snoring. It seemed like the perfect time to go for a ride, so I grabbed my boots and fled to the barn.

Everyone is up, I can tell. The faint sound of crashing pans echoes up the valley. I tense my legs and Reign breaks into a canter. Heading down the hill, hooves thundering. The cool breeze digs its fingers into my hair, tugging and whipping it behind me.

We move, totally unencumbered, for a few blissful minutes. Then I turn Reign out into the paddock with his grain and walk barefoot up the walkway. The sapling Westin took from Sovereign Mountain and planted in the front lawn grew fast. Now its branches curve over the walkway at the foot of the steps.

I push open the door. Inside, it smells like coffee and bacon. I follow the scent up the hall and into the kitchen. My husband is in his work pants and faded t-shirt, flipping through a farming magazine. Bacon sizzles. The coffee maker bubbles. He glances up, hazel eyes meeting mine, and sets the magazine aside.

“Come here,” he says.

Obediently, I go. His hand cradles my face, turning it up to him so he can kiss me. His mouth tastes faintly of coffee. And Westin.

He’s just as handsome as the day we met, except now he’s all salt and peppery. I run my fingertips over his temple, over the gray and chestnut hair, down his jaw. He kisses my forehead and the tip of my nose.

Footsteps ring out on the stairs. I step back and smooth my skirt down, pushing him out of the way so I can finish breakfast. He’s not a bad cook, I’m just better. He pours me a cup of coffee and sinks down at the table.

Allison rounds the corner and sinks down to sit beside him. She’s a willowy, blonde girl of almost fifteen, who prefers books and school over going into town. I see a lot of Eve, Westin’s mother, in her. They both have endless patience, sweet temperaments, and little drive to do more than enjoy their lives.I hope that lasts. All I want is for Allison to be happy the way I am.

“Coffee?” I ask.

It was a big discussion in our household when she was old enough to drink coffee. Westin said no, but I saw how important this little thing was for my girl, so I argued her side.

“If this is teenage rebellion, I’m happy it’s coffee,” I told him. “Just wait until she wants to drink whiskey.”

He caved, not just for me. We’ve both got him wrapped around our little fingers. As soon as I take Allison’s side on something, it’s over for Westin.

She nods, and I set her favorite tea cup full of coffee in front of her. It’s delicate porcelain with little hand painted roses on the rim. She adds cream and sugar until it’s more that than actual coffee and takes a sip, sinking back.

Westin shifts, stretching his legs out. “Where’s your brother?”

She shrugs. “Who knows?”

He narrows his eyes. “You know.”

I set a plate of bacon on the table. Allison’s hazel eyes are wide as she takes another sip of coffee. She’s no snitch, but she definitely knows where her brother is.

“Snitches get stitches,” I say, going back to the stove to start frying eggs.

I’ve got a pretty good idea where my son is. Westin stands and circles the table, going out the back door. I lean over to peer out the window. There’s my son, coming down the hill on one of the unbroken colts. A black streak moving through the field.

“Goddamn it,” says Westin from outside.

“Honey, can you make the eggs?” I say, patting Allison on the shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

Barefoot, I circle Westin and hop down the porch steps. My son is getting closer, his horse veering as it gets to the fence. There’s a second where I think he’s in control. Then the coltgives a hearty buck and River Quinn goes sailing into the tall grass.

Westin sighs, coming down the steps. “Isn’t a damn shred of sense in that boy,” he says under his breath.

“Oh, don’t tell me you and Sovereign didn’t ride the unbroken colts a few times in your day,” I say. “He’s fine. He’s got a thick skull. Like you.”

---