Page 107 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

I can’t wait.

The preparations are barely in place when the first car parks in the gravel lot. Then more people arrive. Then more. I spot the lady from the sandwich shop, and several kids from caroling. Among them is Jack’s wife, who teaches fifth grade.

“You ready for the first round?” Randy asks, pulling me up to sit on the driver’s bench with him.

“Totally.” I turn to look behind us. All the hay bales are filled with mothers, fathers, kids, and older couples. Jack’s cart is filling up, too. The ones who didn’t fit wander the tents and the rows of trees, eating peach pie and drinking cider.

“This is a good turnout for a Wednesday night.”

“We’re just getting started. It’ll be packed for the square dance Friday night. School will be out, and everyone will feel like celebrating.”

The energy of all the happy people makes the air feel electric. Randy pops the reins and the horses begin their steadyclop, clopdown the path.

He begins his spiel. “The first Hanover moved to Wyoming in 1875.”

I stare up into the night. Beyond the lights strung between the poles, the stars shine among the wispy clouds. The day was warm, but evening has a bite to it as the wind picks up.

Randy notices and leans in. “Feel free to sidle up if you need to get warm.”

I do.

He calls back over his shoulder, “Grandpap Hanover turned the farm over to my dad, Jed, in 1992, and passed on two years later.”

I watch him talk, pointing out the family burial plot off to the left, in a small clearing surrounded by majestic aspens twinkling with whitelights. Grandmama won that battle. I understand she’s formidable. I try to imagine being widowed for thirty-plus years.

My father is already thirteen years in.

Mom deserved so much more in the thirty-nine years she got. I stare up at the moon and whisper, “I won’t let that happen to me.”

Randy reaches over to squeeze my hand. I don’t think anyone’s noticed, but then I catch two of the kids giggling and watching us. It’s adorable. All of it.

We do four hayrides until it gets too late for the families. Jack takes the last round of young couples, and his parents shut down the tents.

“You ready for our ride?” Randy asks.

My heart speeds up. It’s time to see if we’ve got anything beyond a few days of congenial labor and a few handholds.

Hallmark bases,I remind myself firmly.No rolling in the hay on the back of a cart.

That would be Zach territory. It’s true what I said to him on the porch the other night about the actresses he courts. I sometimes field their breathless phone calls the next day, asking if there’s any way they could star in something with him. They get big dreams after a night of his attention. Nobody is ever unhappy the morning after. There are zero complaints.

For a moment, I flash to his hands on me, his earnestness, his care. My body heats up. I get it now. Everything they felt. Zachery is a dream.

Wait. No. No no no.This is a hayride with my possible future husband. There’s no room for Zach on this cart!

I force myself to give Randy a smile. This is what I came here for. The real deal. No Hollywood fantasy.

Randy flicks the reins, and we take off down the path beneath the lights we passed under many times tonight. The night is even cooler, and I snuggle against him.

We pause by the family graves, and Randy nods at them in respect.

Instead of returning to the tents, we turn off toward the woods and the homestead. It’s dark here, and Randy bends down to flip on apowerful flashlight that’s aimed at the ground to help the horses find their way.

We’re in deep shadow.

“It was a lovely event,” I tell him. “I think your farm is the pride of Glass.”

“It’s a cornerstone of the town.” He squeezes my hand. “What do you think of it here?”

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