Big Sky Wedding by Linda Lael Miller

dog a pat on the head. “Snidely and I share an apartment on the premises, so don’t picture me sitting in a rocking chair in the attic, knitting socks. I’m not exactly the maiden aunt.”
    Aren’t you? taunted that inner voice, the one that never let her get away with a darn thing.
    Nash actually laughed this time, with a boyish delight that made her think of Shane. “‘Snidely’? That’s your dog’s name?”
    Brylee grinned, already on her way toward the screen door. She’d stayed too long; it was time to make an exit. “Yes,” she replied, glancing back over her shoulder. “For Snidely Whiplash.”
    Nash looked puzzled. “Who?”
    Brylee sighed, opened the door to step out onto the porch, which, like the rest of the house, had seen better days. “Don’t kids watch cartoons anymore?” she countered, in pretend despair. “Look him up on the internet.”
    Nash made a salutelike motion with his right hand. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, in a passable Western drawl. “I’ll do that.”
    Outside, Zane had stopped working on the fence and turned to watch the road, where a truck was slowing down to swing in at his gate, hauling a horse trailer behind it. As Brylee looked on, oddly stricken— again —by the sight of him, a slow grin spread across his face, the kind of grin that put a person in mind of a brilliant sunrise following a long, dark night.
    The driver of the truck got out, opened the gate, drove through, got out again and closed it behind him.
    Slim, probably figuring he ought to earn his keep somehow, barked a couple of times, which got Snidely started.
    “Shush,” Brylee said, shielding her eyes from the sun-dazzle of the shiny silver trailer, and Snidely quieted and sat down obediently at her side.
    Zane, meanwhile, waited, shirt open, teeth gleaming in his tanned face, his hands resting easy on his lean hips, making Brylee think of an old-time town marshal or a sheriff, there to welcome a wagon train full of trail-weary travelers yearning to settle down for good.
    Brylee knew well enough that she ought to go on about her business instead of standing there staring the way she was, but she couldn’t help it. She shifted her gaze from Zane to the truck and trailer and back again—several times.
    Nash fairly shot from the house—apparently he hadn’t seen or heard the arriving rig right away—and the smile on his face was downright transcendent.
    “Blackjack’s here?” he called to Zane.
    Zane nodded, swallowed visibly. “Blackjack’s here,” he agreed, his voice just this side of raspy.
    Blackjack, it turned out, was a magnificent gelding, his shiny coat dark as coal, and as Zane and the truck driver unloaded the animal, the creature tossed its gigantic head, mane flying, and looked around as if to say, Home at last. Why did it take so long?
    Zane took the lead rope from the driver and spoke in a low, easy tone as he urged the horse the rest of the way down the ramp and onto the hard, rutted ground.
    Brylee knew horses; she’d been raised around them, ridden with her dad when she was barely two years old and by herself or with Walker just about every day since then. And she’d never seen a finer animal than this gelding, with his ebony coat and silky mane. His conformation was nigh on perfect, and the sight of him brought an ache of admiration to her throat and a twinge of envy to her middle.
    Unable to resist, she stepped forward.
    “Stay back, now, ma’am,” the truck driver said quickly. “This horse has been riding in that trailer for a long time, and he’s likely to be a mite on the skittish side.”
    Zane didn’t look at the man; his gaze was on Brylee, and he didn’t hesitate to speak up. “The lady knows what she’s doing,” he said, with a quiet conviction that caught Brylee totally off guard, caused things to tip over and spill inside her, warm and thick and sweet as honey fresh from a hive.
    Oh, Lord.
    She could dislike Zane Sutton when he was being obnoxious or