A Wedding In Willow Valley

“Why did you come running home, Laurel?

You’re back in town, making me want you until I ache, making me relive all the memories of what we shared, and you’re keeping so many damn secrets it’s a wonder you can even function.”

“I…”

“Well, I know one truth about you, Laurel Windsong,” Ben said, a rough edge to his voice as he gripped her shoulders. “When I kissed you by the lake, you responded to me, totally, absolutely, holding nothing back. You desire me as much as I do you. And that is a fact. There’s no secret about it, Laurel.”

And with that, Ben pulled her close and captured her mouth with his in a searing kiss.

A Wedding in Willow Valley

Joan Elliott Pickart

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JOAN ELLIOTT PICKART

is the author of over one hundred books. When she isn’t writing, Joan enjoys reading, needlework, gardening and attending craft shows on the town square. She has all-grown-up daughters, as well as a young daughter, Autumn, who is in elementary school. Joan, Autumn and a five-pound poodle named Willow live in a charming small town in the high pine country of Arizona.

For Phyllis

Good friend, good neighbor

and

the best cookie-baker

in the west!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Chapter One

Sheriff Ben Skeeter turned onto the main street of Willow Valley in his patrol car after driving by several of the summer homes that had been closed up for the winter.

He drove slowly, nodding at familiar people who waved in greeting and seeing the busy foot traffic of the visitors who had come to the small northern Arizona town to enjoy the splendor of the acres of brilliant, multicolored autumn leaves on the trees.

His grip on the steering wheel tightened and his heart seemed to skip a beat as he saw Laurel Windsong walking along the sidewalk toward the Windsong Café.

He had not, Ben knew, been prepared for Laurel to suddenly return to town four months ago and start working with her mother at the café. Her presence had thrown him off-kilter, had caused him to suffer through a multitude of tossing-and-turning nights as memories from the past slammed into his mind hour after hour.

If anyone knew why Laurel was back and how long she was staying, they sure weren’t talking. He’d come right out and asked Dove Clearwater, Laurel’s best friend, for the explanation, and she had told him that Laurel had simply said she was between jobs and didn’t have any definite plans yet. Dove had confided that she thought something was troubling Laurel but had no intention of pressing her about it. Damn.

As Ben approached the café, he slid a glance in Laurel’s direction and saw her unlock the front door and enter.

Laurel Windsong, he thought. God, she was beautiful. The years had treated her well. The pain of her betrayal had diminished some over the ten years she’d been gone, and he often went weeks at a time without thinking about her, remembering what they’d shared, remembering all the plans they’d made for their future together, remembering the night she said she was leaving.

Yeah, his emotional wounds had been healing slowly. And then she arrived unannounced in Willow Valley, stepped behind the counter at the Windsong Café with an order pad in her hand and acted as though she had never left in the first place. He’d been flung back in time and felt raw and wounded again as well as exhausted from lack of sleep.

He’d been doing his best to avoid Laurel, and when he saw her, he didn’t look directly into those incredible dark eyes of hers. He had nothing he wanted to say to her because it had all been said ten years before. He just wanted her to pack up and leave again, get out of Willow Valley and not come back.

Because while she was here, there was nowhere for him to hide from the truth that was ripping him to shreds.

He was still in love with Laurel Windsong.

Ben smacked the steering wheel with the heel of one hand and clenched his jaw so tightly his teeth ached.

He’d arrest Laurel for disturbing his peace of mind, he thought. He’d toss her in jail, tell her she had twenty-four hours to get out of town or he’d throw away the key to the cell.

“There you go, Skeeter,” he muttered as he shook his head. “That’s really mature, rational thinking.”

Ben reached the edge of town, turned around and drove back, his practiced eye sweeping over all for any sign of trouble brewing.

There were a lot of strangers in town already this Saturday, and no doubt more were on the way to see the autumn leaves. It was good for the business owners. It was constant vigilance for him and his deputies.

The tourists kept him very busy, and to top it off he was dealing with a rash of break-ins at the presently unoccupied summer homes. Carefully selected houses had been targeted, and the knot in his gut told him that meant it was someone from Willow Valley or the reservation at the edge of town pulling off those robberies.

There were a thousand people living in Willow Valley and the same number on the rez. Somewhere in the midst of them, someone had turned on his own people—and that made Ben rip-roaring angry.

Ben’s stomach rumbled, and a quick look at his watch told him it was lunchtime.

Maybe he’d go home and see what he could throw together for a meal, he mused. Or get some fast food that would sit like a brick in his stomach the rest of the afternoon. He could settle for some of those dinky sandwiches that didn’t even have any crust on them at the bed-and-breakfast.

No, damn it, he wanted a good-tasting, nourishing lunch, and the best place to get that was the Windsong Café. He’d just ignore Ms. Laurel Windsong, as he usually did when he ate there, and enjoy the food. Fine. That’s how he’d handled her being back since she’d popped into town, and he would keep right on doing it.

No problem.

As long as he didn’t look at her too long.

As long as he didn’t envision freeing her silken hair from that long braid she wore by drawing his fingers through it and watching it slide over his hands like an ebony waterfall.

As long as he didn’t relive the exquisite memories of making love with Laurel and hearing her whisper his name and declare her love for him.

As long as he ignored the fact that she’d stolen his heart many, many years ago and he didn’t have a clue as to how to get it back.

Ben pulled into a parking place down the block from the café, radioed in that he was going to lunch but would be carrying his handheld if he was needed, then grabbed his tan Stetson that matched the rest of his uniform from the passenger seat of the patrol car.

A few moments later he was striding toward the Windsong Café, a muscle ticking in his tightly clenched jaw.

Laurel frowned as Ben Skeeter entered the café. She turned immediately to see if any of her orders were ready to be picked up, despite the fact she’d done that two seconds before.

Darn the man, she thought. Doesn’t he ever have any leftovers in his refrigerator at home he could eat for lunch? Or get an urge for fast food, like the rest of the population? Oh, no, not Ben. He had to show up here at the Windsong Café day after day and cause her heart to race and memories to assault her.

Ben. Oh, Ben, Laurel thought, still not moving. There was a time when they had shared everything—hopes, dreams, secrets, plans for the future, their hearts, minds, bodies, the very essence of who they were. They’d been so much in love, so connected that they’d envisioned themselves as one entity.

But that was then, and this was now, and since she’d arrived back in Willow Valley they’d attempted to avoid each other. When they did meet, they were polite, exchanged brief greetings, but never made eye contact. They were strangers now, separated by ten years and shattered dreams. She would continue to keep her distance from Ben just as she’d done since she’d come home.

There was just one thing wrong with that grand plan, she thought dismally.

She was still deeply in love with Benjamin Skeeter.

Ben sat in the first booth and swept his gaze over the café. It had the same motif as it had when Jimmy and Jane Windsong had opened for business years before. It had red vinyl booths along the front to afford a view out the windows, stools at the counter and wooden tables in the space beyond. An old-fashioned jukebox was against the far wall, and plastic-coated menus were nestled between metal napkin holders and the salt and pepper shakers.

It wasn’t fancy. Never had been. But it was homey, inviting. The food was down-home cooking—hamburgers and fries served in red plastic baskets, meat loaf with mashed potatoes and gravy, chili and corn bread, pot roast and vegetables and other offerings that a person might have enjoyed at their mother’s or grandmother’s table.

Lush plants hung in woven baskets suspended from the ceiling by nearly invisible wires. The wall where the jukebox stood also boasted an enormous corkboard where pictures drawn by children were held in place by pushpins. Visitors as well as local kids were invited to add to the ever-changing display, and crayons and paper were available on the tables.

“Hey, Sheriff,” someone called.

“Hey, Cadillac. What brings you into town?”

“I need me some feed for my goats,” Cadillac said from where he sat on a stool at the counter. “Figure I’ll have me some of Missy Windsong’s meat loaf while I’m here.”

“Good thinking,” Ben said. “Things quiet on the rez?”

Cadillac shrugged and turned back to his lunch, and Ben knew that was the end of the conversation. When Navajos were done talking, they were done. Where they stopped speaking in an interchange didn’t always make sense, but that was just the way it was. Always had been, always would be.

Good ole Cadillac, Ben mused. No one knew his age, and his weathered face said he could be anywhere between forty and sixty. Whatever his last name was, it had been so long since it had been used he doubted anyone remembered what it was, maybe even Cadillac himself.

He was a little slow in the thinking department and loved gossip more than breathing, it seemed. But he had a heart of gold, would give a man the shirt off his back if he figured that guy needed it more than he did.

“Lunch?”

Ben glanced up to see Laurel standing next to the table with a pad and pencil in her hands.

“Hamburger, fries, coffee,” Ben said, shifting his gaze to the tabletop. “Please.”

Laurel wrote on the pad, spun around and hurried away.

There were, Ben thought, about ten people staring at him at this point to see if this was the day that more than a lunch choice would be communicated between him and Laurel Windsong. Ever since she’d come home, people who knew Ben and Laurel’s history had been watching and waiting for something—anything—to happen between them.

But nothing ever did.

And nothing ever would.

What they’d had together was over, long gone, smashed to smithereens the day that Laurel left Willow Valley for Virginia. Why she was back all of a sudden, he didn’t know, but it had nothing to do with him. She’d stopped loving him ten years before, and maybe someday he’d figure out how in the hell to stop loving her.

Laurel clipped the paper with Ben’s order onto the revolving metal circle at the top of the pass-through window between the kitchen and the main section of the café.

Darn, darn, darn, she fumed as she refilled Cadillac’s coffee mug. It had happened again. Just because she’d asked Ben Skeeter what he wanted for lunch, just because she had been so close to him, could smell that unique fresh-air aroma of his, see the thick black hair she used to run her fingers through when they… Just because Ben existed, for crying out loud, her heart had gone crazy and her hands had trembled slightly when she’d clipped the order slip into place.

Ben was tall for a Navajo, she mused, just over six feet, and filled out that uniform to perfection, the tan material accentuating his tawny skin and dark hair. His chiseled features with high cheekbones, straight blade of a nose and oh-so-kissable lips were a study in masculinity personified.

This had to stop, Laurel thought. If Ben ever became aware of the reaction she still had to being in close proximity to him, she’d be totally mortified. Being near her certainly didn’t bother him, that was for sure. Granted, he didn’t meet her gaze, but that was because he still hated her for leaving Willow Valley ten years ago.

His voice was flat when he spoke to her, even sounded rather bored when he ordered his lunch, and he didn’t bother with the simplest social questions of how she was doing, or her opinion of the weather.

No, she was nothing more to Ben Skeeter than a bad memory. If it wasn’t for the fact that he truly enjoyed the food at the Windsong Café he probably wouldn’t even come in there. Ten years had thoroughly erased any feelings he had for her.

A woman in her early thirties entered the café and called a greeting to Laurel, bringing her from her tangled thoughts. The attractive woman took the booth in front of Ben’s and scrutinized the menu as Laurel came around the counter, zoomed past Ben without a glance and stopped at the second booth.

“Hi, Marilyn,” Laurel said. “It’s so nice to see you. How’s business at the beauty shop?”

“Busy, busy,” Marilyn said. “My feet are killing me already and it’s only lunchtime. I decided to have a Windsong special to fortify myself for the afternoon instead of the yogurt I brought from home.” She looked at the menu again. “Mmm. What do I want? Here we go. A BLT on whole-wheat toast and a glass of milk. Oh, dear, don’t tell me that May baked some goodies.”

Laurel smiled. “Okay, I won’t inform you that May made fresh cherry pie, pumpkin with whipped cream and an apple cobbler to die for. Those words will not pass my sealed lips.”

“You’re cruel,” Marilyn said, laughing. “I haven’t been able to resist May’s cobbler since I moved here, as evidenced by the width of my hips. I’ll have some, of course.”

“Got it,” Laurel said, writing on the pad. “And there’s nothing wrong with the width of your hips, Ms. Montgomery.” She paused. “Marilyn, I’m trying to decide if I should cut my hair.”

“No,” Ben said sharply, before he was even aware that he had spoken.

Laurel’s head snapped around to stare at Ben in shock at the same moment that Marilyn shifted in the booth to look at him, and Cadillac spun on his stool with the same intention. Jane Windsong was just placing Ben’s order in its red plastic basket on the pass-through ledge, and her hand halted in midair. Three other men next to Cadillac at the counter dipped their heads to steal a peek at Sheriff Skeeter.

“Oh? You don’t think Laurel should cut her hair, Ben?” Marilyn said, a delighted twinkle dancing in her eyes.

A trickle of sweat ran down Ben’s chest, and he immediately thought of ten places he’d rather be than sitting in that booth in the Windsong Café with half the world staring at him and waiting eagerly for his answer.

“Well…um…” he said. “Laurel is very visible here at the café because she works out front, not in the kitchen. Visitors expect to see Native Americans when they come to Willow Valley, and her hair…contributes…to the…um…image. I was simply reacting to what she said from a…practical, business standpoint.”

“Ah,” Marilyn said, then faked a cough to cover a burst of laughter as she turned back around in the booth.

“Why don’t I believe that?” Cadillac mumbled, shaking his head.

“That young man’s nose is going to grow,” Jane said under her breath, finally placing the red basket on the ledge. “Laurel,” she called, “Ben’s order is up.”

“Dandy,” Laurel said, stomping over to get it. She brought it to Ben’s table and plunked it in front of him. “Here. I’ll get your coffee.”

“Thanks,” Ben said, reaching for a napkin.

Laurel left, then returned with a mug and the coffeepot, bending over slightly as she filled Ben’s mug.

“What on earth is your problem?” she whispered. “You just embarrassed me to death, Ben Skeeter. My hair is none of your concern.”

“I didn’t mean to speak out loud,” he said, his voice hushed. “I was as surprised as you were that I said…” He snatched up the ketchup bottle that was at the end of the table, took off the lid and shook the bottle over the fries. “You’re not really considering cutting your hair, are you, Laurel?”

“Maybe,” Laurel said, lifting her chin. “Maybe not. I haven’t decided yet.”

“Don’t do it, Laurel,” Ben said, looking directly into her dark eyes. “Your hair is so beautiful, so silky and… I remember how it felt when I…” He cleared his throat and switched his gaze to his lunch. “Aw, hell, I just dumped half a bottle of ketchup on these fries.”

Laurel opened her mouth to say something snappy regarding adding an extra charge to Ben’s bill for the extravagant use of the ketchup, but immediately realized she had absolutely no air in her lungs to let her speak.

She rushed behind the counter, put the coffeepot back where it belonged, then was amazed that she remembered to clip Marilyn’s order into place. When she turned again, Cadillac and the three men next to him were all grinning at her.

“What!” she said none too quietly.

“Gotta go get me some goat feed,” Cadillac said, sliding off his stool.

“Me, too,” the man next to him said.

“You don’t got no goats, Billy,” Cadillac said.

“Oh,” Billy said. “I’ll watch you buy feed for yours, then.”

“’Kay,” Cadillac said, dropping some money on the counter.

The other two men decided quickly that they’d tag along for the inspiring trip of watching Cadillac buy goat feed. None of them waited for their change or looked at Sheriff Skeeter as they beat a very hasty retreat from the Windsong Café.

Ben sighed and began to scrape some of the ketchup off his fries with a fork. The bottom of the hamburger bun was now soaked with ketchup, so he resorted to eating the demolished meal with a knife and fork rather than attempt to pick up the burger.

If it wasn’t for the fact that he was really hungry, Ben thought, he’d hightail it out of here. Man, what a jerk he’d made of himself. He had just engaged in the first one-on-one conversation he’d had with Laurel since she’d returned to Willow Valley and he’d come across as a complete idiot.

But, man, the mere image in his mind of Laurel cutting off that gorgeous silky hair of hers had rattled him. His drill-sergeant sounding “No” had popped right out of his mouth and… Oh, jeez.

Then Laurel had bent over and whispered at him, fury radiating in those fathomless dark eyes of hers. She wore the same light floral cologne she’d always used, and when she’d looked directly into his eyes it had taken every bit of willpower he had not to slide his hand to the back of her neck, bring her lips to his and…

Ben shifted in the booth as heat rocketed through his body, and he looked around quickly to be certain no one was watching him.

Cadillac and his cronies were no doubt down at the feed store, he thought dismally, relating what had happened at the Windsong Café between the sheriff and Laurel and cackling with pleasure to be the ones to spread the gossip. The tourists in the café had no idea what had transpired. But the locals? He didn’t even want to think about it.

Ben finished what he could salvage of his lunch, placed money on the table then picked up his Stetson and his handheld from next to him in the booth. He slid out, turned and bumped squarely into Laurel, who was carrying Marilyn’s lunch. He gripped one of Laurel’s shoulders with his free hand to steady her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not releasing his hold on her. “I didn’t see you there. Did anything spill? No, it looks fine.” He nodded. “Good. Okay.”

“May I pass, please?” Laurel said, looking at a button in the middle of Ben’s shirt.

“In a minute,” he said, his hand still on her shoulder. “I’m sorry I embarrassed you about the hair-cutting business. I was way out of line.”

“Yes, you were, Sheriff Skeeter. Marilyn is waiting for her lunch.”

Ben placed his Stetson on his head, the handheld under his arm, took the plate and glass of milk from Laurel, then turned and delivered them to a startled Marilyn.

“Enjoy your lunch,” Ben said, then went back to where a stunned Laurel was still standing. “Do you or do you not accept my apology for speaking out of turn about you cutting your hair?”

“No, I don’t,” Laurel said, planting her hands on her hips, “because Cadillac and his buddies are going to have a field day with what happened in here. The whole thing is going to be blown way out of proportion by the time it gets passed from person to person.”

“Well, yeah, but…”

“And to add to the mix,” Laurel continued, “if I cut my hair, it will appear that I’m throwing a tantrum because you said I shouldn’t. If I don’t cut it, it will be perceived that Laurel Windsong is doing what Ben Skeeter told her to, obedient thing that she is.”

Ben grimaced.

“I could take a couple inches off your hair, Laurel,” Marilyn said from where she was sitting. “That might muddle the minds of the general populace of locals. You got a haircut, sort of, but then again, you didn’t. So? How’s that?”

“I’ll give it some thought,” Laurel said.

“Eat your lunch, Marilyn,” Ben said, frowning.

Marilyn laughed. “You’re getting crabby, Ben Skeeter. You’re the one who caused this whole fiasco. I’m just trying to be helpful.”

Ben’s handheld squawked, and he nearly hugged it for ending the conversation.

“Gotta go,” he said. “See ya.”

As Ben hurried out the door, Laurel watched him go, then began to clear the dishes from the booth where he’d been sitting.

“Well, it took four months or so, Laurel,” Marilyn said, “but you and Ben finally said more than three or four words to each other. Interesting. Very interesting.”

“Eat your lunch, Marilyn,” Laurel snapped, which caused the owner of the beauty shop to dissolve in laughter.

To Laurel’s amazement, the following hours went quickly and she was actually able to blank her mind due to the fact that they were extremely busy at the café. She and the other two waitresses hustled back and forth. Jane and her assistants in the kitchen never stopped preparing meals as well as afternoon snacks of May’s homemade pastries.

During the lull before the dinner crowd began to appear all the tables and the counter were given a scrubbing, the floor was swept, salt and pepper shakers filled, and on and on.

It was only when Laurel had to replace the ketchup bottle that Ben had nearly emptied onto his lunch that the entire episode began to replay, frame by frame, in her mind.

Ben didn’t want her to cut her hair, she mused as she checked the supply of napkins in the metal holders. He’d even said that her hair was beautiful and that he could remember how it had felt when…

Laurel sank onto a stool at the counter, plunked her elbow on top and rested her chin in her palm as she stared into space.

Goodness, she thought, this was so confusing. Why should Ben care one way or another what she did with her hair? And why had he been able to remember so quickly how it had felt when… This didn’t make sense at all. Ben Skeeter despised her, saw her as the person who had broken his heart by breaking her promises. So why…