High Country Holiday. Glynna Kaye

of the year in this Arizona mountain community, she wasn’t ready for winter.

      Or Christmas.

      Or Christmas weddings.

      Another gust rattled the window, tendrils of cold creeping in around its wooden framework. She stepped away from the glassy panes, thankful for her cashmere sweater.

      “My wife would kill me if she knew I was asking you to help.” The voice of Pastor Jason Kenton carried over the phone in an apologetic tone. “You know, because...”

      Yes, she did know. Because both he and his wife, Reyna, were aware she’d stepped away from responsibilities as a volunteer wedding coordinator when her own dream wedding three and a half years ago had taken a tragic turn.

      “I’m sorry about Reyna’s illness, Jason, but I don’t see how I could pull three weddings together on such short notice.” Not if they were anything like the over-the-top extravaganza she and her mother-in-law-to-be had once orchestrated.

      “There isn’t much left to do,” he assured. “Jake Talford and Macy Colston have been planning their wedding since last spring. Sharon and Bill since the summer. And you know the Diaz clan—the whole family will be on top of Abby and Brett’s special day. You’d be more of a go-to person representing the church, a reassuring voice for jittery brides and grooms.”

      Wasn’t that his job? She paced the hardwood floor, the powerful music of Handel’s Messiah that emanated from the CD player lending her strength to stand her ground.

      “I don’t have the time....”

      She’d scheduled church and community-related activities into her calendar months ago, including the Christmas charity gala for which she’d been voted the committee head. Dad, too, had expectations for seasonal entertaining. The holidays, even without a trio of weddings, could be exhausting when you and your widower father played a prominent role in the community.

      A pang of apprehension shot through her. Dad wasn’t going to like what she intended to tell him after the first of the year...that she’d soon no longer be at his beck and call. That is, if she could garner the courage to make the break. Life away from Canyon Springs? Could she do it?

      She had to.

      “Would you be willing to think about it?” Jason coaxed. “Maybe pray about it?”

      She could almost see his eyebrows rise in question as they often did during Sunday morning messages when challenging his congregation.

      “I’m not sure I can commit to doing even that.”

      “Taking this on may help you work through things,” he said gently, again broaching the issue they both knew stood between yes and no. “Weddings are meant to be happy times, Paris. A celebration of God joining two lives for His purposes.”

      “I understand, but...” While it was difficult seeing others caught up in their happily-ever-afters, the real issue behind her reluctance was one which Pastor Kenton knew nothing about.

      “No matter how brides try not to let it get to them,” he continued, “the tiniest of setbacks can throw them into a tailspin. But I have confidence you can help these gals keep the right perspective. Honestly, Paris, this shouldn’t take much of your time.”

      A skeptical smile touched her lips. Maybe she’d better get his wife to confirm that. But Reyna hadn’t yet been released from the hospital in Show Low, and Jason had mentioned earlier in the conversation that she had a long way to go to recover from a serious bout of pneumonia.

      “Could I get back to you tomorrow?” Why was she even saying that? She couldn’t allow herself to be sucked into a world of weddings and receptions and starry-eyed couples. Into a world where her “widowed” status drew misunderstanding and undeserved sympathy. But Reyna was more than the pastor’s wife, she was a friend.

      At her words, Jason perked up. “Tomorrow? You’ve got it. And no pressure. I promise. Take a look at your calendar and see if you can fit this in.”

      She knew what the calendar looked like and it wasn’t pretty.

      “Reyna and I would both be forever in—” He brought himself up short with a self-conscious laugh. “No, no pressure. Think about it. Pray about it. I know this isn’t an easy decision to make.”

      * * *

      There it was again.

      Cody Hawk averted his gaze, pretending not to notice, but it disturbed him just the same. The expression was fleeting, evasive. Sometimes curious, suspicious or even—could he only be imagining it?—silently accusing.

      But above all, it was a look of recognition, one that had become annoyingly familiar since returning to his hometown of Canyon Springs two days ago. Not even Christmas melodies piped onto Main Street the morning after Thanksgiving or snowflakes floating through the air made it any more palatable. You’d have thought that after a dozen years people would have forgotten about him and gotten on with their own lives.

      Squaring his shoulders, he strode across the street to the office of Perslow Real Estate and Property Management. A two-story natural stone building with a cheery pinecone wreath gracing the door, it exuded a rustic warmth suitable for drawing in newcomers to purchase or rent a piece of what was touted as a mountain country paradise.

       Paradise.

      The misnomer left a bitter taste in Cody’s mouth. The community might be a dream come true for those who had the financial means to buy their way into it, but it showed a much different side to those with lesser resources.

      Sleigh bells on the office door announced his entrance, jingling as if delighted to welcome him. Not likely. He closed the door to block a blustery gust, then stuffed his gloves in his pockets, unzipped his jacket and pulled off his baseball cap. A faint tang of pine emanated from a half-decorated Christmas tree in the corner. Several boxes of ornaments and a rope of tinsel lay neglected at its base as if a holiday elf had been suddenly called away.

      Although the waiting room was devoid of visitors and no one manned the front desk, he could hear the distinctive strains of Handel’s Messiah overriding a feminine voice coming from a partially open door. It was a one-sided conversation, as if someone was on the phone.

      Had it really been a dozen years since he’d charged out of this place, boiling mad and head held high from having told his father’s boss—Paris Perslow’s father—what he could do with his job offer?

      Dumb kid. He hadn’t been old enough or smart enough to know burning bridges could come back to haunt you. What was that parting line he’d tossed at Mr. Perslow that memorable afternoon? Just you wait and see. Someday you’ll be groveling at my feet. Sir.

      Cody groaned inwardly at the sarcasm with which he’d laced that final word of his tirade. Well, he might be only minutes away from being shown the door, but what choice did he have?

      Reluctantly moving to the seating area, he’d barely lowered himself into a burgundy leather chair when the final notes of the classic Christmas choral piece faded away as the woman in the back room wrapped up the conversation. Her lilting tones now clearly reached Cody’s ears.

      A viselike sensation tightened around his chest.

      It couldn’t be, could it? But that voice...

      He stood and moved swiftly to the door. This wasn’t the time or place for a reunion. Not when anyone could walk in on them at any minute. Her dad. A coworker. Her husband.

      “May I help you?” a melodious voice called from behind him as he reached for the doorknob.

      He tensed, willing his heart to slide down out of his throat and back into his chest. Please let this be a cousin. A long-lost sister. With effort, he turned to look directly into the smoky-gray eyes of a woman far more exquisite than the girl he’d long remembered.

      A soft charcoal sweater, jeans, English riding-style boots and dark brown hair pulled