The Borrowed Bride. Susan Wiggs

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      Praise for the novels of

      SUSAN WIGGS

      “Wiggs is one of our best observers of stories of the heart. Maybe that is because she knows how to capture emotion on virtually every page of every book.”

      —Salem Statesman-Journal

      “[A] beautiful novel, tender and wise. Susan Wiggs writes with bright assurance, humor and compassion about sisters, children and the sweet and heartbreaking trials of life—about how much better it is to go through them together.”

      —Luanne Rice on Just Breathe

      The Borrowed Bride

      Susan Wiggs

       www.mirabooks.co.uk

      During her own bridal shower, Isabel Wharton is whisked away by past love Dan Black Horse to his retreat in the Cascade range. But returning to her Native roots, and Dan’s loving arms, is harder than she ever imagined.

      Dear Reader,

      This story, first conceived of fifteen years ago, has a special place in my heart for several reasons. It is the very first work I created for Harlequin Books and ultimately led to my very happy home publishing under the MIRA imprint. I’ll forever be grateful to editor Marsha Zinberg for the opportunity.

      The Borrowed Bride takes place in my adopted home state of Washington, and I hope it conveys the wonder and beauty of this region. Re-reading the novella was a glimpse through a different lens, and I was able to see how much of my current writer’s voice was present early on, and how a story like this laid the groundwork for the novels that would come after. Still, the story needed updating in a few spots. And unfortunately for Washingtonians, but fortunately for my editors, there is still poor cell phone service in the area where the story takes place. Overall, I’m happy to report that my general worldview of the redemptive power of love is still in place.

      I hope you enjoy this romantic journey and that your own dreams are coming true for you each and every day.

      Happy reading,

      Susan Wiggs

       Rollingbay, Washington, USA www.susanwiggs.com

      To Mary Hyatt, my own dear mensch, with love.

       Here’s to long-distance friendships!

      Dance. Everywhere, keep on dancing.

      —Native American prophecy

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Acknowledgments

      One

      Isabel Wharton’s dreams were finally coming true—or so she thought. Surrounded by a burst of springtime and eleven chattering women, she prepared to join their intimate circle, to become their daughter, sister, niece, cousin when she married Anthony Cossa.

      The bridal shower, held in the garden of a cottage café on Bainbridge Island, was winding down. Isabel tore open the second-to-last package and peered at the gift, then beamed at her future sister-in-law.

      “It’s lovely, Lucia. Simply lovely.” What is it? The thing resembled something she had seen in her ob-gyn’s office. She bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from asking. Lucia and Connie and Marcia would be the sisters she’d never had.

      “A silver pasta server.” Connie, Lucia’s younger sister, set aside the package. “Leave it to Lucia to assume you want to cook pasta.”

      Ah, but Isabel did want to cook pasta. And cannoli and tiramisu and gnocci, all for Anthony. She wanted to do everything for Anthony. He would make the perfect husband, and better still, he came with a family that was so large, so boisterous and so loving that she was engulfed by a feeling of belonging.

      They would warm the cold, empty places inside her. At least she hoped so.

      “I saved the best for last.” Connie perched on the edge of her white wicker garden chair.

      Isabel caught Mama Cossa’s eye and winked. “I’m not sure I trust your daughter.”

      “I haven’t trusted Connie since she tried out for the seventh-grade wrestling team.”

      Isabel laughed and removed the slick, metallic gold wrapping paper. Female hoots filled the garden as she lifted a wispy silk garment from the box.

      “Now that,” Connie said with great pride, “is hot.”

      Isabel stood, holding the lacy red teddy against her. The silk felt as cool and insubstantial as mist. The lace plunged to her navel; the legs were cut sinfully high. Even held against her India-cotton skirt, the teddy felt wicked and wild.

      “I figure Tony will have a heart attack when he sees you in it,” Connie said. “But at least he’ll die happy.”

      The women’s laughter chimed like music in the garden. Isabel felt a wave of affection and gratitude, along with a feeling of contentment so sharp and sweet that her chest hurt. These women—Anthony’s sisters and aunts and nieces, his beautiful mother—were to be her family. Her family.

      Ever since she’d moved to Bainbridge Island and established her plant nursery, she’d begun to feel as though she really belonged somewhere. All that had been missing was a family, and now she was about to get that, too.

      They began to drift homeward then; most of the guests were staying on the island, where the wedding would take place in just one week. Mama Cossa, good-humored but limping from bursitis, gave Isabel’s hand a squeeze. “See you at the rehearsal dinner, dear.”

      Only a few women remained when a faint hum sounded in Isabel’s ears. She gazed down the length of the garden. The flower beds and trees were drenched in the glory of sunshine. Just past the tops of the towering fir trees, she could see the sparkling waters of Puget Sound.

      The island, she decided, was paradise on earth. She had built her life on a foundation of shattered dreams, but finally everything was falling into place.

      The roaring grew louder. It was the sound of a boat motor or a car without a muffler—urgent, industrial, a faintly animalistic low grumble.

      Connie and the others, who had been bagging up torn paper and ribbons, paused and turned. Isabel frowned. And then, right where the gravel driveway turned off from the road, he appeared.

      He was an image out of her worst nightmare. Clad in black leather. A bandanna around his head. Inky, flowing hair. Mirror-lens sunglasses. The Harley beneath him bucking and spitting gravel like a wild animal.

      “I smell testosterone,” Connie murmured as the machine roared up a terraced garden path.

      Isabel stood frozen, immobile as a block of ice. The apparition skidded to a halt, jerked the bike onto its kick-stand and walked toward her. Long, loose strides. Tall boots crunching on the path. Tiny gold earring winking in one ear. Long brown hands hanging at his sides.

      “Somebody call 911,” Lucia whispered.

      He yanked off the mirror glasses and stared at Isabel. Dark brown eyes dragged down the length of her. Then he reached into the lingerie box on the table and