Heartland Wedding. Renee Ryan

how? Now, that was the problem.

      Lord, I could use a little guidance here.

      Eyes locked on the horizon, Pete rounded onto Main Street. The air was thick with the pleasant smells of summer, the scent equal parts sweet wildflowers and the tang of fresh-cut timber.

      It was no wonder he loved July on the prairie. He loved every month on the prairie, even when the harsh snows hit in winter. Sadly, Sarah had never been happy in High Plains.

      Pete should have known she wouldn’t adapt to life on the frontier. She’d always been fragile, frail even. Carrying his child had been the final blow to her uncertain health.

      He flexed his fingers several times, clamped his lips tightly together. He hated thinking about Sarah. Memories of her always made him restless and uneasy. He missed her, missed what might have been, missed the child he’d lost along with his wife. There were too many regrets, too much blame, so he cleared his mind, a growing habit since Sarah’s death.

      Tense, hands brushing his thighs, he prowled around the perimeter of what would eventually become the new town hall.

      The original building had been leveled by the tornado. Miraculously, neither the church on its right nor the schoolhouse on its left had been harmed. Some said the tornado had chosen one building over the others, as though it had a mind of its own. Pete believed otherwise. The Lord had protected the church and the schoolhouse.

      Pivoting on his heel, he retraced his path along the perimeter of the building. So far, only the frame, the east wall and several window casings had been constructed. There was a lot of work still to do to rebuild the town.

      Frustration rose, strong and urgent. And then, as if to taunt him, his mind circled back to Rebecca and the gossip that had started about them. A sickening dread dropped in his stomach. Just as he had failed Sarah, he was going to fail Rebecca.

      Marry her, a voice blazed through his mind. Today. Marry her today. Before it’s too late.

      Shocked at the intensity of the thought, and the tightening around his heart, Pete paced to his left, back to his right, and then rounded to the front of the building. With his gaze unfocused, he lifted his face toward heaven.

      Lord, how am I supposed to convince Rebecca that marriage is our best course of action when we hardly know each other? What if this doesn’t work out for her? What if she ends up hurt? What if—

      “Brooding again, Benjamin?”

      Unhappy with the interruption, Pete crammed his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Don’t push me, Zeb.” He kept his gaze locked on the sky above. “I’ve already been pushed enough for one day.”

      “Don’t doubt it for a minute.”

      Unsure what he heard in the other man’s tone, Pete swung around to glare at his friend. But instead of judgment, or even sarcasm, he saw only rough understanding staring back at him.

      As the owner of the town’s only mill and a town founder, Zeb Garrison was the wealthiest man in High Plains. Yet today, like most days, he was dressed in ordinary work clothes. Dark trousers, muslin shirt, broad-brimmed hat plopped over his black hair, all were covered with a thin layer of sawdust.

      “Been hard at work, I see.”

      Zeb shrugged. “Town can’t be rebuilt without lumber.”

      Pete heard the determination below the mildly spoken words. He knew firsthand just how strong his friend’s commitment was to High Plains and its people. Zeb was one of Pete’s oldest friends, and he had been the one to coax Pete to move here as the town’s blacksmith, paying for his and Sarah’s passages when there wasn’t enough money to make the trek across country.

      When Sarah died, Zeb had begun the search for a new town doctor. Not that Pete blamed Doc Dempsey for the tragedy, but it had been clear that the old man needed help. Zeb’s year-long search hadn’t proved successful—yet—but Pete knew Sarah’s death, Doc Dempsey’s advanced age and all the increased need for medical help since the tornado, kept his friend diligent in the ongoing pursuit.

      For that alone, Pete valued Zeb’s friendship.

      “Think we’ll get the building done in time for the festival?” Zeb asked.

      “We have to,” Pete answered with conviction. “The town needs a day of celebration.”

      Zeb nodded. “Yeah. It’s about time we focused on High Plain’s founding principles of faith, love and fortitude, rather than all the tragedies and loss we’ve had to endure.”

      Pete’s gut clenched, but he refused to think about Sarah or his son. He forced his mind on the town hall, and nothing else, especially his own loss.

      “It’s a mighty task we have ahead of us,” Zeb added.

      “We can do it.”

      “Yes, we can.”

      Of course, neither of them stated the obvious. If they wanted the town hall complete in time for the summer festival they would have to focus all their efforts on this one building. Even then, they would be cutting it close. The festival was scheduled for the end of August, a mere seven weeks away. There was at least nine weeks of work still to be done.

      Pete recognized the curling in his gut as apprehension. Unfortunately, the emotion wasn’t due solely to the rebuilding task that lay ahead. Zeb wasn’t finished with him yet.

      Feet braced, Pete swallowed back a sudden urge to return to his smithy, the one place where he could use work to free his mind and avoid well-meaning friends.

      “I heard about your conversation with Matilda Johnson this morning,” Zeb said in a deceptively neutral tone.

      Pete kept his gaze cemented to the window casing just to the left of the front door. “I suspect everyone in town has heard about it by now.”

      “Does Rebecca know she’s marrying you yet?”

      A pall of defeat enveloped him. “I informed her, yes.”

      “You informed her?”

      “Yeah.” Pete’s throat tightened. “She refused me.”

      “Pete, Pete, no wonder she turned you down, you can’t—”

      “Don’t, Zeb.” He lifted a restraining hand in the air. “There’s nothing you can say that I haven’t said to myself.”

      That earned him a dry chuckle.

      In the midst of his burning frustration, Pete experienced something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Peace. The kind of soul-deep serenity that came when he followed the Lord’s will for his life. He didn’t know why a sense of calm settled over him so completely. Nor did he know how he’d come to this point of acceptance. All he knew for certain was that marrying Rebecca Gundersen was the right thing to do.

      “She will marry me,” he said with renewed confidence.

      “Is that so?”

      Before he could explain further, Pete felt a prickling at the back of his neck. He shot a glance over his shoulder.

      “The Tully brothers.” He nearly spat the words.

      A muscle twitched in Zeb’s jaw. “Those boys have just about worn out their welcome in this town.”

      Pete made a sound of agreement in his throat, although “boys” was not an accurate term. Sal, the oldest and meanest, was in his late twenties. The other two were only a few years behind him. But no matter their age, with their filthy clothes, matted hair and raucous natures, the Tully brothers were walking, talking trouble.

      They’d arrived a month ago with the wagon train that had been devastated by the tornado, and had chosen to stay in town when the rest of the train had moved on. From day one, the “boys” had accepted food and lodging while providing little in return.

      “We’ve