Page 63 of Fake It Till You Make It

“Don’t let the bride hear you.” She giggled. Eli rewarded her with one of his rare smiles again.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” he teased, glancing down at the empty basket he held. “Kinda like you didn’t tell me five kittens equaled your plus-one.”

“The kittens were for Phoebe to play with. Her father wasn’t going to keep her from them. Not on my watch.” Amarie had returned to the farm Friday morning, excited to share her furry bundle with Phoebe. Matt had met her at the door, scowl in place, expression grim. Ruth had taken Phoebe back home. Amarie had returned to the clinic, crestfallen. By midday, Eli and Leah had comforted her and helped to solve her problem. On account of their attending high school together, Gracie Lou had made sure to include Ruth, and Phoebe, in the wedding party. She suspected several of the ladies, Leah, Gracie Lou, Lois Kline, and Matt had created small ways to keep their eyes on the mother-daughter pair. Amarie loved them all the more for their care and concern.

Eli took her hand in his, squeezing. “Come on, superwoman. Let’s go show them how it’s done on the dance floor before I take you home.”

Normally she would refute the compliment with a string of examples of how ordinary she was. But witnessing the light brighten in Phoebe’s eyes, the whispered thank-you when Ruth had hugged her—the joy was unmatched. Except maybe by Eli’s lips on hers.

“My hero,” she preened, running her hand along his hard bicep to rest in the crook of his elbow. “And so handsome in your cowboy couture.”

“It’s not the clothes. It’s called swagger, sweetheart,” he said, placing a quick peck on her cheek. Okay, a warm-up kiss. Now, if he would just slide east to her lips.

Once the newlyweds toasted their happily ever after, Amarie inhaled two slices of the delicious apple butter pinwheel wedding cake then reapplied her nude lip gloss. Let the kissing commence. She would swirl around him like buttercream icing on sweet bread fresh from a hot oven. Gooey, sugary, lickable goodness.

Large plywood sheets had been fastened to a lattice of four-by-fours to create a dance floor overlooking Cattail Creek. Cords of lighted globes strung in a tic-tac-toe pattern hung above them, the warm glow adding to the magic of matrimony. Chucky McDaniels, who she suspected got mistaken for the famous Charlie Daniels, approached the microphone. He ran his bow across his fiddle. A dark, eerie note cut the air. He paused a beat, and then his fellow musician fired up the electric guitar, followed by the drums with a toe-tapping, soulful blend of sound.

Leah and Mr. Johnson dipped and spun beside them. “Show the city girl how the cowboys boogie, Eli,” Matt grinned, giving Amarie’s a suggestive wink.

Leah waved. “Amarie might teach you a new step, son. You two just have fun.”

“You remember the Watermelon Crawl line dance?” Eli called, his hand a heated mass at the small of her back. Turned out Eli had a knack for rhythm. He’d twirled her on the dance floor with fluid grace. Plenty of spins, dips, and two-steps happened that night. And she softened like chocolate fondue whenever he stepped close.

“How could I forget? That’s the night I discovered homemade pickles and Gery the gerbil prelaunched our TikTok campaign.” The Black Bear regulars had been enthusiastic in their support of the bachelor auction and spreading the word. They already had over five thousand new followers. The daily bid totals had increased, too. She and Eli were one step closer to achieving their mutually beneficial goal. But a little voice in her brain asked a question she had refused to answer: Could she leave Service if her career called for a relocation when so much of what she held dear resided right here in this tiny mountain town?

“Yes. Lead the way.”

“Daddy, no. Please don’t take them.”

That was Phoebe’s tiny voice. Amarie stilled in Eli’s arms. The music faded. The compulsion to defend and help those in need, especially a child, superseded personal happiness. After growing up in a home watching her mother bullied day after day, her self-preservation skills were honed. She wanted to protect Phoebe for the eleven-year-old little girl who had needed a champion. If she could save Phoebe, just maybe she was on the path to saving herself. Amarie’s entire body shook. Or maybe it was her courage roaring to life after a long hibernation. Before she registered the next action step, her feet carried her in the direction of the growing chaos taking place on the wooden bleachers.

Eli bellowed to her. “Amarie. Slow down.”

She ignored him, just like the father ignoring the sobs of his wife and daughter. Memories of the little girl she’d been, the one without a savior, armed her for this battle. Time stopped for no one, but she could stop this tragedy from happening for this one child. The scene unfolding before the wedding party and town folks rocked Amarie to her core.

“No. No,” Phoebe cried, clutching Formerly to her chest.

“Give me that kitten, you hear me, girl?”

“Bucky, please don’t do this,” Ruth pleaded, her hand grappling with her husband and the kitty he held aloft. “She’s your daughter. Just let her play with them.”

Eli grabbed Amarie from behind, pulling her to a stop. “Let me handle this.”

“But—”

Eli’s thinned his lips. “I got this.”

“Fine,” she huffed. “But I will bite him.”

He chuckled. “Got it, Mama Bear.”

They approached the Buchanans, with the others standing by to assist.

“Put the kittens in the basket, Bucky.”

The man spun on his heel to face Eli, swaying, but he didn’t fall. He held Raspberry, Graffiti, Artist, and Formerly in his grimy hands, thick dirt under his nails. Amarie frowned as the stench of days-old musk and corn liquor assaulted her delicate nose. Which said a lot since she worked in an animal clinic. The kittens didn’t seem to appreciate escalating tension, meowing,Help me, help me, please. Well, that was a bit of a dramatic interpretation on her part. But either way, they clawed at their captor’s brutish forehead with gusto.

“Wh-what are you gon-na do ta stop me, Eli?” Buckydrew his words out at odd intervals, the syllables swerving off-road before crashing in a slur of extrasss andiis. “You a lover and a fighter, now?”