Page 19 of Her Jolly Cowboy
The minister gets to the vows, and Rhett takes Frankie’s hands.
“Frankie,” he starts, voice rough, “I promise to love you on the good days and the bad days. I promise to hold your hand when the world feels too big, and to let you win every time we argue, unless it’s about pumpkin homicide, in which case we’re going to court.”
The whole barn erupts in laughter. Frankie’s crying and laughing at the same time.
She squeezes his hands. “Rhett Carson, I promise to love you even when you leave your boots in the middle of the floor and snore like a freight train. I promise to make you coffee every morning and to never, ever let you forget that you’re the best man I’ve ever known.”
They kiss before the minister even says they can, and the cheers are loud enough to rattle the rafters.
I watch Holly the whole time, and I know, down to my bones, that one day soon she’ll be walking toward me under these same lights.
The reception is pure magic.
The barn doors are thrown wide to the night, letting in the hush of fresh snow and the glow of a million string lights. Inside, it’s warm, loud, and perfect. The tables are draped in ivory linen, with centerpieces of pine, cranberries, and candles flickering everywhere, the string quartet traded in for a country band that knows how to make a dance floor shake.
I’ve got Holly in my arms before the bridal party is even announced.
She’s ditched the headset and clipboard, swapped her gray work dress for a deep-green silk number that hugs every curve. She’s barefoot, she kicked off her heels the second the ceremony ended, and she’s laughing as I spin her under the lights.
“Luke!” she squeals when I dip her low enough that her hair brushes the floor. “People are watching!”
“Let ’em.” I pull her back up, flush against my chest.
The band slides into a slow cover of “Tennessee Whiskey,” and the floor fills with couples. Rhett and Frankie are in the center, foreheads pressed together, swaying like the rest of the world had disappeared.
Holly loops her arms around my neck. “You’re trouble.”
“Only the good kind.” I slide my hands down to the small of her back, fingers brushing bare skin where the dress dips low. “You look like Christmas and sin, and I’m real grateful.”
She laughs into my shoulder. “You clean up nice yourself, cowboy.”
I’m still in the tux, jacket long gone, sleeves rolled, tie loose.
Grandma Martha barrels past us, doing some version of the electric slide with three of Frankie’s cousins. She catches my eye and points a finger. “You two quit makin’ eyes and get over here for the family dance!”
Holly’s eyes go wide. “Family dance?”
“Carson tradition,” I grin. “Nobody escapes.”
Ten minutes later, the band calls every Carson to the floor. Rhett drags Frankie, I drag Holly, Grandma drags the minister. We form one giant, ridiculous circle, arms over shoulders, and the band kicks into some polka-type song that no one really knows where it came from or when this tradition started.
We stomp, we clap, we holler made up lyrics off-key. Holly is laughing so hard she’s crying by the second chorus, her hair flying as I spin her under my arm and back into the circle. At one point, Grandma dips the minister, he goes scarlet, and the entire barn loses it.
When the song ends, Holly’s doubled over, breathless, palms on her thighs.
“I can’t breathe,” she gasps.
I haul her upright and kiss the laugh right off her lips. She melts into me, fingers curling into my vest.
Frankie appears at our side, veil crooked, cheeks flushed. “Holly. Bouquet. Now.”
Holly’s eyes go comically round. “Absolutely not.”
“Tradition!” Frankie sing-songs, already dragging her toward the raised platform where the cake sits like a vanilla-bean masterpiece.
I follow because no way am I missing this.
All the single women are herded to the floor. Holly tries to edge toward the back, but Frankie shoves her front and center with a wicked grin.
