The Bride Wore Denim by Lizbeth Selvig

moving in this direction?”
    In Skylar’s experience you could say almost anything on the ranch. Guys talked about girls and sex and cow sex and food and politics and pretty much everything else. She heard a lot the adults didn’t think she heard.
    She shrugged. “I don’t care. I don’t have a boyfriend; that’s no secret. The only person around here who’s cute enough to be a boyfriend is Cole.” She saw Harper’s features fold immediately into a frown. “Cole Wainwright, I mean. Do you know who he is? He’s hot.”
    “Oh, believe me, I know him. We’ve been friends most of our lives. He’s a very nice guy.”
    “My grandpa says the ranch runs smoother when Cole comes back every year.”
    Harper moved Chevy two steps closer and leaned forward over the saddle horn. “What are you working on? I don’t mean to pry, but it looks like you’re sketching, and I’m kind of an art fanatic.”
    Everyone said Harper was some kind of new-age, liberal hippie who lived in communes, protested things, and thought she was an artist. Skylar studied her fully for the first time. She sure didn’t look like any hippie she seen in books. She looked like a normal person in jeans and a cool, worn jean jacket and cowboy boots. In her own way, she was prettier even than Miss Joely. She took a deep, rebellious breath. Than Joely. No “Miss.” This wasn’t her mom’s freakin’ South Carolina.
    “I like to draw my horse. Sometimes I start the drawing then take pictures and finish it at home.”
    “Could I . . . see your drawing?” She seemed a little embarrassed to be asking. “You don’t have to. I know drawings can be private.”
    Skylar shrugged, surprised again. Nobody ever really looked at her drawings. “Yes, very nice,” they always said, and that was about it. “I don’t care. You can.”
    Harper straightened in the saddle and swung down, completely unlike a city-girl hippie. She held Chevy’s reins casually as she dug in a worn leather saddle bag, produced a notebook of some kind, and then flung the ends of the reins around a short, thick-branched bush.
    “Turnabout is fair play. I’ll show you mine, too,” she said.
    To Skylar’s astonishment, the notebook was a sketchpad, similar to her own. She handed hers to Harper first and took the one offered to her without opening it. Instead, she watched Harper flip pages. Suddenly, desperately, she wished she hadn’t agreed to give it to her.
    Harper’s face didn’t change, although her frown disappeared. She studied each page for a long time, as if she were looking at every line or . . . or for mistakes. To protect herself from the sudden urge to grab the book away, she opened Harper’s. With one glance at the first drawing, she had to swallow hard to keep from totally throwing up. It was just a flower, in pencil like her own sketches, but it looked like Harper had picked it out of the field and pressed it into the book. An actual photograph couldn’t have looked any more real.
    She flipped the page, spiral-bound at the top, and stared at the next drawings—three small studies of a stalk of wheat with grass stems blowing around it. Every little kernel of bran on the wheat head was perfect.
    Humiliation burned through her like a grass fire. If Harper didn’t laugh her head off at the drawings in Skylar’s book, it was because she was the nicest person in the world. With a sick fluttering in her stomach, she turned to another picture and then another. The horse barn. A bird feeder. A chicken. Skylar sighed. Even the quick line drawings were perfect. She turned the page a final time and gasped. She’d been so dumb. She’d asked if Harper knew Cole Wainwright, and there he was on the page. The sketch was simple, but there was no doubt whatsoever who it was.
    “Ahhh, you found Cole.” Harper smiled. “I did that for him to go with one I drew when we were kids. It’s not quite finished.”
    “Oh. Sure. That’s cool.”
    Skylar’s chest tightened, and