A Winter Wedding - Brenda Novak

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expected the person who might be renting his farmhouse to be someone truly famous. “In Angel’s Camp, right? This is the Lourdes Bennett who sings ‘Stone Cold Lover’?”

      “That’s the one.”

      “Why would she have any interest in coming here?” he asked.

      “I have no clue,” Morgan replied. “But you’re about to find out. She flew into Sacramento Airport this morning and rented a car. She’s on her way, should be here any minute.”

      “Is she coming by herself?”

      “Sounded like it.”

      Kyle scratched his head. “That seems odd.”

      “What seems odd?”

      “The whole thing. If she’s from Angel’s Camp, why isn’t she going there? Why would she want to spend the holidays in Whiskey Creek?”

      “You’ll have to ask her,” Morgan said. “Unless you want me to show the house. I’d be happy to take over for you.”

      He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Sorry, you have a couple of hours before quitting time, which you’ll spend here. I’ll take care of meeting Ms. Bennett.”

      She huffed. “Great. I’ll be the one to get tortured by your ex-wife.”

      “Just point her to the back corner of the warehouse, where I put that used water heater.”

      “I’d like to point her somewhere, but it isn’t to the back of the warehouse.”

      He chuckled. “Be careful crossing her. She can be vengeful.”

      “You’re too nice to her. She doesn’t deserve a guy like you, even as an ex.” She mimed zipping her lips. “But that’s it. That’s all I’m going to say.”

      “Thank you.”

      She straightened the cowl of her sweater. “I hope Lourdes Bennett wants the house. Wouldn’t it be exciting to have her in town—on your property?”

      He wasn’t so sure. Thanks to Noelle, he’d had about all he could take of difficult women. “Unless she’s a diva. But if she is a diva, I can’t imagine why she’d rent my house. A diva would want something fancier—in Bel Air or the Bay Area.”

      “Whiskey Creek may not be as famous as San Francisco or LA, but it’s beautiful here in the foothills. And she’ll love the house. After what you’ve done to the place, who wouldn’t?”

      Built in the thirties, it had once been a farmhouse, which was why they still referred to it as the farmhouse. When he’d purchased the land so he could expand his plant, he’d decided to update the house that was there and turn it into another rental. He already had a couple of places he rented out, so it made sense. “The house is only about a thousand square feet.” He’d opened up the kitchen and living room areas and expanded the office, but there were only two bedrooms and two baths. That wouldn’t be conducive to hosting a large group, so if she planned to bring her whole entourage for a Christmas party or something, it wouldn’t work.

      “One person can’t need any more space than that,” Morgan said.

      “If it is just one person.” Kyle was tempted to search Google for Lourdes’s name. He sometimes listened to country-western music, enough to be familiar with her song “Stone Cold Lover” as well as one other that he couldn’t remember the title of. But he didn’t know anything about her background, family, age or marital status, and now he was curious. From the pictures he’d seen, she didn’t look much older than twenty-five or twenty-six, but who knew how current those photos were? She could’ve played the bars and honky-tonks for years before getting any serious attention.

      He would’ve taken a few minutes to read up on her if he hadn’t been afraid Noelle would arrive before he could leave. That made him decide to use his smartphone instead of his computer, since he could do it off the premises.

      Grabbing his coat, he told Morgan he’d see her in the morning and drove over to the rental.

       2

      This was what all the fame and fortune she’d earned so far boiled down to?

      Lourdes Bennett frowned as she pulled up beside the truck that was parked at the address she’d been given and removed her sunglasses so she could get a better look at the place. The countryside she’d passed through felt familiar—little wonder, since she’d grown up in a similar town not far from Whiskey Creek. And the house, an old-fashioned, wooden A-frame, was charming. A swing hung on the front porch, further enhancing its homey appeal. But Whiskey Creek wasn’t where she’d be if all was well in her life. So far, her exile was self-imposed, but if she couldn’t get back on top of her career, there’d be no point in returning to Nashville for professional reasons.

      A man appeared in the doorway. Had to be the landlord. He must’ve heard her drive up.

      Quickly sliding her sunglasses back on—as a shield against his recognition of her more than anything else, since that could be awkward—Lourdes opened her door and stepped out. It was starting to get dark, but she could still see.

      “You found it okay, huh?” the man said as he came toward her.

      The wind had kicked up and tossed her hair, and she held it back. “Just followed my GPS.”

      “I’m glad it didn’t lead you astray. GPS can be kind of squirrelly in some places. With all the hills in Gold Country, you can’t always get a signal.” When he drew close, he stuck out his hand. “Kyle Houseman.”

      Fairly tall, maybe six-one, her landlord looked a great deal like Dierks Bentley, only with darker hair. She’d played several gigs with Dierks over the years, so she could easily compare them. Not only did they have similar facial features, they also were both fit, both in their midthirties, and they both had million-dollar smiles.

      “I’m Lourdes.” She didn’t mention her last name. She preferred not to make a big splash. That was why she’d asked Derrick to handle the negotiations, and why she’d chosen Whiskey Creek instead of Angel’s Camp. Whiskey Creek was as close to home as she could get while keeping a low profile.

      “I’m familiar with some of your songs,” Kyle said. “Congratulations on your success.”

      Her first album had received quite a bit of radio play, which was more than most aspiring artists obtained. The success had been fun while it lasted, but after the decade it had taken to land a major label, it hadn’t lasted nearly long enough. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m not looking for that sort of attention—for any attention, really. I just need a quiet place to get away for a few months.” And to try to reclaim what she’d destroyed when she attempted to make it in an even bigger market and switched over to pop music. “You know, without anyone noticing.”

      “No problem. Not on my end, anyway. But...” He studied her for several seconds. “You grew up in a small town.”

      “Yes.”

      “Then you know what they’re like, how people talk.”

      “Of course. I don’t plan to be seen much. And this house seems to be off the beaten path. Surely no one would approach me in my home...er, your home.” She couldn’t say the same for Angel’s Camp. After her father died of bladder cancer, her mother had followed her to Nashville. She’d always wanted to be there, since she’d once had dreams of a music career of her own. So, shortly after Lourdes’s two younger sisters, Mindy and Lindy, identical twins, had graduated from high school, Renate bought a nice three-bedroom, two-bath condo not far from Lourdes’s own place. And once Mindy and Lindy had finished college, they’d settled in Tennessee, too. They were currently sharing an apartment. Although her family had never expected Lourdes to help them financially, everyone wanted to be part of

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