During my daughter’s wedding, she slipped a note into my palm: “Dad, help me.” Before the groom finished his vows, I stood up, stopped the ceremony cold—and the sheriff I’d invited quietly rose from the crowd. His smile vanished… because while he thought he was marrying into my Colorado ranch, I’d already spent months building the case that would destroy him.

And now, here she was at thirty, in a gown that somehow managed to be both simple and breathtaking. Ivory satin skimmed her figure, lace sleeves ending just below her elbows. Her hair cascaded in soft waves, pinned back with Linda’s pearl comb. Around her neck hung Linda’s pearls, the ones I’d kept in a box for three years because I couldn’t bear to see them on anyone else.

“Dad?” she asked, suddenly unsure. “What do you think?”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat.

“You look…” I started, then had to stop and try again. “Claire, you look like your mother did the day we got married. And that’s the highest compliment I have.”

Her eyes went glossy. She stepped forward, hugging me carefully, mindful of the makeup, the hair, the dress.

“Don’t cry,” she said, voice wavering. “If you cry, I’ll cry, and then the makeup artist will kill us both.”

I sniffed, tried to laugh.

“I’ll be stoic,” I promised. “Like a cowboy.”