“Picture a bunch of twinkle lights in those rafters, and the hay bales over there would be the edge of the dance floor.”

I deliver my most charming smile to the bride and groom before zeroing in on the mother of the bride. She beams like I’ve handed her a puppy and a vodka-laced Frappuccino, and I’m positive I am currently her favorite person in this barn.

I have that effect on moms.

But it’s the bride who needs convincing, so I turn back to her. Julia’s blonde hair is arranged in a stylishly messy French twist, and her outfit is classic college-girl-approaching-the-threshold-of-real-life. I want to ask where she found her vintage Coach bag, but now’s not the time.

“Did you get the Pinterest page I sent with those flowers in mason jars?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says slowly, glancing around like she expects a farm animal ambush. “They’d be pretty with rose gold ribbon.”

“Absolutely.” I flick a hand toward the imaginary tables. “Picture them with little stargazer lilies. Or maybe early-season tulips. Those should be available this time of year.”

Julia’s blue eyes continue a survey of the space, and I know she’s seeing it in her mind.

The rustic wine barrels spilling with wildflowers.

The cute chalkboard signs pointing people to her guest book.

The train of her gown gliding through a pile of fresh reindeer droppings.

The beast responsible for the droppings snorts and rubs her branchlike antlers on a post.

“Tammy won’t be invited to your ceremony,” I assure the bride and groom. “We keep the reindeer penned up during weddings.”

Tammy the reindeer stamps a hoof and keeps banging her antlers on the post. She’s due to lose them any day now, and I say a silent prayer it won’t happen in the next five minutes.

“It’s totally fine, honey,” the mother of the bride assures me. “The whole point of doing a rustic, country-style wedding is having some flavor.”

“We can certainly offer that.” I turn back to the happy couple. “We’re all about the quaint, country charm.”

The groom—who’s been mostly quiet up to this point—takes his bride’s hand and studies her face as intently as she’s watching Tammy. “What do you think, honey?” he says. “It has that homey, folksy vibe going for it.”

Julia does an agreeable little head tilt, though I can’t tell from her face if she thinks that’s a good thing or a bad thing. “I guess rustic country chic is all the rage right now.” She glances at me for affirmation. “I see a lot of that on Pinterest.”

I nod like a bobblehead, grateful for the powers of Pinterest in backing up my business plan. “Did you see last month’s cover of Bride magazine? Country chic is in.”

The mother of the bride puts a hand on her daughter’s arm. “Remember that episode of Say Yes to the Dress where they had those adorable burlap table runners and centerpieces with bright red apples in little metal tubs?”

Tammy the reindeer swings her antlers our direction, and I hold my breath. She knows that word, and she’s poised to stomp over here and start snuffing at pockets for Honeycrisps. I focus very hard on using mental telepathy to beg my sister to come drag the blasted reindeer out of the barn.

But since Jade and I aren’t telepathic, Tammy just stares.

“It’s nice, I guess,” Julia says, with roughly the same enthusiasm I’d use to describe the work gloves I bought last week.

“I think it’s totally charming.” The groom squeezes her hand, and I can tell he really means it. “My family would say it’s exotic.”

“Exotic.” Julia frowns a little. “That’s because they’re from Manhattan. It’s not exotic when you spent childhood summers mucking stalls.”

“Now, honey.” The mother of the bride puts an arm around her daughter’s shoulders and smiles at me. “It’s a hat tip to your heritage.”

“A way to blend our lives together.” The groom smiles, then lowers his voice just a touch. “And we are sort of in a hurry.”

The look they exchange confirms what I guessed the second these two first called about pulling off a wedding in five weeks.

My own furtive glance at his Allen Edmonds shoes and Ralph Lauren slacks fills out the rest of the picture: East Coast boy from old money knocks up college sweetheart whose middle-class upbringing comes from cattle ranching instead of blue chip stocks. Opposites attract, etcetera etcetera, and graduation’s close enough that no one will question a hasty spring wedding.

“How about I email you some figures and a link to another Pinterest board with a few ideas I think you might like,” I tell them. “That’ll give you some time to talk things over.”

The mother of the bride hoists her leather bag a little higher on her shoulder. “That would be lovely, dear. Can I also get you to send us some more suggestions for catering? None of the ones you mentioned were quite what we’re looking for.”

“We’re foodies,” the bride says, smiling as she shoots an adoring look at the groom. “Our first date was at Le Bernardin in New York City.”

“Not a problem,” I tell them, which isn’t totally true. Catering options are limited in Central Oregon, especially this time of year. “I’ll make some calls and see what I can find.”

“Wonderful,” chirps the mother of the bride. “We’ll be in touch.”

The three of them shuffle toward the door, and the groom holds it open for his betrothed. As the barn door closes, the bride’s voice carries back to me in a hushed half-whisper.

“It’s too bad that Ponderosa Luxury Resort place isn’t open yet. That would be perfect.”

Damn.

Well, we knew there’d be some overlap between the rustic country-style weddings we’re offering and the plans for hoity rich person weddings at the ranch-turned-luxury-resort down the road. It’s to be expected. We even met with their marketing VP to make sure no one’s stepping on anyone else’s toes, but still.

I turn and trudge out the door and into the paddock where my sister is busy shaving mud balls off the hindquarters of a large reindeer steer.

“This week on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous,” I announce. “The glamorous world of reindeer ranching.”

Jade rolls her eyes and snips another mud ball. “You want to give me a hand here?”

I grin and step close enough to plant a kiss behind the reindeer’s left antler. “Hey, Harold,” I say as Jade maneuvers an especially large glob of muddy fur. “Are you glad you don’t have to wear the Donner harness and jingle bells anymore?”

“So happy that he gave himself a mud bath,” Jade mutters. “How’d it go with the wedding couple?”

“Tammy was very helpful.”

“Crap, sorry. I thought I had her penned in.”

“It’s fine, she was mostly charming,” I say. “Pretty sure the couple’s going to sign on for that date in five weeks.”

“Shotgun wedding?”

“That’s my guess.

“God bless failed birth control,” my sister says.

“It’ll keep these guys in beet pellets and hay when they’re not earning their keep on the Christmas circuit.”

My sister snips another mud ball as Harold tosses his massive antlers in dismay. “I’m impressed we’re already booking this many weddings.”

“I am kind of impressive, aren’t I?” My cheeky quip earns me a snort from my sister and a grunt from Harold. I give him a scratch behind one enormous antler. “I think the catering thing is going to be an issue.”

“How so?”

“No one’s doing the farm-to-table thing everyone wants. Not this time of year, anyway. Options are limited for gourmet snobs.”

“It’s winter in a high-desert mountain town,” she points out. “The only thing growing right now is juniper.”

“Juniper’s good for gin.”

“What else would anyone need for a wedding?” Jade snips another mud ball and looks thoughtful. “You know, Brandon’s cousin is a Michelin-starred chef.”

“The one doing the restaurant stuff at Ponderosa Luxury Ranch Resort?”

I give the words the proper socialite sneer, even though we’ve mostly stopped mocking the neighbors for plunking down a rich person’s resort in the middle of freakin’ farm country. The fact that my sister is boning a member of their family might have something to do with that.

“Sean’s a great cook,” Jade says. “Maybe he has time for a side job, since they’re not opening for another couple months.”

“Huh.” I like this idea. “Plus winter’s slow for everyone,” I add. “And it could be a good way for them to get their name out there before they open.” I rub my hands down the front of my jeans, eager to see if this could pan out. “I can give him a call and see what he says.”

“Why don’t you go in person,” she says. “There’s a turkey in the barn that I promised we’d deliver today.”

“Alive or frozen?”

“Neither. It’s that stuffed turkey grandpa shot when it attacked you in the driveway, remember?”

“The highlight of my toddlerhood.” I kick at a dirt clod that looks like a misshapen penis, then feel bad when it crumbles to bits. “Why am I taking a taxidermied turkey to our new neighbors?”

“Some kind of photo shoot,” Jade says. “Bree asked to borrow the turkey and one of Dad’s old crossbows. They’re thinking about offering turkey hunting trips for rich snobs who want to pretend they’re outdoorsmen.”

“Sounds like a good way for Percival to take an arrow through the hand.”

“Percival?”

“That seems like a rich person’s name, doesn’t it?”

Jade looks thoughtful. “It’s a good name for our next reindeer calf, actually.”

I roll my eyes and turn toward the barn. “You’re weird.”

“Don’t forget the turkey,” she calls after me. “And the crossbow.”

Words I never expected someone to yell at me when I graduated with honors from the U of O marketing department.

I trudge into the barn and locate the feathery beast, shuddering at the sight of it. I haven’t seen the damn thing since third grade when I brought it to show-and-tell dressed in my mother’s favorite bra and panty set. It was the first of several occasions my parents were asked to have a talk with me about the difference between appropriate and inappropriate public behavior.

I tuck the crossbow under my arm and spend a few moments figuring out the best way to carry the damn bird. The taxidermist posed it like it’s poised to take flight, spreading its massive four-foot wingspan for full effect.

I settle for bear hugging it to my chest like the world’s most awkward infant, and I heft it into the cab of the work truck for the five-minute drive to Ponderosa Luxury Ranch Resort.

For years, the place was the vanity ranch of an east coast billionaire who showed up a few times a year to play cowboy. It barely registered on my radar until the guy up and died, leaving the place to his adult kids, who’ve spent the last year quietly transforming it into a country-style luxury resort.

I have yet to see it in person. Running a reindeer ranch at Christmas doesn’t leave much free time for tea and crumpets with the neighbors.

I pull through the massive wooden gates with the Ponderosa Luxury Ranch Resort logo spelled out in cast iron curlicue. The driveway is long and paved, which is the mark of extravagance this far out of town. Several massive, rustic-looking buildings line the drive, with signs announcing their intended purpose. There’s the “Cedar Golf Club” and the “Aspen Springs Day Spa,” and the “Tamarack Ballroom.” I wonder if all those trees consented to having their names plastered on monuments to the wealthy.

I pull up in front of the biggest building of all, the one with a massive sign declaring it the Ponderosa Lodge and Luxury Suites. Beneath that is a smaller sign indicating it’s also the home of Juniper Fine Dining. The whole building is designed to look like a vintage barn, but at ten times the size and with twenty times the windows. The water feature beside the front door probably cost more than my college education.

I park the truck and get out, then turn to grab my creepy welcome gifts. With the turkey hugged to my chest and the crossbow wedged awkwardly under one arm, I make my way along the paver-stone pathway to a set of massive glass doors that must be fifteen feet tall.

Hesitating a moment, I tap the bottom of the door with the toe of my boot. Not much of a knock, but the door swings open anyway. Automatic? Must be.

I step through it in a rush of light and sage-laced breeze, hoping I’m not walking right into someone’s living room. The place isn’t open to the public yet, so I’m not sure what to expect.

“Hello,” I call out, squinting against the bright sunlight crashing down on me from all four sides. Good lord, it’s going to cost a fortune to keep these windows clean. “Hellloooo?”

I blink hard, struggling to see anything through the flood of sunlight and the bundle of turkey feathers in my arms. There’s a figure up ahead, a man. He’s standing on a ladder, and as my eyes start to adjust, I realize “man” might be an understatement.

The dude is ripped. Broad shoulders, rounded biceps, and a build that could land him on the cover of Men’s Fitness. The scruff on his face is the color of toasted cinnamon, and the hand that grips a screwdriver is the size of a dinner plate. His hair is sandy and tousled like someone’s just run her fingers through it.

My fingers twitch at the thought of being that someone.

He turns and squints my direction, blinded by the force of the solar explosion gushing from the windows around me. As he blinks against the flood of light, I get a good look at his eyes. Good Lord, the color. Not just green, but a deep, shimmery bottle-green like glass glinting in the sun.

My mouth goes dry, and I stand there like an idiot while the guy gapes at me in silence.

“Holy shit,” he says.

And then he passes out.