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Everything I know, I learned fromdogs.

—Nora Roberts

HENSLEY JUNE FITZWILLIAM seemed a million miles away as she gazed up at the various displays in her shop windows from where she stood on the sidewalk in front of her wedding boutique, Hensley’s Wedding Creations.

One of the wedding gowns captured her imagination with its full skirt made of shiny white silk, its beaded bodice, the square neckline, and its voluminous sheer long sleeves. The dress stole her breath away.

It was so superbly elegant, she could easily imagine herself walking down the aisle at Dogwood Creek Community Church to marry the husband of her dreams, her handsome Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. That is, whenever she finally found him.

She tilted her head to one side, considering it—one of her own designs. Should she remove it from the mannequin and tuck it aside for herself? Would she exchange vows with her future Mr. Darcy in the gazebo in the park beside the church, or perhaps indoors, at her home church before the altar?

Ultimately, the location depended on the season and the weather when and if she married. Which depended upon her Mr. Darcy making his appearance. As one of five unmarried sisters, it would be nice if he made his appearance sooner rather than later .

She could imagine a fall or summer wedding in the gazebo. And if the wedding took place in the winter or springtime, an indoor ceremony just made sense. But she could certainly have some wedding photos taken in the gazebo.

Of course, she’d be wearing that dress or something equally mesmerizing. The joy of the moment held her captive, far away from Dogwood Creek, her small hometown nestled in the mountains of Tennessee. Population ten-thousand small.

But a car honked, startling her from her daydream. Then a dog began barking. Her pleasant reverie and Darcy’s imagined face faded as she whirled around to see what had sparked the disturbance.

Ah! Boscoe. Samantha Braeburn’s Golden Retriever. Everyone generally called the hair stylist Sam. She owned The Mane Event salon, right next door to Hensley’s wedding boutique. And Boscoe was an escape artist to the max.

He currently stood in the middle of Gooseberry Lane on all four paws, protesting a car that had stopped directly in front of him.

What was Boscoe doing out there in the street in the middle of traffic?

The honking vehicle faced west toward the post office and the grocery store.

Another vehicle, heading east toward the courthouse, had stopped also since Boscoe might make a move in any direction. Oh dear!

A rather nice looking fellow—except for his grungy tee shirt and jeans stained with what surely must be a great deal of dried mud—burst out of the hardware store.

He wore a cowboy hat perched on top of his head.

Hensley would recognize him anywhere! Blake Sterling, who was rumored to be a billionaire’s son.

Blake had moved to the area after purchasing some land for a log cabin resort development.

She’d seen him riding around town inside his limo.

In fact, he and his limo were big news around Dogwood Creek.

Everyone was curious about him, especially since he kept a low profile.

He must come from a great deal of money to have his own personal driver and limo.

Occasionally he drove a brand new, shimmery red, pickup truck.

She hadn’t been introduced to him yet, but there was a first time for everything.

The handsome cowboy ran into the street toward Boscoe and slowed when he was about three or four feet away.

For an instant, the dog, who was now successfully blocking even more traffic, turned toward Mr. Handsome Cowboy, wagging his tail.

Blake, in his mud-stained clothes and cowboy hat, made a valiant effort of waving his arms to beckon Boscoe out of the street toward the hardware store as he now eased backwards a few steps.

Boscoe’s tail stopped wagging. Then he tore off running toward her wedding boutique on the opposite side of the street from the hardware store. He leapt onto the sidewalk and raced toward Hensley. Could she catch him?

“Hey, Boscoe, here boy!” she called out, kneeling down to greet him. She spread her arms open wide to embrace the licks and tail wagging she would likely receive if he came to her.

But no—Boscoe zigzagged into the street and back onto the sidewalk, evading her.

Not even her familiar smile could stop him on his mission of freedom that spring April morning.

Such a smart but exasperating furry friend!

She sighed, rising precariously to her feet as Blake ran past her to catch the Golden Retriever.

“Boscoe!” Hensley placed her hands on her hips, shaking her head, and muttering under her breath. “You’re going to make us chase after you?”

Ack! It wasn’t the first time, but nonetheless, she joined the chase as Boscoe raced beyond the end of her storefront with Mr. Handsome Cowboy closing in, not too far behind.

Thankfully, her sister, Jenny, was inside the boutique and could handle any customers seeking wedding dresses.

With as many front windows as they had, she wouldn’t be surprised if Jen had seen the whole thing.

But now she found herself in her low-heeled ankle boots, chasing the cowboy who chased Boscoe, her heels clicking along on the sidewalk .

Awkward, to say the least.

Sure, she’d seen the cowboy around Dogwood Creek at church and at the diner with one of his friends, also new in town, Charles Eaton.

Charles was building a stunning A-frame cabin not too far from where she lived with her family.

She’d overheard folks calling him Bing, and it was the nickname Blake called him too.

Bing probably came from money as well. The idea of chasing the billionaire’s son in broad daylight on the streets of Dogwood Creek seemed somehow rather .

.. forward. But there was no time to consider her predicament now.

The important thing was catching Boscoe.

Blake maintained his lead closely behind the dog as the three of them crossed the street at the corner with barely a chance to check for traffic.

Boscoe took them past the courthouse and the bank; then the diner, The Gathering Place; and The Gazette —where her dad, a freelance inspirational columnist, frequently stopped in to discuss or submit his weekly column, The Tennessee Takeaway.

Soon, they were almost as far as the school.

Boscoe raced on, ignoring when they called out for him to stop.

The cowboy must have heard her mention his name, or perhaps he’d met the dog before, because he used it a few times when he called out.

Some folks backed out of their way, and Hensley was thankful the retriever kept to the sidewalk instead of dodging out into traffic again.

But several folks had nearly collided into them as they came out of the businesses on Gooseberry Lane, their mouths gaping open when they stepped onto the sidewalk during their rescue attempt.

The retriever now turned after the school building and cut across the school’s property on the lawn.

He seemed to be heading toward the bridge crossing over the winding creek the town had been aptly named for.

Hensley was growing weary, barely keeping up in her low-heeled suede ankle boots.

They’d seemed like a good choice to pair with her pretty spring dress in its pastel shade of sage green, but she wasn’t so sure now.

Her heart was pounding like crazy. And if Boscoe jumped into that creek, she was not going to jump into that icy cold water with him.

Tempted to give up, she hung in there on the chase—now a cross-country marathon.

But her feet were throbbing with searing pain, and she did all she could not to twist her ankle in any divets on the lawn.

It was softer than hitting the pavement in her boots, but she had to slow considerably at times.

Mr. Handsome Cowboy didn’t appear ready to throw in the towel.

But then someone wearing a hot pink jogging suit crossed the bridge and headed toward them while walking a cute little yippy Schnauzer.

Facing this new furry friend, Sam’s dog finally slowed.

Boscoe let out several whimpers and came to a full stop, frozen on all four paws, hesitant to proceed across the bridge.

Was that her friend and acquaintance, Charlotte Lewiston, from church, walking the miniature Schnauzer?

Sure enough, it was. Charlotte owned a dog-walking business and lived nearby, so it made sense that she might walk dogs on the school grounds where open land thrived and a walking trail wound along the creek.

Boscoe backed away, dipped his head down, and turned himself about, retreating toward the cowboy. Blake caught up to him and grabbed his collar, kneeling to pat him between the ears a few times, giving him some comforting words.

Hensley sighed with relief. Who would have thought a little yippy dog would stop a retriever in his tracks? Half chuckling and half breathless, she finally reached them.

HENSLEY LEANED OVER to rest both palms on her knees, gasping for air. When she recovered, she reached out to pat the retriever too. “Boscoe! You’re such a moron today, but maybe it’s why we love you so much.”

The cowboy, Blake, glanced at her, his eyes widening. Maybe because she’d referred to Boscoe as a moron. She ought to tell him to lighten up and that it was just a joke. Mr. Handsome Cowboy in his dirty clothes didn’t even crack a smile. Well, whatever his problem was, it wasn’t her concern.