Jason, Wren, and Luther stood outside the back room, boots planted in sawdust, waiting for Thomas to give them the signal.
When it came, Wren rapped lightly on the doorframe. “You boys ready? The girls are almost here.”
Inside, Ryder looked at Terry, eyes widening, a half-wry, half-nervous grin tugging his mouth. “This is it,” he murmured, the words rough as whiskey in his throat.
Terry brushed one last invisible speck off his brother’s shoulder, his smile steady. “This is it.”
The brothers stepped out, joining the line of men who had been his ballast through storms. Each wore black suit coats and vests set against crisp shirts, the starch softened by denim and scuffed boots, their black felt hats tilted just so. The groomsmen wore plain black ties; Ryder’s stood apart—a soft pink silk
