“Stop fidgeting,” Hailey murmured, adjusting the veil that cascaded down his broad shoulders. She was dressed in a sharp, tailored tuxedo, her auburn hair slicked back. Her grin was that of a cat who had not only caught the canary but had also taught it to sing opera.

The ceremony was a spectacle. The minister, a man with a wobbling voice, asked, “Do you, Leo, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

Normally, the Harvest Festival ended with a pie-eating contest or a square dance. But this year, the mayor had lost a bet. And the mayor, a sharp-eyed woman named Hailey Cross, always collected her debts.