by Linda Howard
Next, the bride’s mother was seated, to a Garth Brooks tune of her own choosing. Her dress was at least one size too small, and way too short. Spaghetti straps weren’t what Jaclyn would have chosen for the occasion.
Her entrance was followed by the tulle-draped red wagon in which rode the bride’s eleven-month-old daughter, who was dressed in flounces of white and had a baby blue bow taped to her almost-bald head. Who would have imagined that the something new and the something blue might come in the form of another man’s baby?
That’s not my concern, Jaclyn thought, and not for the first time. It wasn’t her job to fix the couple’s life, just their wedding ceremony.
The baby wasn’t happy. One of her cousins, a sullen six-year-old boy, pulled the wagon, jerking it along. The baby entered the barn crying, her wails getting louder and louder until the wagon reached the end of the “aisle” and she saw her grandmother. “Mamamamama,” she blubbered, holding out her chubby little arms. If the bride had thought the baby was going to placidly sit in the red wagon, looking cute, she was going to be disappointed. The baby wanted out of the wagon, and she wanted out now.
“Raquelle, hush,” said the grandmother, then, when it became as obvious to her as it was to everyone else in the barn that the baby wasn’t going to hush, she sighed and gave in, lifting the little girl out of the wagon, onto her lap.
The baby had a stripper name. At least, when she got older, she wouldn’t have to go online to find out what it was, Jaclyn thought.
Next came the parade of bridesmaids and groomsmen. Garth was replaced by Shania Twain. Originally the bride had wanted to have the attendants line dance down the aisle; she’d gotten the idea from YouTube. In Jaclyn’s experience, some things sounded good in theory, but rarely worked out as well as imagined. This was one of them, and thank goodness the bride had seen the wisdom of restraint in this case.
Except for a groomsman with a plug of tobacco in his cheek—Jaclyn wished she’d seen that earlier—and the occasional hip-wiggle aside, the procession went well.
The music stopped, then changed dramatically, swelling to fill the barn. Originally the bride had wanted her own country song, but Jaclyn had convinced her to walk down the aisle to Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.” A touch of tradition in this very untraditional wedding was a very good thing.
Everyone stood and faced the aisle. The snow-white, ankle-length dress the bride wore was cut lower than Jaclyn would’ve suggested—the bride’s philosophy was If you have it, flaunt it—and was a size too small through the hips. Jaclyn’s sewing kit was in her purse. She prayed there wouldn’t be a need for it today, but there was a definite danger of split seams. The hair, another job for the aunt who wanted no help but needed it desperately, was big. Big big. Bimbo big. But thanks to a makeover Jaclyn had recommended, the bride’s makeup was tasteful, and the bouquet Bishop had fashioned was elegant and appropriate. The good helped to temper the bad, and Jaclyn supposed she had to be grateful for that.
After the bride was past them, Bishop leaned in and whispered, “They’re not cousins, are they?” She didn’t even dignify that with an answer. As they sat, Bishop added, “It must be true love.”
Or temporary insanity.
Eric’s shoulders were shaking from suppressed laughter.
The ceremony itself proceeded without incident. For her own peace of mind, Jaclyn spent the entire time leaning slightly away from Eric, trying not to touch him, but he was so blasted big he took up more than his allotted space.
Finally the unconventional minister said, “You can kiss her now,” and then, as the newlywed couple turned to face their guests, he added, in a booming voice, “Now, let’s eat! There’s plenty of good vittles waiting for us outside.”
“Vittles,” Bishop repeated, his pronunciation precise and clipped. “Goody.”
Chapter Twenty-four
THE SUN HAD GONE DOWN AND THE FIERCE HEAT OF THE day was abating, but the barbecue wedding reception party was still going strong. Beer was flowing—both in and out, judging by the number of trips people were making to the two portable toilets that had been discreetly located behind the barn. To Jaclyn’s surprise, the party stayed within semi-acceptable limits, which meant that so far there hadn’t been any fistfights and no one had pulled a knife on someone else.
Unfortunately, the bride and groom showed no sign of going anywhere, and until they left, neither could Jaclyn. Neither the bride’s mother nor her aunt had shown any interest in overseeing that part of the night. If the happy couple was in a hurry to start their honeymoon, it didn’t show. The groom had shed his suit coat and tie, unbuttoned his top shirt button, and rolled up his sleeves so he could better enjoy the dancing. The bride and all of her bridesmaids had disappeared into the barn, reappearing about half an hour later to also join in the dancing, with all of them having changed into short, flirty dresses. A couple of them—okay, several of them—went past “flirty” straight into “slutty” territory, but at this point it wasn’t Jaclyn’s business if the bridesmaids drummed up some extra money on the side.
The live band was comprised of five middle-aged men, dressed in jeans and T-shirts, who weren’t bad musicians. That wasn’t to say they were good, exactly, but they did okay. They had a surprisingly extensive repertoire, ranging from classic rock to a lot of the more popular country tunes of today, all of which the crowd danced to with more enthusiasm than skill, but no one seemed to care if they could dance or not. Having fun was the point.
A huge tent had been erected, with a roughly built “stage” at one end, and at the other end were long folding tables laden with pretty much the same menu that had graced the reception the night before, and set off to the side were coolers filled with longneck bottles of beer. Folding card tables and plastic lawn chairs had been arranged under the tent’s canopy; Jaclyn had done her best here, covering the card tables with picnic-style tablecloths and arranging different-colored jugs filled with daisies in the center of each table. As the twilight deepened and the colored Christmas lights that outlined the tent were turned on, she had to admit the effect, though rustic, did have a certain free-spirited charm. Battery-operated votive candles flickered on the tables. Though real candles had grace, at least these lights wouldn’t set the tent on fire if a table was knocked over, which, considering the amount of beer being consumed, became more and more likely as the party wore on.
Bishop was not only still there, he’d thrown himself into the party spirit. First he’d enticed the groom’s mother—her name was Evelyn—into indulging in a beer, which had helped her relax enough that she’d actually smiled, for the first time that day. After half of another beer Bishop began teasing her about dancing with him, trying to entice her onto the dance floor, which was nothing more than rough wood planking laid in place on the ground and an equally rough frame nailed in place around the boards to keep them from drifting apart.
“Oh, I couldn’t do that!” she exclaimed, a look of shock on her face.
“Sure you can,” Bishop cajoled. “I’ll teach you how to line dance.”
“What’s line dancing?”
“It isn’t shaking your booty, it’s more like the dancing people did on Pride and Prejudice. People stand side by side and do the steps—”
“But I don’t know any of the steps.” Her cheeks were flushed, and she darted a nervous but vaguely longing glance toward the dance floor.
By now Bishop had her by both hands, urging her to her feet. “It’s easy to learn, I’ll show you. C’mon, it’ll be fun!”
Jaclyn watched, smiling. Bless Bishop, not only for staying, but for paying attention to the poor woman and actually having her laughing now. She might never be happy with her son’s choice of wife, the marriage might not last past next week, but she wouldn’t look back and remember the wedding with total misery.
Bishop positioned them off to the side so they wouldn’t interfere with the other dancers, who were whirling and gyrating, and began walking his partner through t
he steps. After the third pass-through, she began to get the hang of it, remembering when to clap, sometimes remembering when to kick. She was laughing, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright.
The band wasn’t slow. They saw what was going on, and swung into Brooks and Dunn. “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” began blaring from the speakers. A couple of women squealed, and several of them hurried to align themselves with Bishop and Evelyn, stomping and scootin’ and clapping. Bishop was laughing, his usual sardonic expression completely missing in action, and Evelyn was laughing in return whenever she missed a step.
“Thank you,” the groom said, coming up beside Jaclyn and handing her a cold, frosty bottle of beer.
Surprised, she automatically took the beer. “For what?”
He was a little sweaty from his own efforts on the dance floor, his hair falling forward onto his forehead, his eyes sparkling and his color high. He nodded toward his mother. “For making Mom laugh.”
So he wasn’t completely oblivious to the turmoil he was putting his family through, as she’d thought. If he was going into this marriage with his eyes open, he might actually have a chance to pull it off, though she was fairly certain that would mean separating his bride from her current crowd of friends. On the other hand, he might fit in with that crowd better than she thought, in which case Evelyn probably had some sleepless nights filled with worry in her future. You just never knew with people. And because you didn’t know, because she couldn’t fix things even if she did know, Jaclyn smiled and took a sip of the beer. “Don’t thank me, at any rate. Thank Bishop. I had no idea he even knew what line dancing was.”
“Who is he? Your boyfriend? I thought the cop was.”
He didn’t seem upset at the idea that people he didn’t know were at his wedding, drinking and eating. “No, Bishop is the florist who did your flowers. He usually leaves as soon as he has everything in place, but today he decided to stick around. I’m sorry, I should have asked permission.” The fact that she hadn’t, that the idea hadn’t even occurred to her, was a testament to how off-balance the whole day had been for her.
He waved her apology away. “That’s fine. Doesn’t matter to me. So the cop’s your boyfriend?”
She opened her mouth to deny that, too, then realized that if she did, she had no ready explanation for Eric’s presence. She could either explain the whole complicated series of events, which she didn’t want to do, or she could let everyone think she habitually invited friends to the weddings she oversaw, which was in most ways worse than telling the truth. But if she said he was on duty—he was, wasn’t he?—she ran the risk of half the guests bolting, and ruining the party. Evidently they had all decided he was there only because he was dating her, and for some reason that made him less threatening. “Kind of,” she finally said, lamely.
“Thought so.” The groom clinked his bottle with hers, winked, and wandered away in search of his new wife.
Jaclyn looked at the bottle of beer in her hand. She should set it down; she wasn’t much of a drinker, and she never drank anything alcoholic when she was on a job. The problem with this job was that she was more bystander than organizer, she’d already done everything she could do short of getting the bride and groom in a car—please, God, soon—and, damn it, she was hot and thirsty and the beer was cold and wet. She wasn’t crazy about beer, but what the hell. She tilted the bottle and drank some more.
She had almost finished the beer when an arm suddenly clamped around her waist and she looked up, startled, into Mullet Head’s smiling face. “C’mon, sweet thing, let’s dance!” And he began dragging her toward the dance floor.
Eric had been keeping his distance, more out of respect for the fact that Jaclyn was working than for any other reason, but he’d positioned himself, at the back of the tent close to the tables of food, where he could keep an eye on her. The location had turned out to be doubly advantageous. He’d had beer and barbecue pressed on him; he’d refused the beer and taken the barbecue, along with sides of potato salad and coleslaw. There were a few soft drinks and juices available, for the kids, so he drank a soft drink and ignored how good an icy beer would taste. The barbecue was damn good. The minister said it was because he set an open can of beer inside the barbecue grill and then kept the grill closed while the meat cooked; supposedly the hot beer added moisture to the meat and made it tender. Maybe there was truth to that, because the meat was outstanding.
If there was any public place where Jaclyn was safe, this was probably it. For one thing, very few people knew where she was. The other three women who worked at Premier did. Obviously Bishop Delaney had known where she’d be, which was a weak link he didn’t like even though he didn’t think Delaney had anything to do with either Carrie Edwards’s murder or the attempt on Jaclyn’s life. Eric had come to appreciate how linked the business of putting on a wedding was, with the same people running into each other again and again. Event planners had their favorite vendors that they recommended, in case the client didn’t already have someone in mind. If Delaney mentioned to someone where he’d be, and who was directing, that someone could easily tell someone else and word could get to the wrong person.
But this place wasn’t easy to find. The barn wasn’t visible from the road. It was on private property, and there was only that one farm trail leading in. If he hadn’t had Jaclyn’s schedule and paperwork, and a GPS, he might not have found it himself.
Last but not least, he thought Jaclyn was fairly safe here because most of the people around her weren’t the type to take kindly to someone being shot in their midst, and disrupting their fun. If all the vehicles here were searched, he was certain at least three quarters of them would have firearms in them. The pickup trucks had shotguns and rifles easily visible in rear window brackets; the cars would have pistols tucked in consoles and glove compartments, or under the seats. The shotguns and rifles were legal, and in any case all these cars were on private property. When he’d been in uniform, if he’d stopped any of these people for a traffic violation, a fair number of them would have been arrested on the spot.
He could make a phone call and have his people swarming over this field. A raid would probably result in that same fair number being hauled in on outstanding warrants, but hell, they hadn’t broken any laws that he’d seen, and sometimes a cop had to make a judgment call. Most of the warrants would be on relatively minor stuff—“relative” being the operative word—and there was a lot worse going on out there that law enforcement could be spending its budget and man-hours on. He was cool with that.
Then he saw the skinny guy from the night before, the one with the worst mullet in the history of mullets, drag Jaclyn toward the dance floor, despite her protests and attempts to pull free, and he wasn’t cool with that—not by a long shot.
He found himself stalking toward the asshole, and the expression on his face may have been a tad unfriendly, because even the people in this crowd took one look and moved out of his way. If he knew anything at all about Jaclyn, it was that she’d go out of her way to keep from causing a scene, unless she was tearing a strip off his own ass, which seemed to supersede everything else—so even though she was protesting she was trying to be quiet about it, trying not to be obvious that she was struggling with the guy, and that made him even angrier because it put her at a disadvantage.
Because she was pulling back, and because he himself was moving pretty fast, he caught up with them just as the jerk dragged her onto the dance floor. He stepped up on the planks and caught the guy by the shoulder; he didn’t throw him to the side—he could have, but for Jaclyn’s sake he tried not to create a scene. Instead he merely clamped down, digging his fingers into the shoulder joint and pulling him to a halt.
“I told you yesterday, she’s with me,” he growled.
The guy started to snarl something smart-ass in reply, then evidently thought better of it. Maybe he remembered he was dealing with a cop, or maybe the look on Eric’s face was enough to dissuade him.
“I just
want to dance with her,” he mumbled sulkily.
“Well, she doesn’t want to dance with you.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“Son, don’t make me shoot your ass,” Eric advised.
“You wouldn’t—”
“Yeah,” he said matter-of-factly. “I would. The paperwork would be a bitch, but it’d be worth it.” He was lying. Maybe. He wasn’t big on cops who threw their armed weight around, but he’d seen red when this asshole jerk put his hands on Jaclyn and started dragging her around. Uh-oh. Jaclyn. He hadn’t looked at her since intercepting her and lover boy, and now he didn’t dare glance at her to see how she was taking this. Probably she was embarrassed that he’d caused a scene.
Tough shit.
“Fuck it,” the guy snarled. “She ain’t worth it.” He spun on his heel and pushed his way through the crowd, which had begun milling around watching them.
“I beg to differ,” Eric said to his back, then braced himself for the ass-chewing he was probably about to receive.
Instead he found Jaclyn standing there visibly trembling, her face white, and without thinking he eased her into his arms. “It’s okay,” he said, lowering his face to her hair and inhaling the scent of it. With a sudden little jerky movement she burrowed closer, as if she wanted to completely hide herself. She stood probably five-ten in her heels, but she felt fragile in his arms, her slender body shaking against him. Maybe terrified was too strong a word to use, but she’d definitely been frightened, and that made him angry all over again.
