Gemma let the dam loose and the tears flowed. The song ended, but the background music kept playing. Trace stepped back and dropped down on one knee right there in front of thousands of people and said, “Gemma O’Donnell, I love you with my whole heart. Will you marry me?” He popped open a red velvet box that held a sparkling diamond ring right in the center.
She said, “What if I had beat you?’
“Song was ready. George was going to sing. I was going to propose no matter who won,” he said.
She nodded and said, “I love you, Trace. Yes, I will marry you!”
“She said yes,” the announcer said. “Let’s hear it for the newly engaged couple!”
They could have heard the applause all the way to Ringgold, Texas, when he put the ring on her hand, stood up, and bent her so far back for the kiss that she lost her hat. George Strait began singing the song all over again as he picked up her hat, settled it on her head, scooped her up in his arms, and carried her to the sidelines where he sat down with her in his lap.
All she could hear was the whoosh in her ears that she heard when she put everything else out and rode out of the chute on the back of a wild bronc. She laid her head on Trace’s chest and the steady heartbeat brought her back to reality, one beat at a time.
“When?” she asked.
“When what?”
“When do we get married?”
“That’s up to you. Tomorrow. It’s all just paperwork. We’re already joined by heartstrings, darlin’.”
“Well, we are in Vegas and the whole family is here.”
“Really?” he asked. “One question first. Did you let me win?”
“Hell, no! I gave it all I had. I was going to win and buy Teamer’s ranch and propose to you,” she said.
***
There was enough family, friends, and rodeo folks to fill Cupid’s Wedding Chapel where Jasmine and Ace had gotten married. Cash walked Gemma down the aisle. She wore a white velvet dress and a white hat with illusion streamers flowing down her back from a bow at the back of the brim. Her lucky horseshoe was pinned on the ribbon twined around a pink and white rosebud bouquet, and her lucky pink boots had been shined.
“Trace is a good man. I just wish you’d buy a ranch closer to Ringgold,” Cash whispered as he led his daughter down the short aisle.
“I love him, and Daddy, home is Goodnight, Texas,” she whispered.
“I know, baby. You’ll just have to come home to Ringgold real often or your momma will have me hauling her to your place every other week. She’s fallen in love with that baby girl.”
“Haul away.” Gemma laughed.
“Who gives this woman to be married to this man?” the preacher asked when they reached the front of the chapel.
“Her mother and I do,” Cash said.
In fifteen minutes the preacher pronounced them husband and wife.
“You may kiss your bride,” he said.
Trace did a Hollywood kiss that rivaled the one in the arena. “I love you, Mrs. Coleman.”
“I love you,” she said.
Cash stepped up to the microphone and said, “Thank you all for attending. The reception is at the Bellagio and starts in one hour. There’s food and dancing and I understand there’ll be lots and lots of pictures taken. I’m supposed to tell you all that Jasmine had a nine-pound baby girl this morning. She tried to get Ace to charter a plane so she could be here and he’ll probably be in hot water for weeks because he said no.”
***
One week before Christmas, Trace brought a six-foot cedar tree and set it up in the corner of the living room. He looped the lights around his arms and walked around the tree while Gemma placed them in just the right spot. Holly had just that week learned to sit up all by herself, so she watched wide-eyed from her quilt pallet, and when the lights were plugged in and blinking she giggled like only a delighted baby can.
Then Trace looped the tinsel around his arms and Gemma worked it over and under the tree limbs. Next came the ornaments and then the silver tinsel icicles. Gemma stepped back and looked at it with a critical eye.
“I’m becoming my mother. I’ve seen her do this dozens of times,” she said.
“What next?” Trace asked.
“The topper,” she said.
“It’s still in the box,” Trace said.
Gemma shook her head. “Not that one.”
“Why?” Trace asked. “It’s only been used one year. Is there something wrong with it?”
“Yes, there is.”
She opened a shoebox and took out a homemade gold construction paper horseshoe with The Coleman Family written in red glitter.
“Put this up there. I told you when we went to Vegas I had no doubt in my mind that I would be a winner. And I am. You got the title and the ranch. I got you and Holly, so I won the best prize of all.”
Trace wrapped his arms around her and tipped her chin up with his forefinger.
“I’m amazed by you, Mrs. Coleman.”
She pointed to a huge ball of mistletoe with hundreds of berries hanging right above his head. “I’m the winner, cowboy, and my Christmas wish is for Santa Claus to bring me another child by next Christmas.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Trace drawled. “I’m not Santa Claus. I’m just a cowboy, but I’ll be glad to do my best to make that happen.”
New York Times bestselling author Carolyn Brown
makes her first foray into women’s fiction in
The Blue-Ribbon
Jalapeño Society Jubilee
Available March 2013 from Sourcebooks Landmark
Read on for a sneak peek!
If Prissy Parnell hadn’t married Buster Jones and left Cadillac, Texas, for Pasadena, California, Marty wouldn’t have gotten the speeding ticket. It was all Prissy’s damn fault that Marty was in such a hurry to get to the Blue-Ribbon Jalapeño Society monthly meeting that night, so Prissy ought to have to shell out the almost two hundred dollars for that ticket.
They were already passing around the crystal bowl to take up the voting ballots when Marty slung open the door to Violet Prescott’s sunroom and yelled, “Don’t count ’em without my vote.”
Twenty faces turned to look at her and not a one of them, not even her twin sister, Cathy, was smiling. Hells bells, who had done pissed on their cucumber sandwiches before she got there, anyway? A person didn’t drop dead from lack of punctuality, did they?
One wall of the sunroom was glass and looked out over lush green lawns and flower gardens. The other three were covered with shadow boxes housing the blue ribbons that the members had won at the Texas State Fair for their jalapeño pepper entries. More than forty shadow boxes all reminding the members of their history and their responsibility for the upcoming year. Bless Cathy’s heart for doing her part. She had a little garden of jalapeños on the east side of the lawn and nurtured them like children. The newest shadow box held ribbons that she’d earned for the club with her pepper jelly and picante. It was the soil, or maybe she told them bedtime stories, but she, like her momma and grandma, grew the hottest jalapeños in the state.
“It appears that Martha has decided to grace us with her presence once again when it is time to vote for someone to take our dear Prissy’s place in the Blue-Ribbon Jalapeño Society. We really should amend our charter to state that a member has to attend more than one meeting every two years. You could appreciate the fact that we did amend it once to include you in the membership with your sister, who, by the way, has a spotless attendance record,” Violet said.
Violet, the queen of the club, as most of the members called it, was up near eighty years old, built like Sponge Bob Square Pants, and had stovepipe jet-black hair right out of the bottle. Few people had the balls or the nerve to cross her, and those who did were put on her shit list right un
der Martha, a.k.a. Marty, Andrews’s name, which was always on the top.
Back in the beginning of the club days, before Marty was even born, the mayor’s wife held the top position on the shit list. When they’d formed the Blue-Ribbon Jalapeño Society, Loretta Massey and Violet almost went to war over the name of the new club. Loretta insisted that it be called a society, and Violet wanted to be called a club. Belonging to a club just sounded so much fancier than saying that one belonged to a society. Loretta won when the vote came in, but Violet called it club anyway and that’s what stuck. Rumor had it that Violet was instrumental in getting the mayor ousted just so they’d have to leave Grayson County and Loretta would have to quit club.
Marty hated it when people called her Martha. It sounded like an old woman’s name. What was her mother thinking anyway when she looked down at two little identical twin baby daughters and named them after her mother and aunt—Martha and Catherine? Thank God she’d at least shortened their names to Marty and Cathy.
Marty shrugged, and Violet snorted. Granted, it was a lady-like snort, but it still went right along with her round face and three-layered neck. Hell, if they wanted to write forty amendments to the charter, Marty would still do only the bare necessities to keep her in voting standing. She hadn’t even wanted to be in the damned club and had only done it because if she didn’t, then Cathy couldn’t.
Marty slid into a seat beside her sister and held up her ballot.
Beulah had the bowl in hand and was ready to hand it off to Violet to read off the votes. But she passed it to the lady on the other side of her and it went back around the circle to Marty who tossed in her folded piece of paper. If she’d done her homework and gotten the numbers right, that one vote should swing the favor for Anna Ruth to be the new member of the club. She didn’t like Anna Ruth, especially since she’d broken up her best friend’s marriage. But hey, Marty had made a deathbed promise to her momma, and that carried more weight than the name of a hussy on a piece of paper.
The bowl went back to Violet and she put it in her lap like the coveted jeweled crown of a reigning queen. “Our amended charter states that only twenty-one women can belong to the Blue-Ribbon Jalapeño Society at any one time, and the only time we vote a new member in is when someone moves or dies. Since Prissy Parnell got married this past week and moved away from Grayson County, we are open for one new member. The four names on the ballet are: Agnes Flynn, Trixie Matthews, Anna Ruth Williams, and Gloria Rawlings.”
The charter also said that when attending a meeting, the members should dress for the occasion, which meant panty hose and heels, even though that wasn’t in the fine print. Marty could feel nineteen pairs of eyes on her. It would have been twenty, but Violet was busy fishing the first ballot from the fancy bowl.
Marty threw one long leg over the other one and let the bright red three-inch high heel shoe dangle on her toe. They could frown all they wanted. She was wearing a dress, even if it only reached mid-thigh and had black spandex leggings under it. If they wanted her to wear panty hose, they’d better put a second amendment on that charter and make it in big print.
God Almighty, but she’d be glad when her great-aunt died and she could quit the club. But it looked like Agnes was going to last forever, which was no surprise. God sure didn’t want her in heaven, and the devil wouldn’t have her in hell.
“One vote for Agnes,” Violet said aloud.
Beulah marked that down on the minutes and waited.
Violet enjoyed her role as president of the club and took her own sweet time with each ballot. Too bad she hadn’t dropped dead or at least moved to California so Cathy could be president. Marty would bet her sister would get those votes counted a hell of a lot faster.
There was one piece of paper in the candy dish when Beulah held up a hand. “We’ve got six each for Agnes, Trixie, Anna Ruth, and two for Gloria. Unless this last vote is for Agnes, Trixie, or Anna Ruth, we have a tie, and we’ll have to have a run-off election.”
“Shit!” Marty mumbled.
Cathy shot her a dirty look.
“Anna Ruth,” Violet said and let out a whoosh of air.
A smile tickled the corner of Marty’s mouth.
Saved, by damn!
Agnes was saved from prison.
Violet was saved from attending her own funeral.
The speeding ticket was worth every penny.
***
Trixie poked the black button beside the nursing home door and kicked yellow and orange leaves of fall away as she reached for the handle. She heard the familiar click as the lock let go and then heard someone yell her name.
“Hey, Trixie. Don’t shut it. We are here,” Cathy called out.
Trixie waved at her two best friends: Cathy and Marty Andrews. Attitude and hair color kept them from being identical. They were five feet ten inches tall and slim built, but Cathy kept blond highlights in her brown hair and Marty’s was natural. In attitude, they were as different as vanilla and chocolate. Cathy was the sweet twin who loved everyone and had trouble speaking her mind. Marty was the extrovert who called the shots like she saw them. Cathy was engaged, and Marty said there were too many cowboys she hadn’t taken to bed to get herself tied down to one man.
Marty threw an arm around Trixie’s shoulder as they marched down the wide hall. Trixie’s mother, Janie Matthews, had checked herself into the nursing home four years before when her Alzheimer’s had gotten so bad that she didn’t know Trixie one day. Trixie had tried to talk her mother into living with her, but Janie was lucid enough to declare that she couldn’t live alone and her daughter had to work.
“Congratulations, darlin’, you did not make it into club tonight. Your life has been spared until someone dies or moves away and Cathy nominates you again,” Marty said.
“Well, praise the Lord,” Trixie said.
“I know. Let’s string Cathy up by her toenails and force-feed her fried potatoes until her wedding dress won’t fit for even putting your name in the pot.” Marty laughed.
“Trixie would be a wonderful addition to the club. She wouldn’t let Violet run her around like a windup toy. That’s why I keep nominating her every chance I get,” Cathy said. “Anna Ruth is going to be a brand new puppet in Violet’s hands. Every bit as bad as Gloria would have been.”
Trixie stopped so fast that Marty’s hand slipped off her shoulder. “Anna Ruth?”
“Sorry.” Cathy shrugged. “I’m surprised that she won and she only did by one vote.”
Trixie did a head wiggle. “Don’t the world turn around? My momma wasn’t fit for the club because she had me out of wedlock. And now Anna Ruth is living with my husband without a marriage certificate and she gets inducted. If she has a baby before they marry, do they have a big divorce ceremony and kick her out?”
“I never thought she’d get it,” Cathy said. “I don’t know how in the world I’m going to put up with her in club, knowing that she’s the one that broke up your marriage.”
Trixie paled. “Who’s going to tell Agnes that she didn’t get it again? Lord, she’s going to be an old bear all week.”
“That’s Beulah’s job. She nominated her. I’m just damn glad I have a class tonight. Maybe the storm will be over before I get home,” Marty said.
Cathy smiled weakly. “And I’ve got dinner with Ethan back at Violet’s in an hour.”
“I’m not even turning on the lights when I get home. Maybe she’ll think I’ve died.” Trixie started walking again.
“You okay with the Anna Ruth thing?” Marty asked.
Trixie nodded. “Can’t think of a better thing to happen to y’all’s club.”
“It’s not my club,” Marty said. “I’m just there so Cathy can be in it. I’m not sure Violet would let her precious son marry a woman who wasn’t in the al-damn-mighty Blue-Ribbon Jalapeño Society. I still
can’t believe that Violet is okay with her precious son marrying one of the Andrews’ twins.”
Cathy pointed a long slender finger at her sister. “Don’t you start with me! And I’m not the feisty twin. You are. I can’t see Violet letting Ethan marry you for sure.”
“Touchy, are we? Well, darlin’ sister, I wouldn’t have that man, mostly because I’d have to put up with Violet.” Marty giggled.
“Shhh, no fighting. It’ll upset Momma.” Trixie rapped gently on the frame of the open door and poked her head inside a room. “Anyone at home?”
Janie Matthews clapped her hands and her eyes lit up. She and Trixie were mirror images of each other—short, slim built, light brown hair, milk chocolate-colored eyes, and delicate features. Trixie wore her hair in a chin-length bob, and Janie’s was long, braided, and wrapped around her head in a crown. Other than that and a few wrinkles around Janie’s eyes, they looked more like sisters than mother and daughter.
“Why, Clawdy Burton, you’ve come to visit. Sit down, darlin’, and let’s talk. You aren’t still mad at me, are you?”
Marty crossed the room and sat down beside Janie on the bed, leaving the two chairs in the room for Cathy and Trixie. It wasn’t the first time Janie had mistaken her for Claudia, the twins’ mother, or the first time that she’d remembered Claudia by her maiden name, either.
“I brought some friends,” Marty said.
“Any friend of Clawdy’s is a friend of mine. Come right in here. You look familiar. Did you go to school with me and Clawdy?” Janie looked right at her daughter.
“I did,” Trixie said.
Janie’s brow furrowed. “I can’t put a name with your face.”
“I’m Trixie.”
Janie shook her head. “Sorry, honey, I don’t remember you. And you?” She looked into Cathy’s eyes.
“She’s my sister, Cathy, remember?” Marty asked.
“Well, ain’t that funny. I never knew Clawdy to have a sister. You must be older than we are, but I can see the resemblance.”
Just a Cowboy and His Baby Page 28
