by Lisa Bingham
Another table had been devoted to the sweets. A delicate multilayer wedding cake—another of Helen’s creations—featured a bride lassoing the groom with a lariat and delicate hydrangea blossoms formed with gum paste. The flowers looked so real that they could have been plucked from P.D.’s bouquet. Surrounding the cake were plates of cookies—oatmeal raisin, chocolate crackle, bonbons, and sugar cookies, which had been cut and iced to reflect the Wild West Games, where Elam and P.D. had begun their romance. The kids in attendance were especially fond of the tasty horses, cowboy hats, boots, and revolvers.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” a low voice said behind her. It was followed by a strong arm around her waist. After setting the tray in an empty spot, Bronte leaned back into Jace’s embrace.
“Thanks, I was excited to help.”
“I know. Come on.”
Jace took her hand and led her to the dance floor. The band had begun to play a slow country-western ballad and Jace maneuvered them near the edge, away from the crush of people headed for the buffet table and the other swaying couples. He settled one hand in the small of her back and took hers with the other.
“Have I told you how beautiful you look?”
He had, but Bronte didn’t mind if he was repeating himself. Country living hadn’t given her many opportunities to dress to the nines, but today she felt beautiful, too. Not just because of the pale blue sheath and her upswept hair, but because of the light shining from Jace’s eyes. She never grew tired of that look—a mixture of tenderness, wonder, and passion.
“You’re creating quite the stir yourself.”
It was true. She’d caught more than one woman offering him a lingering glance, but Jace seemed oblivious to the attention.
Which made Bronte feel even more loved.
Jace leaned down, murmuring next to her ear. “This is a fulfillment of one of my fantasies.”
Bronte looked at him with raised brows. Over the past five months, the two of them had explored plenty of Bronte’s requests.
“Really? How?”
“I’ve always wanted to dance with you. But with the summer rush, we never managed to get to Vern’s when the band was playing.”
She smiled. “Then I’m glad you finally got your wish.”
They rocked together, moving only enough for their embrace to be considered dancing.
“I’ve got one more fantasy to fulfill today, if you’re agreeable.”
“Mmm. Name it.”
His lips moved to her ear, his breath teasing the tendrils next to her temple.
“I meant to do this later, after all the fuss with Elam and P.D. is over—and I don’t want to horn in on their day—but maybe we can keep this between us until the newlyweds make their getaway …”
He loosened his hold to pull away ever so slightly and reached into his pocket, withdrawing a ring. Bronte gasped when she saw that it had been fashioned of gold. A ruby lay in the center of what looked like a poppy, and hovering on either side were stylized butterflies.
“Did you design this?” she asked, stunned at the delicate beauty.
He nodded.
“But my birthday isn’t for another month.”
Jace’s smile was slow and sweet. “It’s not a birthday present.”
Her brow puckered in confusion.
“Will you marry me, Bronte? Will you be my forever kissing friend and wife? Will you let me share a lifetime loving your girls, and will you enjoy a lifetime loving Barry?”
Tears sprang to her eyes, but she refused to spoil the moment, so she smiled instead. Even so, her voice was husky when she said, “Yes. I would love to be your forever kissing friend and wife, and I would absolutely love to blend our families into one.”
She held out her left hand. His fingers shook slightly as he slid the ring in place.
Bronte laughed. “Were you worried I’d say no?”
“A little.”
“Why?”
“I wasn’t sure that you were ready to even think about … I don’t know … dealing with the whole marriage thing yet.”
Bronte lifted on tiptoe, hugging him tightly around the neck. “With you, I’m ready to take on anything the world might throw our way.”
“Just so you know … I’m not rushing you into anything. You can set the date as far away as you want. Months. Years.”
He looked so anxious that Bronte laughed, pressing her lips to his yet again. “Maybe months, definitely not years. So shut up and dance with me, Jace.”
*
FROM a table on the opposite end of the room, Lily watched Bronte and Jace melt into one another’s arms.
“They’re kissin’ again,” Barry said matter-of-factly.
“They do that a lot,” Lily agreed.
“Yeah, but this time it’s a special kiss.”
Lily squinted, studying her mother and Jace more carefully. “Looks like the same kinda kiss they always have.”
“Uh-uh. Look. She’s wearin’ the butterfly ring.”
From this far away, Lily couldn’t see it too well, but every now and then, she caught a flash of red on her mother’s hand.
“What’s a butterfly ring?”
“Jace showed it to me when it was a bunch of swirly lines on a piece of paper. Then, he took it to this guy in Logan, who made it into a ring. Jace said the ring meant that he and Bronte were going to be forever kissing friends but I had to keep it a secret.”
“What does that mean? Forever kissing friends?”
“It means you get to come live in my house and have the room next door to mine. You’ll be my sister, even though Jace says you’re really gonna be my … meece? An’ I get t’ be your uncle.”
“You can’t be my uncle. You aren’t old.”
“That’s what I said!” Barry agreed emphatically. “So’s Jace told me I could call you my sister.” He snorted. “That’s kinda dumb, cuz I’ve already been calling you my sister.”
“When?”
“That’s what the word Emily means. Everybody thought I was mixin’ you up with my twin, Emily.” He rolled his eyes. “They shoulda known that when I call you Emily, I’m calling you my sister. I’ve known forever that you were my sister.”
“Oh.” Lily digested that thought, wondering why it gave her a warm feeling in her chest. But then, she always felt warm and safe around Barry. “So what do I call you if you’re my brother?”
Barry laughed as if she’d asked the silliest question in the world. Taking another bite of his sandwich, he chewed, then simply proclaimed, “You keep callin’ me Barry.”
KEEP READING FOR AN EXCERPT FROM
MAVERICK
COMING SOON FROM BERKLEY SENSATION!
BODEY Taggart loved to win.
He craved the surge of adrenaline that came with a wager, the fire that settled into his chest at a challenge, the pounding of his heart that accompanied the competition. As a kid, he’d joined every team, run every race, and fought to the bloody end for every point. He’d started with little league, worked his way through junior varsity and varsity sports. Once in high school, he’d added rodeo to the list with bronco busting and bull riding—and he’d given it his all, returning home at night with bruised ribs, bloody lips, and black eyes. He’d been driven to be the best—to the point where his mother had despaired of his reaching adulthood in one piece. Time and time again, she’d warned him that if he only set his sights on winning, he’d never be satisfied with anything in life.
“That glittering prize is short-lived,” she’d cautioned. “If you spend your whole life looking for shiny things, you’re bound to end up with a room full of tarnish.”
Bodey still didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to make of that statement. Maureen Taggart had died before he’d turned twenty. If she hadn’t, he was sure that he would have argued the point. He would have insisted to his mother that it wasn’t the trophies filling the boxes in the garage that motivated him. It wasn’t as simple as that. He competed because there was
something deep inside of him, some restless, itchy portion of his spirit that demanded that he push himself to the limits, physically and mentally. He craved that oblivion of spirit as much as an alcoholic obsessed over booze.
Granted, things were getting a little out of hand. Where once he’d been content to use sport and athleticism as his sole means of getting his “fix,” lately everything he did became a contest: cow cutting competitions, quarter horse races, fantasy sports, and poker. Hell, if someone was willing to play along, he’d make a bet on which side of the hill a heifer would leave a cow pie—and he’d do his best to make sure the animal cooperated.
Sad to say, even women had become a game to him. Bodey relished the thrill of the hunt, the excitement of the chase, the tender intricacies of wooing. He reveled in the first headiness of attraction, the anticipation of that first kiss, first caress, first connection. Hell, he loved women plain and simple, and he continued to love them, in his own fashion, after the romance died, considering them all his friends. And his efforts weren’t nearly as cold-blooded as they might sound to an outsider. He never meant to “love ’em and leave ’em.” Each time he set his sights on a new conquest, he was sure that this was the one. This was the woman who would ease the battling hubris within him and give him the sense of peace his brothers had found. Maybe then, he could settle down, abandon the never-ending need to prove himself, and consider a long-term commitment without feeling like a noose was wrapping around his neck.
But as he squinted against the blazing hot July sun and packed his long guns into his cart, Bodey realized that this time, this time, his need to win just might kill him.
Good hell, almighty. He’d made a huge mistake. Huge.
In lingering with the practice posse for the regional SASS Hell on Wheels Competition, he’d stayed outside too long in the hundred-plus temperatures of a Wyoming summer. Too late, he realized that he should have bowed out thirty minutes ago when he’d begun to feel the familiar throb of a headache blooming behind his left eye. But, no. He’d insisted to himself that he could finish one more stage, one more round of marksmanship. He’d been showing off in front of his buddies and the newest female recruit to their group, and he’d been driven to finish …
Ontop.
Yup. That was the crux of his error. A new member to the Single Action Shooting Society—or at least to Bodey’s circle of friends—who went by the moniker of Ima Ontop.
As SASS nicknames went, it wasn’t terribly subtle.
But it was effective.
From the moment she’d appeared on the range, testosterone levels had soared within the prominently male group. Men who usually spent the practice rounds laughing, joking, and slinging bullshit … well, let’s just say they snapped to attention. What would have been a relaxed afternoon of marksmanship became a life and death struggle for the best score.
And Bodey hadn’t been immune. He’d been immediately attracted to the tall, scantily clad brunette—and, duh, who wouldn’t be? The woman had come to the practice match wearing nothing but calf-high Victorian boots, striped hose, tight ruffled shorty-shorts, and a frilly corset. The getup hovered somewhere between saloon girl and Miss July. Bodey would have been dead if he hadn’t noticed her.
But as the heat of the day wormed its way through his head and the remnant side-effects of a recent concussion made each movement an exercise in torture, Bodey’s interest waned. Especially when it became clear that she was a talker. For the past twenty minutes, she’d gone on and on and on about loading her shells with shot and glitter for a little extra “sparkle” on the range.
What the frickin’ hell?
Normally, Bodey would have been more than happy to pick up on her “let’s have some fun while we’re in Cheyenne” signals. There wasn’t a red-blooded male within a hundred miles who wouldn’t have been interested. She was tall and voluptuous with legs up to her armpits and boobs that threatened a costuming malfunction at any moment.
But as the dull ache over his eye began creeping toward his nape and he broke out in a clammy sweat, the woman’s chatter soon dissolved into a drone akin to adults in the Charlie Brown cartoons.
Wah-wah-wahwah-wah-wah.
Then it got worse.
The white-hot drill bit which had been screwing into his eye socket plunged straight through to his brain. The pain ricocheted through his skull, radiating, spreading like wildfire. Sweat popped out on his forehead and upper lip, and his stomach lurched ominously, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten yet today, but he’d drunk lots and lots of water in an effort to stay cool. The liquid sloshed in his stomach, threatening to make a reappearance.
Which meant he was going to have to bow out.
Leave the competition midstream.
Lose.
Damnit, he had to get out of here. Now.
Grasping the handle of his gun cart, he turned away from the group without explanation, forcing one foot in front of the other as his head began to pound in tandem with the jarring thud of his footfalls. Tugging his hat low, he ignored the curious calls from his friends, knowing that if he tried to talk, the sound would reverberate through his cranium. Then, he’d lose his tenuous control on his stomach and begin yakking up all that water.
Squinting, Bodey tried to gauge the distance to his truck, but the glint of sunshine radiating off the trucks and RVs stationed in the distant parking lot seared through his retinas.
Damnit. If he could get to his trailer, he could pull all the curtains, turn on the AC, crash on the bunk, and pray he’d caught the migraine in time so that it only lasted an hour or two rather than days.
But he’d taken fewer than a dozen steps when he realized that he wasn’t going to make it. His knees felt as if they were made of wet spaghetti. And even if he got to his “home on wheels,” he’d have to take the time to unload his ammo and weapons from the gun cart and stow them away. Right now, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to go another few feet, let alone traverse several hundred yards to his truck.
Shit, shit, shit.
He quickly scanned his surroundings, his gaze settling on the tent city which had sprouted up overnight opposite the length of the range. Vendors from all over the country had set up shop, selling everything from hand-tooled holsters to wigs, artisan knives to Victorian hats. The cool shade beneath their awnings beckoned to him, but he could imagine the reaction if he stumbled inside and crawled beneath one of their tables.
But sweet heaven above, he was sorely tempted.
He forced himself to keep moving as more cold, clammy sweat began pooling beneath his shirt and his head felt as if it were being slowly squeezed in a vice. He was close to moaning aloud when a series of befuddled thoughts eased through the pain.
Tents.
Shade.
Syd and Helen.
Bodey altered his trajectory midstride. Syd and Helen Henderson—friends from Bodey’s hometown of Bliss, Utah—had rolled into camp the night before. Most of the summer, they traveled from one SASS competition to the next, selling handmade Victorian garments that Helen designed and sewed. Bodey hadn’t arrived in time to help them erect the enormous canvas tent from which they sold their wares, but he’d heard his brother Elam talking about it. If Bodey could find Helen, he was sure she’d have a stash of headache medicine in that massive carpetbag of hers. If not, he could at least sit in the shade for a minute until he felt steadier on his feet.
Scanning the line of tents, Bodey found the right one easily enough. Positioned squarely in front of its entrance was Virgil, a metal sculpture of a bow-legged gunslinger welded together from old farm machinery and mounted to an industrial-sized spring. The piece had been made by Jace, Bodey’s older brother. Even now, gusts of hot wind caused it to sway back and forth, inviting customers into the yawning opening.
Normally, Bodey would have steered clear of the canvas structure with its racks of female frippery and chattering customers. Syd usually parked their motor home somewhere to the rear where Helen used a generator to
run her sewing machine so that she could make onsite alterations. Unless he was on the range, Syd took refuge there. But Bodey was afraid the additional twenty yards would make his head pound with even more ferocity. So he stepped beneath the awning, braving the racks of calico and silk, ruffles and lace, making a beeline for a folding chair next to the cash register.
He didn’t know how long he’d sat there, head bowed, eyes squeezed shut, hands wrapped around the back of his neck, when a voice asked, “May I help you?”
The question speared through him like a bolt of lightning, even though the question had been uttered softly enough. Without even opening his eyes, he rasped, “Is Helen here?”
“No. She and Syd went into town to get some supplies.”
Damn.
Bodey dared to open one eye, just a crack.
Again, he was confronted with a WTF moment. Where his companion on the posse had been intent on “showing off her assets,” this woman had gone to the opposite extreme. She was petite, probably only an inch or two over five feet, with a girlish figure that had been entirely obscured by a gathered chintz skirt, a schoolmarm blouse buttoned up to her chin, and a battered straw hat topped with flowers which had clearly seen better days. Where Ima Ontop had displayed her wares for all to see, this woman was openly declaring hers off limits.
Bodey clenched his jaw tight, his stomach pitching as he realized he was going to have to make it all the way to his trailer after all.
The woman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You’re going to be sick, aren’t you?”
Before he could even answer, she dodged around the counter and grabbed a wastepaper basket, which she thrust into his hands. Bodey considered the invitation to purge his stomach, but the trash can was made of wicker and unlined. Not the most effective of containers.
She seemed to realize the same thing at about the same time. Muttering an unladylike, non-Victorian curse under her breath, she grabbed a shopping bag from the pile next to the register, snatched the basket away, and handed him the sack.
