“I love you, Slim,” he said, giving her the words she needed to hear, the words he needed to say. “I want you for my partner. I want you to share my life and have my babies, and grow old with me. I want you to marry me, Slim. What do you say?”
“I say yes, cowboy.”
Epilogue
IT WAS SUNDAY AFTERNOON, the final day of the National Prorodeo finals. Down in the arena, country star Randy Travis had finished singing the national anthem, and the Grand Entry parade was well under way. The state flags of every cowboy in the rodeo were unfurled, carried around the ring by riders mounted on the backs of gleaming palominos. The rodeo queens and their courts rode by, sparkling in sequin-studded Western shirts and elaborately studded jeans, waving and smiling at the stomping and cheering crowd.
Across the strip, in a suite at the Grand Bellagio Hotel and Casino, Roxanne watched the first event on the television screen as she did her hair and makeup, and tried not to listen as the mothers of both the bride and groom bemoaned the tackiness of a Las Vegas wedding. Amazingly, the two women were in perfect accord.
“They could have had a lovely wedding in the front parlor at the Second Chance,” Molly Steele said. “The room has an alcove that would have been perfect for a wedding bower. But Tom wouldn’t even consider it. He wanted to have the wedding here, in Las Vegas—” she said the name as if it were synonymous with Sodom “—during the rodeo finals.”
“I’d always hoped Roxanne would get married in the garden at our country house. In June, of course, when the roses are in bloom and everything is looking its very best.” Charlotte Archer sighed at the incomprehensibility of her daughter’s choice of locations for her nuptials. “She used to be such a considerate, biddable girl. Never gave her father and me a moment’s trouble. And then she turned thirty, and I don’t know what happened. I blame it on those awful boots.”
Both women looked toward the offending footwear. The red boots sat, gleaming with fresh polish, at the foot of the bed, an affront to good taste and moderation.
“She wanted a pair when she was nine years old,” Charlotte confided, “but I refused to buy them for her. I felt bad about it then. I mean, I thought, really, what harm could one pair of boots do? Now we see the results,” she said, and gestured toward her daughter. “Unbridled excess.”
Roxanne grinned at her mother in the mirror. “Don’t you mean bridaled excess, Mom?” she said, and struck a pose, feet primly together, eyes downcast, hands in front of her waist as if she were carrying a bouquet.
She was dressed all in white, as befitting a bride. A white satin corset embroidered with pale-pink rosebuds nipped in her already-slender waist and plumped up her breasts, tiny white bikini panties barely spanned her hips, white lace garters held up gossamer-white silk stockings. Considering the way she was dressed—or rather, undressed—the pose was just the tiniest bit salacious. She planned to strike the same pose for Tom later that night before she let him unhook her corset.
A knock sounded on the connecting door, causing all three women to jump and look toward it.
“It’s me. Tom. You about ready in there?”
Roxanne started for the door, but her mother grabbed her firmly by the arm. “It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the ceremony,” she warned.
“Especially when she’s still in her underwear,” Molly said reprovingly as she got up to answer the door. She opened it a crack, so he couldn’t peek around the edge and glimpse his bride. “What do you want?” she demanded of her son.
“The bull riding is going to start in less than a hour. We need to get this show on the road if we’re going to get it done before then. Everything’s ready in here. All we need is the bride.”
“Roxanne is just putting her dress on now. She’ll be out in a minute,” Molly said, and started to shut the door.
Tom put his hand on it, stopping her. “Wait a minute, Mom,” he said, suddenly looking as nervous as a schoolboy. “Give this to her for me, will you?” He slipped a flat jeweler’s box through the crack. “And tell her I love her with all my heart.”
“She heard you,” Molly said dryly, but she was smiling when she turned away from the door and carried the box to her soon-to-be daughter-in-law.
Roxanne accepted it with trembling fingers. He’d already given her an engagement ring. It sparkled on the ring finger of her left hand, an antique square cut ruby that matched her ruby-red nail polish. She hadn’t expected anything else. The box contained a necklace in the same gleaming silver metal as the setting for her ring. It was as delicately wrought as cobweb, the chain nearly invisible, with a tiny number seven suspended from it. Her eyes clouded up with emotion. Seven had been the number on the door of her motel room that first night in Lubbock.
“Lucky number seven,” she murmured, remembering the way he had carried her to the room that night. And what had happened after.
“Don’t get all blubbery now,” her mother said. “We haven’t got time for you to redo your makeup.” She took the necklace from Roxanne’s fingers and fastened it around her neck. The tiny number seven nestled in the soft hollow at the base of her throat, in the spot that Tom liked to kiss when he was feeling especially tender and romantic.
“Be careful now,” Molly said, as they maneuvered the dress over her head. “Try not to mess up your hair.”
“As if you could tell with that mop,” Charlotte said, but she was smiling.
Unlike the risqué underwear, the dress was elegant and demurely ladylike. Made of matte satin with a dull sheen, it had a simple sweetheart neckline that merely hinted at the presence of cleavage. The illusion sleeves were long and narrow, ending in a flat satin cuff at her wrists. The skirt flared slightly from the natural waist, ending a few inches above her ankles to show off the red cowboy boots she intended to wear with it.
Both of the mothers sighed when Roxanne stomped into them, but neither one of them said anything. Roxanne was as adamant about the boots as she had been about the location.
They helped her fasten on her veil and handed her the bouquet—sweet peas and baby’s breath—and suddenly, she was ready. There was no more to do, no more preparations to make.
Molly opened the door into the main room of the suite, signaling Roxanne’s father. There was a rustling and a bit of chatter, and then everyone was settled in their places, congregating on either side of the room to leave a path for the bride. The organist began to play softly, signaling the bride’s entrance. Roxanne took a deep breath, slipped her hand into the crook of her father’s elbow, and stepped into the flower-bedecked living room of the suite.
Her eyes found Tom’s immediately and she focused on him, her gaze never wavering as she made her way through the throng of people crowded into the room. All the Second Chance boys were in attendance, from Petie on up to Jared and Augie. Rooster and his new traveling partner and fellow bull riding finalist Clay were there, decked out in their fanciest rodeo shirts. The Padre waited beside Tom, ready to offer his support as best man and maid of honor combined.
Tom held his hand out as she approached. She let go of her father’s arm and reached out, laying her fingers in his. He brought them to his lips for a brief butterfly kiss and then, together, as one, they turned to the justice of the peace.
“Everyone please remove your hats,” he intoned severely, and then, when everyone had done as he requested, “Dearly beloved,” he began.
Five minutes later, the new Mr. and Mrs. Steele were gazing at each other, dewy eyed with love, identical smiles of blissful delight on their faces.
Forty minutes later, they were at the rodeo finals—still in their wedding finery—watching Rooster ride to the winning score on the back of the Widow Maker. Rooster stood in the center of the arena as the announcer broadcast his name and score over the loudspeaker, a wide grin on his face, his arms raised overhead in triumph. Roxanne gave a loud, raucous, unladylike whoop of joy and tossed her bridal bouquet into the ring in tribute.
And then she
tossed herself into her husband’s waiting arms.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-8235-7
GOOD TIME GIRL
Copyright © 2002 by Candace Schuler.
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