by Judy Duarte
Angie’s heart ached for her new mother-in-law. And while Brian, Justin and Kylie weren’t technically her children, she could understand a mother’s distress.
“Angie and I are going to stop and see Chris in Red Rock while we’re gone,” Toby told her. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Thank you, son.” She leaned in and kissed Toby right as another flash went off. “While you do that, I’ll start working on your dad. And when these wedding pictures come back, I’ll make a photo album to send to Chris. Maybe it’ll remind him how much his family loves and misses him.”
“Good idea.”
“Can I have your attention?” the photographer asked. “I’d like to get one shot of everyone together. Let’s gather around this tree. It’ll make a good backdrop.”
“Hey!” Justin chimed in. “Let’s take it by the tree house instead. That way, some of us can climb up there and look down on you guys.”
The photographed ignored the child, but Angie didn’t. “Before the day is over, Justin, I’ll have him take a family shot of the five of us near the tree house.”
“How come we can’t all be up in it?” Justin asked.
Angie caressed the top of his head. “Because I don’t think I’d be able to climb very well in this dress.”
“Five bucks says you can.” Mr. Murdock, who stood beside her, nudged her with his elbow. “And another five says that I’ll beat your time getting up there.”
Angie laughed. “I’m not taking that bet, Mr. Murdock. This is going to be a wager-free wedding.”
Before long, the reception launched into a full-scale party, with the food and drinks flowing freely.
When the DJ called the bride and groom to the dance floor, he said, “Since they didn’t have a song picked out, I’ll play a country classic.”
“Seriously?” Toby called out. “Don’t you have anything by Aretha Franklin? I’d take her over Patsy Cline any day of the week.”
The whole dance floor fell into a hush, and Angie shook her head, realizing her husband had just said the one thing bound to agitate Texans quicker than a piñata at a five-year-old’s birthday party.
“I’ll see what I can do,” the DJ said.
Moments later, as the music started, Toby and Angie stepped out onto the dance floor. Before long, other couples joined them—Stacey and Colton, Jude and Gabi, Liam and Julia.
Even Toby’s cousin Amelia Fortune Chesterfield had found a dance partner in Quinn Drummond, who owned a ranch neighboring Toby’s.
Quinn held Amelia close as Etta James crooned out through the speakers. The unlikely pairing of the proper British noble with a Horseback Hollow cowboy brought another smile to Angie’s lips.
She nodded slightly and whispered, “Apparently, there’s something about a wedding that makes for the strangest dance partners.”
Toby drew her close. “And some of the nicest.”
“You’ve got that right, cowboy.” Then Angie wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck and kissed him with all the love in her heart.
* * *
Two days later, in the honeymoon suite at one of San Antonio’s swankiest hotels, Toby woke up with his wife in his arms, her back to his chest, her bottom nestled in his lap. Just hours ago, they’d made love again.
It seemed as though they couldn’t get enough of each other, and he had a feeling that was how it was always going to be.
Today they planned to drive out to Red Rock, although he wasn’t in any big hurry to let go of his lovely, naked wife.
“Are you awake?” he whispered against her hair.
“Um-hum.” She arched and stretched. “I was just thinking.”
Toby pressed a kiss on her bare shoulder. “What about?”
“About you and me and all the kids.”
“All?” He chuckled. “I guess three would seem like a lot to an only child.”
“Actually, I was thinking about the younger ones—the babies we’re going to have.”
“Babies? How many do you plan on having?”
“Well, none by myself. I was hoping you’d be involved.”
He laughed. “I’m in this thing all the way, honey. So we can have as many kids as you’d like.”
“I was thinking that six would be a good number.”
“Six total?” he asked. “Or six more?”
Angie turned to face him, her smile radiant. “I’d like as many kids as we’re blessed with.”
“So the woman who once feared commitment is now daydreaming about having babies?”
“Yes. Little cowboys who are just like you—strong and handsome, loving and wise. And little girls who, like your mom, know that real wealth lies in love and family.”
“Okay, but we’ll need to have at least one little girl like you. One who’s as inventive and creative and loving as she is beautiful.” Toby pressed a kiss on Angie’s brow. “Have I told you how much I love you?”
“Seven times throughout the night, but I’ll never get tired of hearing you say it.”
“Oh, yeah? Then you’re really going to like it when I show you just how much.”
Then he took her in his arms and did just that.
Toby had no idea what the future would bring, but right now, he was going to cherish every moment of the present.
* * * * *
Don’t miss the next chapter
in the new Special Edition continuity
THE FORTUNES OF TEXAS:
WELCOME TO HORSEBACK HOLLOW!
Christopher Fortune Jones has turned his back on his family in pursuit of fame and, well, fortune in Red Rock. But can his beautiful young assistant—with a troubled past of her own—teach him that money isn’t everything?
Look for
FALLING FOR FORTUNE,
by Nancy Robards Thompson.
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Chapter One
Lightning stabbed Tyler’s eyes an instant before thunder slammed through the house, rattling windows and propelling him off the sofa and through his kitchen to wrench open the patio door. When he’d let the dog out ten minutes ago, it’d been calm and sunny, a perfect June day—
“Boomer! Come on in, buddy!”
But all he heard was the wind ripping at the trees, another skull-shattering thunderclap. Swearing, Tyler stomped out onto the worn deck overlooking his paltry backyard, the sky so black he half expected to see flying monkeys—
“Boomer!” he yelled again, blinking against the brutal wind. This was nuts—how the hell did you lose an eighty-pound dog? Especially one who normally waited out thunderstorms wedged under the bed. Or, more often, against Tyler. “Dammit, mutt—where are you?”
He tromped off the deck and around to the side yard, dodging airborne leaves. From behind a wall of tangled, overgrown pyracantha and Virginia creeper the rickety wooden fence shuddered and groaned, bitchin
g at him for not having fixed it yet. A windsurfing plastic bag plastered to his chest; Tyler snatched it off, balling it up and stuffing it into his pocket as thunder cracked again, too close, making him jump. Where the hell was the dog?
Not in the well leading out from the basement. Or behind the small shed. Or under the deck...
His heart pounding so hard it hurt, Tyler called again as a bodacious raindrop pinged his forehead, instantly followed by a billion of its cousins. Swearing, Ty shoved through the jungle and out the side gate to the front yard, even though it wasn’t like the dog could open the latch, for God’s sake—
“BOOMER!” Ty bellowed, hands cupped around his mouth, water streaming down his face, into his eyes—
“Over here!”
Tyler jerked left, then right—
“Behind you! On the porch!”
He whipped around. And there was his damn dog, shivering to beat the band in his neighbor’s arms—Laurel, he thought she’d said her name was when she’d moved in a few months ago. Floppy ears slicked back, stubby tail quivering, Boomer ducked his smooth, solid head when he saw Tyler, his amber eyes shining like a pair of lights in his sweet, black face.
Soaked, but hugely relieved, Tyler unhooked the short iron gate and forded the instant river surging across the bumpy cement walk. The house was a mirror image of his, a sturdy little Craftsman one-story with a dormered attic, a decent porch. Pretty typical small-town Jersey. Except Laurel’s was all dollhouse colors, pale yellow and blue, where Ty’s was dark and manly. Or something.
“He was scratching at my door,” Laurel said over the rain thrumming on her porch overhang as she smiled at the idiot dog. Dumbass was eating it up, too, licking her face while his butt wiggled so hard it blurred. Laughing, Laurel leaned back on her heels, only to let out an “Oh!” when Boomer knocked her flat on her can.
“Crap, I’m so sorry!” Ty grabbed the dog’s collar, tugging him off the poor woman before she drowned in dog spit. “Get over here—”
“It’s okay,” Laurel said, getting to her feet, still grinning even as she scrubbed the collar of her baggy overshirt across her jaw. Her standard getup, usually worn with those stretchy pants or tights or whatever they were, from what little Ty’d seen of her. He only had a few inches on her, he realized, her nothing-else-but brown hair not short, but not long, either. And straight as a stick, like his was, even in the humidity. She was okay-looking, he supposed, but not what you’d call a knockout.
Except then she met his gaze dead-on, and he nearly tripped over his own dog. While standing completely still. To say her eyes were blue was like... Okay, if angels had blue eyes? They’d be this color—
“Boomer—is that right?—is a real sweetheart. What is he?”
Tyler snapped back to attention. “Mostly boxer. With a little Rottie in there for bulk. And he’s my boy, aren’t you, you big stinker?” he said, taking the dog’s head in his hands to kiss the top of his head. The dog woofed, jowls flapping around his ridiculous underbite, and Tyler caught Laurel’s look of tolerant amusement. A lot like the one his adoptive mother used to give him when he’d screw up. Which’d been about every five minutes there at the beginning.
“What? I love my dog.”
Laurel laughed again—a nice sound, low in her chest. “I can see that. And this is embarrassing. I know you told me your name when we met—”
“Sorry. Tyler,” he said, slicking back his wet hair. “Tyler Noble. And you’re Laurel, right? Laurel... Hold on...” Grinning, he pointed at her. “Kent.”
“Yeah. Wow. Good memory.”
For women’s names? You bet. A skill Ty’d been fine-honing since those first hormones blinked their sleepy eyes when he was ten or eleven or something and whispered, You’re all ours, now. Also, he’d been far more curious about his reclusive neighbor than he should probably admit. She rarely left the house, far as he knew. Not that he was around much during the week, usually, but since his salvage shop wasn’t far he often came home for lunch, and her old Volvo wagon was always in the driveway. And the only visitor he’d seen was some old lady who drove a spiffy new Prius—
Boomer slurped his tongue across Ty’s hand, earning him a glare. “He hates thunderstorms, so why—let alone how—he got out, I have no idea.”
“Um...this isn’t the first time he’s paid a visit.”
Tyler’s eyes shot to hers. “You’re kidding?”
“Nope.” Now, despite the smile—no lipstick, fullish mouth—Ty noticed the caution shimmering in those eyes. And the crows’ feet fanning out from them. A couple years older than him, maybe. So...mid-thirties or thereabouts—? “So you don’t let him roam the neighborhood?”
“What? No!” He looked at Boomer, who’d planted his posterior on the porch floor and was noisily yawning, then back at Laurel, who was somehow getting prettier every time he looked at her. Except she wasn’t his type. He was almost sure. Nor was he hers, he was even more sure—
“The fence!” Ty said, snapping his fingers. “I’ll bet there’s a hole under it somewhere.”
“Oh. Maybe so. And I don’t have a gate on my side yard. Although why he doesn’t just knock on my back door, I have no idea.”
She smiled again, and Ty’s brain checked out for a moment. “Uh...yeah. Yeah.” Dude! Really? “Soon as it stops raining, I’ll check it. Get that sucker fixed so my dog stops bothering you.”
Laurel’s gaze dipped to the dog. “Oh. Well, yes, I suppose you should fix the fence, but...” Her eyes bounced back up to his. Still blue. Still incredible. “Actually, I don’t mind the company.” A long pause preceded, “Um...would you like to come in? I could make tea or something...?”
Way in the distance, thunder softly rumbled. The storm was moving off.
As should you, buddy.
“Nah, thanks, but I’m soaked to the skin. And in case you didn’t notice, my dog stinks. Anyway, you’re probably busy....”
A smile flitted across her lips as she tugged that floppy shirt closed. It’d been a weirdly cool June anyway; now, in the wake of the storm, the damp breeze was downright frigid. “No problem. Another time, then.”
“Uh...sure.” Because that’s what you said when both parties knew “another time” was never going to happen. Especially once he found, and plugged up, somebody’s little escape hatch. He grabbed the dog’s collar and began tugging him down the porch steps, tossing, “You have a good night, okay?” over his shoulder as he made what felt weirdly like an escape.
* * *
Laurel watched as Tyler and the dog trudged back to his house, then let out a whew-that-was-close sigh that fogged around her face in the chilly, damp air. Because, really, what had she been thinking, inviting the man in for tea? If he even drank tea, which she seriously doubted.
Hormones, that’s all this was. Had to be. Only reason she could see for her insane, and totally inappropriate, attraction to her cute, sexy, built, sexy, blond, sexy neighbor.
Her cute, sexy, built, blond obviously younger neighbor, who clearly had a thing for cute, sexy, blonde, petite, obviously-younger-than-he-was girls. Not that they were talking dozens or anything. And Laurel supposed they’d all—well, all two, and not at the same time, to be fair—had seemed nice enough from what she could tell through her living room window. If a little overzealous in the giggling department. One of them, anyway. Who giggled enough for five girls, honestly. But the thing was, they were obviously nothing like Laurel. Nor she, them. Being neither blonde nor pet
ite. Not to mention sexy. So she somehow doubted Tyler would ever be interested in her, in any case.
Even if she weren’t, you know. Knocked up.
Shaking her head at herself, Laurel yanked open her storm door and went back inside, where the symphony of Easter egg colors on her walls, her furnishings, made her smile. Yes, the house was a work in progress, but it was her work in progress. So, bam. Three months since she’d signed the mortgage papers, and she still couldn’t quite believe it, that she’d thrown caution to the winds and bought a house.
Her hand went to her belly, still barely pooched out underneath her roomy top. Speaking of throwing caution to the winds.
But as she walked through the still, silent space, the realization that it wouldn’t be still and silent for very long made her smile. Especially when she came to what would be the baby’s room. Where, leaning against the doorjamb, she shuddered, from a combination of giddy anticipation and sheer terror. As well as the ugliest shade of mauve known to man. Thank you, 1983, she thought, then sighed. Definitely not how she’d envisioned becoming a mother. Sure, Gran would want to help, but Marian McKinney was well into her eighties, for heaven’s sake. Mentally spry, for sure, but Laurel doubted the old girl was up to chasing a toddler—a thought that sent another shiver down Laurel’s spine.
To say this was unexpected didn’t even begin to cover it. But here she was, pregnant, and alone, and you know what? She could either moan and groan about cruel fate or whatever, or she could suck it up, count her blessings—which were many, actually—and make the best damn lemonade, ever.
She smiled. Maybe she should paint the room yellow, like lemonade. Or sunshine—
Her doorbell rang. Frowning, Laurel tromped back down the hall and peered through the peephole, her heart bumping when she saw Tyler. Honestly.
“Found the problem,” he said when she opened the door, all business with his arms crossed high on his chest. He wore his hair long enough that a breeze had shoved a hunk of streaked blond hair across his forehead, making him look about sixteen. The kind of sixteen-year-old boy that made mamas of sixteen-year-old girls chew their nails to the quick. “Wanna come see?”
