by Janet Dailey
Fixing her expression in a sassy smile, she broke into her cover of the old Hank Williams hit, “Hey, Good Lookin’.” The audience loved it. They clapped and cheered. Next, to keep things upbeat, she did a girl’s version of “Take It Easy” and a couple more songs from her idol, Patsy Cline.
Conner was still there. He looked up, his eyes asking silent questions that deserved answers. It was time to make her move—to risk her pride, to risk everything.
With a deep breath and a prayer in her heart, she reached for the guitar she’d brought from home.
“You’ve been a great audience,” she said in the drawl that was her Lacy voice. “And because this is a special night, I’d like to sing you a special song—one I wrote myself. But first, there’s something I need to do.”
Moving deliberately, she leaned the guitar against a stool, lifted the Stetson off her head, and dropped it to the stage. “I hope you haven’t grown too fond of Miss Lacy Leatherwood,” she said, speaking more to Conner than to her audience. “Because she’s about to say good-bye and go away—for good.”
Next she slipped out of the fancy leather jacket and let it fall next to the hat. Underneath was the black silk blouse. It would have to stay, as would the boots and cheap jewelry. But there was one last thing she needed to get rid of. Reaching up, she tugged at the wig and lifted it off her head to reveal her own short, dark brown hair.
A stunned silence fell over the audience. The only sound in the gym was the faint clatter of the drummer dropping a stick.
Then, from the front of the audience, came the sound of one pair of hands clapping. Megan didn’t have to look down to know that it was Conner, supporting her. In the next instant, more hands joined in, then more, until the applause rose to the gym’s rafters. Tears welled in Megan’s eyes as she motioned for silence.
“Thank you for that,” she said in her natural voice. Then, perching on the stool, she picked up her guitar and strummed a few chords. “This song is dedicated to a certain man. When he hears it, he’ll know who he is.”
Laughter, light and knowing, rippled through the audience. In a place like Branding Iron, juicy tidbits traveled fast. If she and Conner had been seen together even once or twice, the whole town would know by now.
Strumming a few more chords, she began to sing—in a soft, caressing voice that was more her own than Lacy’s:
“My dream of Christmas . . . is a dream of firelight. . .
And the sound of sleigh bells . . . and the fall of snow.
My dream of Christmas . . . is the warmth of laughter . . .
And the joy of children with their eyes aglow.”
As she sang, she could feel Conner’s gaze on her. He had to know the next words were for him, had to know, as everyone listening would know, that she loved him and wanted to be with him forever.
“My dream of Christmas . . . is a dream of mornings . . .
With the golden sunlight . . . on your sleeping face.
My dream of Christmas . . . is a dream of loving . . .
Making tender memories . . . nothing can replace.
My dream of Christmas . . . is you beside me . . .
As the fading sunset . . . paints the sky with flame . . .
My dream is . . .”
Megan’s voice wavered and broke. She lowered her gaze, fighting tears as she put down her guitar. There was more to the song, but she knew she couldn’t go on. A hush had fallen over her audience.
Was she finished? Should they applaud?
“Megan, look at me.” Conner was standing below her, close to the stage. His arms open, as if waiting to catch her. “It’s all right. It’s perfect. Come to me.”
She hesitated, suddenly uncertain. What did he mean? Was he asking her to jump?
He smiled. “I love you, Megan. You, yourself, and no one else. Now do what you’ve been afraid to do. Take a chance on forever. That’s how long I’ll be here. Trust me.”
“I love you, too,” she whispered. Summoning her courage, she flung herself off the stage and into his arms.
His kiss was tender and passionate—a promise made before a roomful of people; it was a very public declaration that she was his woman, and he wanted the world to know it.
As the audience broke into thunderous applause, Conner lowered Megan’s feet gently to the floor. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered.
* * *
In years to come, when the people of Branding Iron talked about this night, they would agree that, of all the Cowboy Christmas Balls, this one had been the most memorable.
Epilogue
Six months later . . .
The repairs on the damaged church were finished by early June, just in time for Katy and Daniel’s wedding. Sitting with Conner at the end of the second row, Megan waited for the ceremony to begin. It was early yet, and the guests were still arriving, filling the pews all the way to the back door.
Glancing over her shoulder, she could see Ronda May and Sam, her boss and fiancé, taking a seat. They planned to be married here next month. And Travis was just coming in, with a glowingly pregnant Maggie on his arm. “Blame it on Hawaii,” Maggie joked to explain her condition.
Rush and Tracy had saved seats for their friends. They were celebrating good news, too. Tracy was unable to have children, but they’d been approved for adoption and were waiting for their baby boy to be born. Clara, sitting between them, was over the moon at the prospect of being a big sister.
The church organist had begun the prelude. Megan closed her eyes a moment and inhaled the scent of roses. Cut and donated from Branding Iron gardens, they filled the air with their delicate fragrance—a tribute to the sweet young couple the townspeople had embraced as their own.
Megan reached forward and squeezed her mother’s shoulder. Dorcas, wearing a new rose-colored dress, had been lifted out of her chair and placed on the front pew. Connie Parker, Katie’s mother, sat next to her, holding her hand. The two women had become fast friends. Dorcas had made other friends as well in the book club she’d joined.
The minister had taken his place. Now Daniel walked in from the side door with his father, who was acting as his best man. Megan’s brother looked self-assured and handsome in his tuxedo. Three months ago, he’d met the requirements for his driver’s license. There were restrictions—he wouldn’t be allowed to drive on the freeway. But when he’d sat behind the wheel of his ten-year-old Honda Civic, he’d looked like a man who could conquer the world. That look had been worth any sacrifice of time and money on Megan’s part.
As the organ played the opening notes of the “Wedding March,” the minister gave the signal to rise. Coming down the aisle now, on her father’s arm, was Katy. In her lovely white lace gown and veil, she looked like a little doll—but, no, not a doll, Megan corrected herself. She was a radiant young woman, moving with grace and confidence toward the next part of her life.
As they resumed their seats for the ceremony, Megan slipped her hand into Conner’s. His fingers tightened around hers. He gave her a smile and mouthed the words “I love you.”
Their turn to be married would come soon, Megan knew. First they had taken time to get to know one another, time for Megan to help Daniel and her family, time for Conner to update the house at Christmas Tree Ranch.
Megan had decided not to take the teaching job or pursue a professional singing career. Lacy’s suitcase was in storage, where it would stay for now. But another opportunity had come up. The Christmas song she’d written had been accepted by a Nashville agency. They were asking for more songs. She was working on them—something she hoped to do while she raised the family she and Conner wanted to have.
Conner slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Soon,” he whispered in her ear. Soon the ranch house would be ready. Then they would marry and fill it with love and laughter and children. Their home. Forever.
Please read on for an excerpt from the first in
Janet Dailey’s brand new series,
The Champions!
Kingman, Arizona
Summer
Lexie Champion pulled off her sunglasses, wiped the lenses on the hem of her rumpled denim shirt, and slipped them into her pocket. Her eyes were gritty from the dusty desert wind that swept across the rodeo grounds, picking up the odors of manure, barbecue, popcorn, tobacco smoke, and diesel fumes—a mélange that, to Lexie, was as familiar as any air she’d ever breathed.
From the midway beyond the bleachers, her ears caught the music of a carousel. It blended with the bawl of cattle and the blare of the rodeo announcer’s voice as the rodeo’s opening ceremony began.
They’d driven most of the night to get here—she and the foreman, Ruben Diego, with four bucking bulls in the long gooseneck trailer. They’d arrived at the Mojave County Fairgrounds late last night and loosed the bulls down the chute into one of the holding pens. After giving their charges water and grain in rubber feed tubs, the two of them had crashed across the front and back seats of the heavy duty pickup for a few hours of sleep.
Now it was late in the day. The strains of the National Anthem from the arena told her that the rodeo, the centerpiece of Kingman’s Andy Devine Days celebration, was about to get underway. The bull riding event would be last on the two-hour program. Before then, there should be time to relax, get some barbecue, maybe even change the clothes she’d driven and slept in. But Lexie was too wired to rest. All she wanted was to be right here, with her bulls. After the threatening message she’d received last week, she needed to know that the precious animals were safe.
Ruben had gone off to the midway for food and sodas. She’d told him there was no need to bring her anything, but he probably would. Ruben, a full-blooded member of the Tohono O’ odham tribe, might be an employee of the Alamo Canyon Cattle Ranch, but he treated Lexie and her sister Tess as if they were his own daughters.
Alone for the moment, she leaned against the six-foot portable steel fence, resting a boot on one of the lower rungs as she gazed across the complex of pens and chutes. Here the rodeo bulls, trucked in by stock contractors like the Champion family, waited to be herded through the maze of chutes, rigged with a flank strap and bull rope, mounted, and set loose to buck.
Until the instant a rider’s weight settled onto their backs, most of the animals were calm. They were bred and raised to do one job—buck that annoying cowboy off into the dust. They knew what to expect and what to do. But at up to a ton in weight, with the agility of star athletes, they were amazingly powerful, incredibly dangerous. And in the arena, at any adrenalin-charged moment, the most amiable bull could turn murderous.
Nobody knew that better than Lexie.
Her thoughts flew back to the cryptic note she’d found tucked beneath the truck’s windshield when she’d driven into Ajo for groceries last week. Written in crude block letters on a page torn from a yellow pad, it had been there when she’d come out of the store. Its simple message had sent a chill up her spine.
YOUR FAMILY OWES ME. ITS PAYBACK TIME.
Even the memory made her shiver. Had the message been a prank? Her first impulse had been to scan the parking lot for someone who might have left it. But she’d seen no one, not even a familiar vehicle. Impulsively, she’d crumpled the page and tossed it into a trash receptacle. If anybody was watching, she wanted them to know she wasn’t scared.
Later, after realizing she’d destroyed evidence, Lexie had regretted the act. But nothing could erase the image of that message from her mind—the letters pressed hard into the yellow paper, as if in pure hatred. Why did this person think her family owed him—or her? And what did they mean by payback?
She’d told no one yet. Not her sister Tess or their stepmother, Callie; not even Ruben. Why cause worry over what was bound to be an empty threat? But she wasn’t about to leave her bulls if there was any chance someone might harm them.
“Well, lookee here! Howdy, honey!” The slurring voice made Lexie jump. The cowhand who’d crept up behind her was dirty, unshaven, and, as her late father would’ve said, as big as a barn door. His clothes and breath reeked of cheap whiskey.
“You’re a purty little thing with that long yellow hair.” He loomed over her. “I was thinkin’ maybe you’re one o’ them buckle bunnies. I got a buckle right here if you want to see it.” His dirty hand tugged at the ordinary western-style belt buckle and unfastened it. “You’ll like what I got underneath it even better.”
Until that moment, Lexie had merely been annoyed. She’d dealt with drunks at other rodeos. But now a cold fear crept over her. She was alone out here, where nobody could hear her scream over the sounds of the rodeo. The man had her backed against the fence, and he was big enough to easily overpower her. There was a pistol under the front seat of the truck, but it was parked in the lot reserved for rigs, too far away to be of any use.
She glared up at the big man, trying not to show fear. “I’m not a buckle bunny,” she said. “And you’re drunk. I don’t like drunks. Neither does my boyfriend. If you’re smart, you’ll leave before he gets back here.”
The boyfriend part was a lie, but it was the only defense she had. Unfortunately, the way the man’s yellow-toothed grin widened told her it wouldn’t be enough. She’d told Ruben to take his time; but even if he were to show up now, the 150-pound foreman was pushing sixty. Without a weapon, he’d be no match for the hulking brute, and there was no one else in sight. Lexie was on her own.
Crouching against the steel fence, she prepared to defend herself. The big man was staggering drunk and appeared slow. A strike in a vital spot—his groin or his eyes—might disable him long enough for her to get away.
“C’mon, honey. You’ll like it once we git started.” He lunged for her, the move fast but awkward. Lexie had been poised to spring at him, boots kicking, fingers clawing; but her instincts took over. She dodged to one side as he lurched forward, stumbled over his own feet and crashed full force into the tubular steel rails of the fence. Stunned, he grunted and staggered backward, blood flowing from his nose. His legs folded beneath him as he collapsed in the dust.
As the man curled onto his side, moaning and cradling his bloodied nose, Lexie whipped out her cell phone. She didn’t have the number for fairgrounds security, but a 911 call should get some kind of help.
She was about to punch in the number when, from a short distance behind her, came the sound of . . . clapping.
Startled, she turned to see the rangy figure of a man striding toward her from around the far end of the fence. Moving fast, he came within speaking distance. “That was quite a show. Remind me never to tangle with Miss Lexie Champion.”
It startled her again, hearing her name. But she wasn’t about to lower her guard. “I could’ve used some help,” she said, glaring up at him. He was a shade under six feet tall, compactly muscled and dressed in weathered cowboy clothes. The only distinguishing feature of his outfit was the silver PBR prize buckle that fastened his belt. The man was a bull rider, evidently a good one, and he looked the part.
His grin widened. “If I’d shown up thirty seconds sooner, I’d have decked the bastard for you. But by the time I saw you, there was no need. I couldn’t have done a better job myself.” He swept off his battered Resistol hat and extended a hand. “Shane Tully. I took a chance on finding you here. It looks like I arrived just in time. If that jerk hadn’t fallen against the fence, you’d have needed some help.”
Lexie accepted the confident handshake. His palm was cool against her own, the skin as tough as boot leather. Shane Tully. The name rang a bell in her memory, albeit a faint one. He was a regular on the PBR circuit, his rank just moving into the top twenty. This year he was a serious contender for the finals in Las Vegas.
The man on the ground moaned and stirred. “Broke my friggin’ nose,” he muttered. “Need help . . .”
“Let’s get you on your feet, pal.” Handing Lexie his hat, Tully crouched behind him and worked his hands under the big man’s arms. Some pushing and lifting got the
drunk upright. Tully took a clean white handkerchief out of his pocket and laid it on the man’s bleeding nose. “Keep it,” he said. “This’ll teach you not to make unwelcome advances to ladies. There’s a first aid station on the midway, by the Ferris wheel. Can you make it that far on your own, or should we call security?”
The man swore under his breath and shuffled off, one hand clutching the handkerchief to his nose. Lexie kept her eyes on him until he’d gained a safe distance. Only then did she turn to face the bull rider.
She knew he probably wasn’t here to compete. This rodeo was sanctioned by the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association, or PRCA. The cowboys coming here would compete in bronc riding, calf roping, and other events including bull riding. In 1992, the leading bull riders had broken away from the PRCA and formed their own elite organization, the Professional Bull Riders, or PBR. Only the best could compete in their hugely popular events around the country. Membership, for both riders and bucking bulls, was by invitation only.
Which might have something to do with the reason Shane Tully had come to find her.
“You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here, Mr. Tully,” she said, handing him the hat.
“It’s Shane, and I can’t say you’ve given me much of a chance.”
He smiled with his mouth. His features struck Lexie as more rugged than handsome—deep-set brown eyes, a long jaw ending in a square chin, and a scar, like a thin slash with two stitch marks, running down his left cheek.
He had the look of a man who’d been through some rough times, but Lexie guessed that he wasn’t much older than twenty-five or twenty-six. With a few notable exceptions, bull riding was a young man’s sport. Older bodies couldn’t take the punishment.
