It definitely wasn’t right, what she’d confided in him just last week. She shoulda told Tag, not Coop. For a man who didn’t like secrets he sure seemed to be dragging the weight of everybody’s problems around with him. Trying to keep the stories straight was wearing him out.
Tag pretendin’ to fall in love and marry was a bit far-fetched, but it was the only solution Coop had come up with. It woulda worked perfectly with Betsy Mae. Now, well, he just wasn’t quite so sure anymore.
Coop carefully navigated the narrow strip of highway bordering the river, his thoughts tangled in memories and remorse. He did hate the lying. Lying to the two people he loved the most. Lying to Tag, lying to Lenore . . . lying to some woman he’d never even met.
Of course, with his brother’s help . . .
No, he didn’t even want to think about that. The stunt he and Buck were planning might even be considered illegal, could maybe put him—and Buck—behind bars.
Of course, when Tag found out, he’d probably kill them both anyway. Coop switched his thoughts back to Lenore.
Poor, sweet Lenore. He’d quietly loved her since they were kids. He hadn’t spoken up when she married the boss, much as he’d wanted to, even though Ed Martin was a cold and unfriendly son of a buck. Coop couldn’t have given Lenore the life she deserved, not then and not now.
Nothing could give her the life she deserved. Not anymore. If only she hadn’t made him promise. But he didn’t have a choice, not after she’d sat there in her sunny little kitchen, bright-eyed and beautiful as ever, touched his hand with hers, and told him she was dying.
Her only wish, before she went, was to see her grandson married. “Promise me, Coop. Promise you’ll help me get that boy wed.”
Like the lovesick fool he was, he’d promised.
It hadn’t seemed so bad, what with Betsy Mae playing the bride, but suddenly things had gotten terribly confused.
Tag and Betsy Mae’s friend were getting married. Coop figured he could do that much for Lenore. Unfortunately, he hadn’t gotten around to telling Tag it was going to be a real marriage. Legal, binding and duly recorded. That had been tricky, but it helped having friends in all the right places and a brother who was legally empowered to perform marriages, another fact Coop hadn’t gotten around to telling Tag.
He was doing it for Lenore. Hell, he’d do anything for Lenore, but he sure hated lying to the boy.
Especially since now it was some strange woman, not Tag’s buddy Betsy Mae Twigg who was going to be repeating those vows.
Another burden.
Maybe Coop’d manage to be well away from the ranch when Tag and this gal found out their marriage wasn’t just an act.
On second thought, maybe he just wouldn’t tell them. At least not right away.
More lies.
Add ’em to the load.
Rain nearly blinded him, sweeping across the truck in wind-driven gusts that buffeted the old pickup and almost drowned out the sound of the engine. Coop drove carefully, swerving around a pile of rocks and mud partially blocking the highway, and hoped the gal’s car wasn’t somewhere under the pile. Slides were common along this stretch of road. This one just about blocked the entrance to Columbine Camp and it appeared some lines were down. He’d have to call Will.
“Son of a buck,” he muttered, braking to avoid a boulder that rolled across the road directly in front of his wheels. He watched as it bounced over the edge, through the leafy treetops, and disappeared into the rushing river below. Grumbling, Coop continued on his search. Somewhere along this road, he was bound to find the bride.
SHE SHOVED her mud-soaked hair out of her eyes, smashed her Stetson down hard on her head, and fought the urge to sit back down on the side of the road and cry. Her boots pinched her toes and the stupid little wheels on her suitcase kept hanging up in the gravel, but all she could think of was getting to the ranch, taking a shower, and crawling into bed.
But which ranch? Both Columbine Camp and the Double Eagle shared a space in her jumbled thoughts, but there was something about the Double Eagle that drew her the most. She knew she had to be close, though she’d have to be right on top of the place to see the entrance through the pouring rain.
Her head pounded and there wasn’t a bone or muscle that didn’t feel bruised, but for the life of her she couldn’t recall exactly how she’d gotten hurt. Or how she’d ended up sitting on the side of the road in a storm, dressed in her rodeo finest with her little carry-on suitcase tucked under her arm and her best cowboy hat crumpled beneath her.
Of course, with all the years of barrel racing under her belt, you’d think she’d be used to hurting by now. Probably just got thrown from her horse . . . again. But where was that stupid beast, and why was she carrying a suitcase? Especially this absurd little thing with wheels? Her thoughts were so jangled and confused! Damn, she was getting too old for rodeo. Days like this, she didn’t care if she never saw a horse again.
“Well, girl,” she muttered, tugging the suitcase wheels free of a clump of weeds, “you’ve been dumped on your butt before and still managed to survive.”
But she didn’t think she’d ever been dumped in a place as miserable and wet as this.
A rumble and clatter echoed against the steep canyon walls, almost drowning out the rush and roar of the river. Startled, she turned and cocked her head, struggling to identify the sound. She squinted against the pouring rain, then stuck her thumb out without hesitation when a battered pickup rattled into view. She hadn’t a clue as to who was driving, but she’d crawl into a truck with an ax murderer if it would just get her out of this rain.
The ancient pickup slid to a halt in a spray of mud and water. She tilted her hat back and swept her muddy hair out of her eyes, but before she could ask for a ride, a cowboy as battered and ancient as the truck climbed out and grabbed her by the arm.
“You Betsy Mae’s friend? What are you doing out in this storm, girl? Don’t you know weather like this can be dangerous?” The old man shouted at her like he was mad about something, but at least he’d stopped the truck and was helping her inside. “You’re a mess, and the wedding’s in less than two hours!”
Wedding? That explained it. She must be going to a wedding. That accounted for the fancy western duds. She knew that name, Betsy Mae, even if she couldn’t for the life of her remember her own. She had vague memories of Betsy Mae Twigg . . . she must know her from rodeo. That was the only explanation.
A picture flashed into her mind, of a smiling blond standing next to a beautiful black-and-white horse, and another crisp image of the same woman racing her horse around a barrel in a huge stadium. She could almost hear the roar of the crowd.
Yep. That was it. Finally, a memory! She almost giggled in relief.
This old man acted like he was expecting her, seemed to know who she was. Maybe, if she just played along, he’d tell her. She shoved her wet hair back out of her eyes once again and looked for a seat belt.
Obviously, the truck predated seat-belt laws. She grabbed the armrest and hung on as the cowboy shoved the thing into gear, turned the truck around and rumbled on down the road.
“Lenore’s due out in a bit, and we sure can’t have her seeing you like this.” He sat hunched over the steering wheel and rubbed the foggy window with one gnarled hand, but she knew he looked over at her every chance he got.
He didn’t seem impressed with what he saw.
She really was a mess. Her jeans were plastered to her legs and steam rose off the stiff denim. She reached up to smooth her hair, and realized it hung in wet, ratted tangles past her shoulders. Thank goodness there wasn’t a mirror on the passenger side . . . she’d just as soon not know how bad she looked.
“I sure hope Betsy Mae didn’t put one over on us,” the old guy muttered.
“I know Betsy Mae,” she said, fishing.
“Well, o’course you do, gal. She’s the reason you’re here. If it weren’t for Betsy Mae, you and Tag sure wouldn’t be gettin’ married, and that’s a fact.”
“Tag? You can’t mean Taggart Martin?” She swallowed.
I’m marrying Taggart Martin? That sexy, dark-haired hunk?
She’d certainly remember if she were planning to marry him! The man was incredible. A brilliant image swam into view, photographic in its clarity, the tall, darkly rugged cowboy with that rakish smile and the midnight blue eyes. “The same Taggart Martin who owns the Double Eagle?”
She’d better do something about that squeak in her voice!
The old cowboy slanted her a suspicious glance. “Didn’t Betsy Mae tell you nuttin’? She told Will you were lookin’ forward to this, that you liked the way Tag looked.”
“I do, I mean, he looks wonderful, it’s just . . .”
“There ain’t nobody else other’n Tag fit ta own the Double Eagle. Why, he’s been runnin’ that ranch since he was just a boy.”
“Oh.” What more was there to say? Eventually, some of this had to make sense. Hopefully before she got to the wedding vows.
She took a deep swallow and grabbed the dash as they bounced through another puddle. “Then I guess you’d better get me to the Double Eagle,” she said. An old tune floated through her benumbed brain . . .
take me to the church, take me to the church.
Would he get her to the church on time?
She hummed quietly, losing herself in the familiar melody.
The old cowboy grunted and turned his attention back to his driving. They passed through a huge gate carved with a soaring pair of eagles across the top and festooned with white ribbons and balloons hanging sodden and limp in the storm. Almost a mile farther up the road the old man pulled into an oddly familiar yard that bustled with activity in spite of the rain. Half a dozen mongrel dogs barked and yapped, circling the truck with tails wagging and teeth showing.
She hadn’t been here before, she was sure of it, but somehow it all looked so . . .
“There you are!” Tag Martin stepped down off the porch, shielding his face from the driving rain and almost tripping over a muddy black-and-white dog. “Ramón,” he shouted, “lock these mutts up!” A stocky young cowboy rushed to obey.
She knew it was Tag, recognized the thick black hair and the midnight eyes, but she’d never seen him like this, disheveled, impatient . . . curious?
If only she could remember.
“They’ve got the front room all decorated and the cake’s been delivered. Gramma Lenore’s due here any minute. Good Lord, is this her?” He stared at her, an almost angry glint in his dark eyes. “What happened to you?”
Without giving her a chance to answer or gather her thoughts, Tag grabbed her by the arm and hustled her across the huge covered porch, through a dark entryway and into a cheerful kitchen warmed by a woodstove in one corner.
All around her women bustled and laughed, carrying flowers through the kitchen doors, stacking glasses and plates on a long table that stretched the length of the kitchen. A few of them eyed her curiously, one or two even smiled.
Before she had a chance to take it all in, Tag shoved a thick towel in her hands and stuck her on a small bench by the stove. He scowled darkly in her direction. “I sure hope Betsy Mae knows what she’s up to,” he said, spinning around and glaring at the old cowboy.
The old man backed off a bit, then the two of them moved across the kitchen. She sighed, stared at the towel in her hands and wished something made sense. Obviously they’d been expecting her, and obviously she wasn’t quite what they expected. She took off her hat, shoved her hair back again, and began wiping the grit off her boots and suitcase.
If only she could figure out what was going on. For a man planning to be married in less than two hours, he sure didn’t act like he was in love. She studied him out of the corner of her eye and felt the old familiar tug beneath her heart.
Had she dreamed of him? She recognized Tag, but he seemed unsure of her. Why couldn’t she remember? Had she possibly forgotten knowing him, the way she seemed to have forgotten so many other things? If what the old man said was true, she was going to be Tag’s wife before the day was out.
No! I can’t marry him. I don’t know what I’m doing here!
She bit back a sob. Crying wouldn’t solve a thing, dammit. Instead, she blinked the tears away and scrubbed furiously at her muddy boots.
“I DON’T KNOW, Tag.” Coop kept his voice low so the woman sitting across the kitchen wouldn’t hear. “She acted a little surprised when I mentioned the wedding. Will told me his sister had taken care of everything, but I’m beginning to wonder if Betsy Mae filled this little gal in on the details.”
“I sure hope so. It’s too late to change plans now. She’s not much to look at.” Tag rubbed his freshly shaved chin as he studied their bedraggled guest. “I thought Betsy Mae told Will she was a tall redhead.”
“Maybe when she washes up?” Coop didn’t sound convinced.
“Washing up sure isn’t going to make her any taller.” Tag bit his lips then blew out a puff of air. “Um, miss,” he said. “Coop here’ll show you to the room we’ve got ready for you. I mean, I hate to rush you, but people should start arriving within the next hour or so. You don’t want them to see the bride any way but at her best, do you?”
She stared up at him, her eyes deep green and as fathomless as a mountain pool. Tag felt a sudden clenching in his gut and blinked, drawing himself out of those mysterious eyes and back to reality.
No, no, no, no, no! Not that. Definitely not that!
He took a deep breath and smiled.
She smiled back, masking her confusion and the beginnings of a throbbing headache as best she could. “A shower sounds great,” she said, pulling herself very carefully to her feet. She grabbed her suitcase and her badly smashed Stetson, and obediently followed the old man down the long hallway.
The room was lovely, decorated in pale shades of yellow like something out of another era. Coop pointed out the adjoining bathroom, then turned and paused a moment. He cleared his throat, then looked away. She waited, impatient for her shower, anxious for a quiet moment to try and gather her disordered thoughts.