Finally, he tipped his hat and mumbled. “If Lenore wasn’t dyin’ . . .”
“Excuse me?” Her head pounded so that nothing made sense.
“Nothin’. Nothin’ at all.” He stared at her a moment. “We’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything,” he muttered, then quietly turned and shut the door.
Lenore who? Dying? Later. She’d make sense of all this later. She used the facilities, then looked longingly at the big old claw-footed tub. Every bone and joint in her body ached, and a bath sounded so much better than a shower.
She was definitely getting too old for barrel racing. The thought of soaking away the pain along with the mud and grit tugged at her like a magnet. She turned on the water, then decided to at least wash her face while the tub filled.
She turned on the taps in the small sink and rinsed her hands, then splashed some of the warm water on her face. She grabbed a dark blue towel hanging from a rack under a mirror next to the sink, scrubbed her face dry, then looked up . . . directly into the startled green eyes of a stranger.
Oh my,
she thought, grabbing the edge of the sink for balance while fighting a bubble of hysterical laughter.
This is much worse than I imagined
.
COOP RUBBED his bony old hands together, leaned against the doorjamb to the ranch office, and grinned gleefully at Tag. “Relax. Besides, it’s too late for second thoughts. Trust me. It’s gonna work.”
“The last time I trusted you, I folded with a full house and lost to your pair of fours.” Tag slipped his feet off his desk and leaned forward. He buried his face against his folded arms, like a kindergartner at rest time.
“That was cards . . . this is the Double Eagle.”
“I don’t know, Coop.” Tag lifted his head and scowled up at his foreman from under the brim of his hat. “With Betsy Mae we might’ve pulled this off. I even thought it might work when you told me she’d sent a friend in her place. I did, that is, until you dragged her in. Coop, not only is she a mess, this gal’s a space cadet. I don’t see her putting anything over on Gramma Lenore. We can’t do this. It’ll never work.”
Coop blanched. “I don’t want ta go live in a mobile home park full of blue-haired old biddies, Tag. You can’t do that to me. Besides, she hired on for the job. Poor kid. She must need the money real bad to agree to something like this.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Tag studied his old friend’s weather-beaten face, the bushy eyebrows, the battered hat. Hell, Coop was as battered as the hat. Leaving this ranch, his home for over sixty years, would kill him. But putting one over on Gramma Lenore . . . damn.
She might be old, but she wasn’t stupid.
Coop obviously saw Tag’s determination wavering. “All we’ve done is hired you a cute little gal to play your wife,” he said, slapping his palm down on the desk. “A little lie in the bigger scheme o’ things. Ya gotta look at the big picture, Tag. This ranch . . . this ranch . . .” He bowed his head, as if he’d suddenly run out of steam.
“Tag.” Coop’s voice took on a hollow, lifeless sound. “Tellin’ a little white lie to Lenore ain’t gonna kill her. In fact, it’ll ease her mind, knowin’ you’re finally hitched. Hell, more’n fifty percent of marriages fail nowadays, so when you two separate and that little gal goes her merry way, it won’t be a surprise to Lenore. We both know there’s not a decent woman around who’d put up with you for real anyway.”
The old man studied Tag as if weighing his determination, then straightened his shoulders and raised his bristly chin. “You’re goin’ through with it. Everything’s ready. The cake’s been delivered, the keg’s on ice, and the folks’ll be arriving any time now. Besides, this is the Double Eagle we’re talking about, boy. This is our life.” He stared long and hard at Tag. “Now, I’m gonna go get myself cleaned up. I suggest you do the same.” He turned around and quietly left the room.
Coop shut the door. Tag felt like a six-second rider on an eight-second bull. His shoulders sagged with the weight of what he was about to do. Coop was right about a lot of things, but most particularly on one point. No decent woman would put up with him, not that he wanted one. Even so, he’d never felt like such a failure in all his thirty-nine years.
THE WATER was cooling. She couldn’t hide out in the bathroom forever, so she climbed out of the big old tub and dried herself. The double bed beckoned, so wonderfully warm looking, cozy and comforting. She visualized peeling back the crisp sheets, climbing under the blankets, falling asleep.
Then waking up in a place she remembered.
To a face in the mirror she recognized.
With trembling fingers, she carefully traced the welt on her forehead. There was only one way to explain all this. Somehow she’d been injured. The disorientation she felt must be amnesia.
She’d practically screamed when she saw her reflection. She hadn’t recognized a thing about the woman in the mirror, not the dark green eyes, the high cheekbones, not even the wide, full-lipped mouth with the tiny birthmark at one corner.
She’d studied that face, trying to remember, trying to feel something besides a great emptiness.
She didn’t recognize the old man, either, though the younger one looked tantalizingly familiar. Her heart literally skipped a beat when he touched her, so obviously her body remembered what her mind had forgotten.
But she had absolutely no idea who Lenore might be, dying or not, and though she remembered Betsy Mae’s name and a lot about the rodeo circuit, the information felt vague, unfocused.
It wasn’t until she saw her reflection that she’d actually thought about her name. She didn’t have a clue who she was.
None of this made sense.
Naked and beginning to chill, she ripped open her battered suitcase and rummaged through the meager bits and pieces of her life. Nothing but brand-new jeans and some really fancy western shirts still wrapped in a bag with the tags attached, a few pairs of lacy panties, a brassiere and a nightgown. There was a makeup kit, a toothbrush and a comb and brush set.
But no identification.
She found a receipt for the clothing in the bag, but the signature wasn’t legible and the credit card numbers were disguised with little asterisks. There was a leather strip on the handle of the suitcase where a name tag might have been attached.
It wasn’t, anymore.
So much for detective work.
It shouldn’t be so difficult to remember the basics, like why she felt she knew Tag, why the Double Eagle seemed so familiar, where she was from, if she had any family . . . her name. She frowned, struggling for the memories.
A sharp pain lanced between her eyes as her headache returned with a vengeance. She sat heavily on the edge of the bed. Maybe it was going to be that difficult.
Practically crying with frustration, she did the only logical thing she could think of, under the circumstances. According to the old man, she had over an hour before the wedding. Sighing with exhaustion, she pulled the tiny wisp of a nightgown out of the suitcase, slipped it over her head, and crawled into bed.
Maybe, just maybe, she’d wake up and realize this had all been a dream. Or even better, she’d know who she was and what was going on, and why she and Taggart Martin, a man she could have only known in her dreams, were getting married today.
Married! She couldn’t possibly go through with this until she knew what was happening.
She gathered what memories she could. She was certain she’d been headed to the Double Eagle, but for the life of her she couldn’t recall anything about a wedding. Everyone appeared to expect her, even though none of them actually seemed to know her.
She knew she’d agreed to something, but not what, though she thought it involved money. Marriage? For money? To a complete stranger? Her head started to ache again and she snuggled down into the soft pillow. There was something familiar about the man, familiar enough that she recognized not only his name, but his face as well.
And what a face! Not to mention the body it was attached to . . . she drifted, floating in that enchanted space between awareness and sleep. She imagined him holding her in his arms, felt the gentle touch of his lips on hers . . . then slipped peacefully into her dreams.
Chapter 2
COOP ROCKED back on the heels of his very best Sunday cowboy boots and tucked his hands in the back pockets of his shiny black western-cut suit pants. He grinned encouragingly at Tag, who hesitated uncertainly just outside the woman’s bedroom door. “Well, aren’t you purty? Ain’t seen you in a suit since Big Ed’s funeral. You ready to fetch the little woman? She’s probably all dressed up by now, waiting for you to make her your bride.” He chuckled. Tag frowned at him. Coop was having way too much fun at his expense.
“Cut it out, old man, if you know what’s good for you.” He practically snarled at Coop.
“There’s nothing wrong with a marriage of convenience,” Coop said defensively. “Happens all the time.”
Tag snorted in disgust. “Oh yeah, every day,” he said, running his finger under the tight collar of his best shirt. Lord but he hated to dress up! He hated weddings even more, this one in particular. Even if it was all for show.
“Which reminds me,” he said, glaring at Coop. “Where do you get these damned ideas of yours?”
“I read a lot,” Coop said. “Now quit stallin’. Go in there and tell your young lady it’s time for the show. Be nice, even if she doesn’t look like the gal of your dreams. You don’t want to confuse that poor little thing. Might make her up and quit. Like I said before, I doubt there’s too many women ready to marry Tag Martin, even if it is pretend. ’Sides, she’s had a bath. She might just clean up real good. You can’t never tell.” Coop cast a sideways glance in Tag’s direction. “Sumpin’ just might work out for real, if you play your cards right . . . you know, a little conversation, a little . . .”
“It’s those damned romance novels you’ve been reading, isn’t it?” Tag interrupted. At Coop’s embarrassed snort, Tag poked him in the chest. “You think I don’t know you’ve got ’em stashed out there in the barn? Filling your head up with all these stupid ideas. You oughta be ashamed.”
“I . . . I save ’em for Lenore,” Coop sputtered, straightening his spine and yanking his hands out of his pockets. “They’re not mine, they’re hers. Never read the things myself.”
“Right.” Tag ran his fingers through his hair and glanced at the closed door. She’d been in there a long time, and already the few guests they’d invited were beginning to arrive. He wanted to go over the details, make sure she knew what was expected of her.
It was now or never. Tag had a sudden insight into how a mountain lion might feel, trapped, its back against the wall. He felt that way, as if the dogs were closing in and he had nowhere to run. Fight or flight, only flight wasn’t an option.
“It’s for the best, son.” Coop rested his gnarled fingers on Tag’s arm and squeezed affectionately. Tag took a deep breath and looked down at the hand that had helped him up so many times over the years. He had to put this plan into action. He couldn’t, wouldn’t
fail Coop.
An iron band suddenly clamped over Tag’s lungs, squeezed his heart. His mouth went dry as dust.
“Coop, I can’t go through with this.” He stared at the door to his parents’ old bedroom and brushed his sweaty palms along his thighs. Even the thought of a fake marriage was giving him the cold sweats. What if this were for real?
Coop glared at him, his bushy brows almost knit together beneath the wide brim of his hat. The affectionate squeeze on Tag’s arm suddenly turned into an iron grip of resolve. “Ya got no choice, as I see it. You turn forty in less than a month. You go through with a phony marriage, convince Lenore it’s the real thing, and the ranch is yours. Then the two of you separate, you pay off the young lady, and everything’ll be fine. Lenore’ll be happy and you’ll have your ranch.” Coop released Tag’s arm, took a ragged breath, and stared off down the dark hallway. “You only need to stay together for a few weeks, a couple of months at the most. Then your grandmother’ll be . . . satisfied.”
The sadness that flashed across the old man’s face startled Tag. He thought of something Coop had said earlier.
This ranch is your life, boy. You lose it, what’ve you got? Nothing. Nothing at all.
Coop was right. What did he have? Tag stared past the man who’d been more a father to him than anyone else, living or dead. He pictured the miles of taut wire fencing, the barn he’d just reroofed, the cattle grazing on over a thousand acres of good pasture, and tried to imagine life without the Double Eagle.
There’d been a big article about Tag and some of the other ranchers in the valley in the latest issue of
Western Horseman
. The writer’s flowery prose suddenly filled Tag’s mind:
Taggart Martin, one of a dying breed in the great American West. His love for his land is elemental, a piece of the fabric that makes him as much a part of the Double Eagle as the Double Eagle is of him. An honorable but lonely man, battling the elements, the government, and the threat of encroaching civilization.
Tag almost snorted. The guy left out battling Gramma Lenore. She was a bigger threat than everything else combined. Scratch honorable, too, he thought. Considering the current scheme in progress, that description was questionable. The writer had gotten one thing right, though. The part about being lonely. Briefly, Tag wondered what it would be like to share all this with a real wife, a partner in every way, not some stranger who needed a change in her life and a few extra dollars cash money.
Never. He’d never risk having a life like his father’s, tied in marriage to a woman who didn’t love him or the son she bore, drinking away the best years of his life until he finally had one drink too many before climbing behind the wheel of his truck.
Tag always wondered why he’d been spared, when both of his parents had died. Even more confusing, he couldn’t figure out why the grandmother who’d loved him and raised him would want to force him into a loveless marriage.
An overwhelming sense of exhaustion swept over him. Tag closed his eyes, sighed once again, reconsidered his choices, then, feeling more tired than he could ever remember, knocked quietly on the bedroom door.
There was no answer.
He glanced at Coop. The old cowboy shrugged.
Tag knocked a bit louder, waited a moment, then slowly opened the door, just far enough to peek inside.
He had to remind himself to take another breath.
Coop was right. She did clean up real good.
The woman slept soundly, lying on her side, the covers tucked up under her chin. A tiny frown marred her smooth skin and her full lips were parted, as if she’d drifted asleep on a sigh. Her hair, still damp from her bath, clung in dark auburn waves to the column of her throat and fanned out beside her on the pillow. Her eyebrows were the same dark color, arched and prominent as a robin’s wing, and her thick lashes shadowed dark half-moons across her cheeks.
There were a few scratches and bruises, most notably an egg-sized welt across her forehead, partially hidden by her hair.
She hadn’t said anything about an accident. She’d been so muddy when she arrived, Tag hadn’t even noticed her injuries. He frowned, suddenly aware she hadn’t explained why she’d been walking instead of driving to the Double Eagle in a rainstorm.
Well, he’d find out soon enough. Tag swallowed deeply, loath to disturb her rest but aware of the clock ticking, his future waiting.
He cleared his throat, then stepped into the room with Coop following silently behind. She came awake slowly, stretching both arms above her head. The blankets slipped away from her chin, revealing the full creamy swell of her breasts, the darker nipples achingly visible beneath the silky blue wisp of nightgown she wore.
It took every bit of strength he possessed to focus on her troubled green eyes. “Uh, Miss . . .”
His tongue felt tied in knots, so much so that he could barely say the words out loud.
In barely an hour, this woman was going to be his wife.
Kind of.
WHAT A strange dream. Tall skyscrapers, blaring taxis, a river of chocolate milk rushing and tumbling by just in front of her face, and a crowd of cheering onlookers, screaming out seconds on a clock.
None of it made sense, including the man walking quietly across her room. He hesitated a moment beside her bed, then eased himself down to sit carefully beside her on the patchwork spread. He’d barely spoken to her when she’d arrived, wet and muddy, in his kitchen. He didn’t look threatening now, if you discounted the serious gleam in his eyes and the hard line of his jaw. She scooted away from him anyway, pressed her back up against the headboard, tugged the blankets across her chest and locked them securely beneath her armpits.
It never hurt for a girl to be careful.
He took one of her small hands in both of his, and smiled. His fingers completely encircled her hands within his grasp. She felt rough calluses, the strength of a workingman’s hands. She glanced down, surprised his fingernails were trimmed and clean.
She looked up and smiled back.
Why couldn’t she remember?
He looked so familiar. She must know him.
He reached out and touched a tender spot on her forehead, his fingertips as gentle as if she’d been a newborn. “I wonder how this happened?” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Did you have an accident? Is that why you were wandering down the road in the rain?”
“I’m not sure . . . I think I must have fallen off my horse,” she said. Barrel racers did that all the time, she knew that, somehow. She didn’t remember a car, or an accident. “I don’t know exactly when it happened, but I’m okay.” At least she hoped she was okay. Her head only hurt when she tried to remember.
“That happens. I’ve got a neighbor . . . that’s stupid,” he said. “Of course you know Betsy Mae.” He paused, then grinned, a brief smile that curled one side of his mouth and popped a dimple out in the opposing cheek. She caught herself studying that dimple, staring at his mobile lips, the tiny scar on his chin.
This man was absolutely gorgeous and disturbingly familiar.
She knew him from somewhere, but how? He must know her, or why would they be getting married? Maybe they’d been lovers?
“We haven’t really introduced ourselves,” he said, blowing that wishful theory. “I’m Taggart Martin, Tag for short. This is Coop, my foreman. You have no idea how glad we are that you’ve agreed to this.” He flashed an indecipherable look at the old cowboy, then turned back to her, still smiling. “But Betsy Mae never mentioned your name. You’re . . . ?”
She stared at him a moment and struggled to gather her thoughts. She had to quit thinking about that dimple. It wasn’t there now, anyway, darn it. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so confused, couldn’t remember . . . anything. It didn’t help that he still held on to her hands, rubbing one callused thumb back and forth along her wrist.
His touch had a mesmerizing effect on her, as if she needed anything else adding to her confusion.
Nor did it help that he was the proverbial “tall, dark and handsome.” His dark brown western-cut suit emphasized his lean, muscular build, and the white shirt with pearl snaps and a bolo tie only added to his rugged masculinity. A dark blue turquoise slide held the cords of his tie closed at his throat, and his thick dark hair curled just over his collar, giving him a rakish, devil-may-care look. He had the darkest blue eyes she’d ever seen, midnight blue eyes surrounded by thick, silky lashes. Why, he reminded her of the cover model on a romance she’d read.
What was the name of that book?
More important, what was her own name? She had to tell him something, anything. Obviously Betsy Mae had sent her here, and she trusted Betsy Mae, didn’t she? Again the image of the smiling blond, self-assured and strangely familiar, filled her thoughts. Her gaze swept the room, lighting for a moment on the stack of clothes she’d left on top of the dresser. She tilted her head and looked at him out of narrowed eyes.
“I’m Lee,” she said. “Lee, you know, like the blue jeans.” It did sound familiar . . . kind of.
“Lee . . . ?” He squeezed her hands and smiled at her. Encouraging her. She knew a moment of panic, until the old cowboy in the doorway tugged his hat off his head and brushed a bit of dust from the crown.
Suddenly, in a burst of what felt like a real memory, she knew. “Stetson. Lee Stetson,” she said, mentally crossing her fingers.
“Lee Stetson?” The corner of his mouth quirked up in that perfect grin again. “Good name for a barrel racer, I guess.”
So she did race barrels! She’d only said she’d fallen off her horse, not that she raced. He must know something about her. Lee practically sighed in relief . . . at last, a clue she could use. That much of what she’d remembered must be right.
“I always thought it was a stupid name,” she said, tugging her hands out of his light grasp. But it was her name, wasn’t it? It sounded right, but it was so hard to think when he touched her. Her fingers felt suddenly lonely, clasped together in her lap. She swallowed back the uneasy sensations bombarding her.
“Your parents must have liked it.” He grinned down at her. “I think it’s just fine, a fine name.”
“My parents must have had noodles for brains,” she answered. “Fine for what?”
He grinned even wider. “To tell you the truth, I was so mad at Betsy Mae when I found out she ran off and married that clown after promising to marry me, I thought I’d blow a gasket. But then when she said you’d agreed to take her place, well, Lee, I want you to know how much I appreciate what you’re doing.”
“Thanks, I guess,” Lee said, scrambling mentally for her bearings. What a flake! Her opinion of Tag Martin took a deep dive. His fiancée marries another man, and he just casually switches to another woman? Someone he’s never met?
Wow!
“But we have to hurry. People are already arriving, and you’re not even dressed.”
“Dressed?” He honestly expected her to go through with this? Betsy Mae must have some terrific powers of persuasion if she’d talked Lee into marrying this jerk.
“The preacher will be here”—he glanced down at the serviceable watch on a thick leather band around his wrist—“in about half an hour. Think you can be dressed and ready to play the part of the blushing bride by then?”