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Hitched!
“I’m what?”
“Take it easy, Maxine. You’re just the kind of woman I need to get my family to—”
“I heard that part. What I want to know is what you meant.”
Despite her scorn, the idea uttered in jest was seeping deeper into his consciousness. Maxine was the perfect candidate for a make-believe bride.
“I can’t imagine you’re talking about a real marriage,” she said.
“No way.” He shuddered. “I could just call my folks and tell them I’m married. Voilà! Inheritance released.”
She said, as if curiosity had gotten the best of her, “So give me details.”
“No details. I’ll just tell my mom I’m married. She’ll swoon with delight and declare the terms of the will fulfilled. If worst comes to worst, I’ll let my mom speak to my blushing bride. That’ll be you.”
She grimaced, reflected, then said, “All right.”
Being nobody’s fool, he didn’t push it. He gave her a thumbs-up and crossed to the bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket.
At which point Maxine aimed a forefinger at his sleek back, cocked her thumb and silently mouthed a single word: Gotcha!
Dear Reader,
I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to tell the story of Randy Taggart, the spoiled brat in Fireworks!, book one of my TAGGARTS OF TEXAS miniseries. But for Rand to grow up and find his own true love, Thom T., the Taggart patriarch, had to grow old—make that older, because he was no teenager to begin with.
How to give Thom T. his due? The question stumped me for a long time, but the answer came to me in a flash.
So here it is, book five in the further adventures of the Taggarts. I hope you like the way I’ve handled Thom T.’s “little problem.” I also hope those of you who remember the other Taggart men—Jesse James, Daniel Boone and Trey Smith—will enjoy catching up on their lives and the lives of their wives and children.
For me, this book was a joyful homecoming. I hope it pleases you, too.
Ruth Jean Dale
Hitched!
Ruth Jean Dale
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ruth Jean Dale lives in a Colorado pine forest within shouting distance of Pikes Peak. She is surrounded by two dogs, two cats, a husband (her one and only) and a passel of grown children and grandchildren. A former newspaper reporter and editor, she is living her dream: writing romance novels for Harlequin. As she says with typical understatement, “It doesn’t get any better than this!”
Books by Ruth Jean Dale
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
678—KIDS, CRITTERS AND CUPID
687—THE CUPID CHRONICLES
788—CUPID’S REVENGE
853—FAMILY SECRETS
Other “Taggarts of Texas” books:
HARLEQUIN ROMANCE
3205—FIREWORKS!
3242—SHOWDOWN!
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
413—THE RED-BLOODED YANKEE!
HARLEQUIN HISTORICALS
768—LEGEND
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
DEAD OR ALIVE, Thom T. Taggart spoke for himself.
But considering that the crusty rancher had been laid to rest less than two hours earlier, his appearance on the forty-two-inch television screen set up special for the occasion in the parlor of the Rocking T Ranch near Showdown, Texas, elicited a collective gasp from the assembled audience.
The old Texas rancher and oilman, spiffy in a dark Western-cut suit and string tie, sat in his wheelchair, holding up a copy of the San Antonio Star. He pointed to the date and his lined face creased in a broad grin.
“Howdy, y’all,” he drawled. “As you can plainly see, today is my birthday. Seems only fittin’ to make my final will and testament before y’all show up to surprise me.” He winked, letting everyone in on the joke. “Not that I ain’t fixin’ to live to be a hundred like I always said, ’cause I am.”
At that point, Kit McCrae Taggart began to sniffle. Her husband, Boone, patted her hand in an attempt to comfort. She gave him a grateful glance and tried to swallow back her tears.
Thom T., all-unknowing, went on. “Folks, it’s been a great life—still is, even if I am mostly stuck in this dang chair these days. I may not be as spry as I usta, but I’m still of sound mind.” His familiar hearty laughter filled the room. “That bein’ the case, I’ll be gol-darned if I’ll let the government get its hands on a penny more a’what I got than it deserves. So here goes.”
It took a lot of hard swallowing and throat-clearing for his nearest and dearest to maintain their poise. Those who shared the Taggart blood had come to hear their departed patriarch’s final words and receive his final bequests.
That included Jesse James and Meg Randall Taggart, who were accompanied by thirteen-year-old daughter, Clementine. Daniel Boone and wife, Kit McCrae Taggart, who were present with their son, Travis, nine, and daughter, Cherish, three. And shirttail relation Thomas Trenton Taggart Smith, always called “Trey,” had come with his wife, the former Rachel Cox, and their eight-year-old twins, Thom T. and Taggart Smith.
Only Meg and Jesse’s twenty-one-year-old, Thomas Randall Taggart, Thom T.’s great-grandson and namesake— “Rand” to friends but still called “Randy” by the family—was missing.
On-screen, Thom T. harrumphed. “As for Randy—” He let out a huge sigh. “I told that boy’s other great-grandpa not to leave him all that money on his twenty-first birthday, but would the old fool listen to me? The boy probably won’t even show up for my funeral, but what the hey—I love him anyway. I admit I been hornswoggled now and again, but not this time. That boy’s better than you know—better than he knows.”
Thom T. took a deep breath as if to steel himself for their disapproval. “That’s why I’m leavin’ my first great-grandchild my dearest possession, my heart and soul—the Rockin’ T Ranch. I’m talkin’ the whole kit ’n’ caboodle, folks.”
This produced a ripple of surprise from the observers. Thom T. reacted as if he’d heard them from the grave. “Yep, I know I always said Jesse would get the Rockin’ T,” he stated, defending his change of heart, “but he’s got the Hells Bells Ranch and he don’t need this place, too. What’a you say to that, boy?”
“You got that right, Grandpa.” Jesse’s voice was muffled and he stared straight at the television screen as if holding himself together with spit and baling wire. “I don’t need anything.”
Thom T. nodded as though he’d heard. “I guess I could leave the home place to Boone, but he’s a big-shot lawyer and politician so he don’t want nothin’ to do with ranchin’—am I wrong about that, Dan’l Boone?”
“Never, Grandpa.” Boone’s voice was uncharacteristically tight. “I don’t recall the last time you were wrong—about anything.”
“And Trey,” Thom T. went on. “He lives a’way out in California and is always tryin’ t’get his neck broke doin’ that movie stuff.” He chortled. “Besides, he’s a damnyankee and don’t want nothin’ to do with no ranch in Texas.”
Tough-guy Trey, eyes bright with unshed tears, joined in the old rancher’s gleeful laughter. Trey, the man who could fling himself down a flight of stairs or jump off a cliff into a damp sponge without a second thought, radiated pain.
Thom T. sobered. “I been worryin’ over this for quite a spell,” he admitted. “I finally decided to let the chips fall where they want to. But the ranch ain’t comin’ easy to Randy. To get it, the boy’s gotta prove he’s worthy. He’s gotta get hitched and become a productive member of society. And he’s gotta do it by his thirtieth birthday because I ain’t made outa patience.”
“Fat chance,” the boy’s father muttered darkly.
Meg gave her husband a quelling glance. “Show a little respect, Jesse. He’s your own son, after all.”
Jesse rolled his eyes but subsided.
Thom T. blithely went on. “And since the lawyers pissed and moaned about how they was supposed to know if Randy had met my requirements, I told ’em to let you three couples decide—yes, you folks sittin’ in front’a this TV sniffling, because if you’re seein’ this tape, I’m pushin’ up daisies.”
“Oh, Thom T.!” Kit’s voice was somewhere between a moan and a gasp. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she was smiling. “You old sweetheart. You know us better than we know ourselves.”
Rachel’s smile trembled. “He always did,” she said. “I hope he knew how much we all c-cared for—” She couldn’t go on.
Thom T., of course, didn’t hear her but sounded as if he had. “Get holda yourselfs, the whole buncha y’all,” he commanded, his expression stern. “That boy and his wife have gotta love each other—that’s the most important thing. Then they gotta convince his ma and pa and his two aunts and uncles that it’s a real marriage, not one’a them make-believe deals just to get his hands on the ranch. Not that he’s likely to go to any trouble, since his other great-grandpa left him more money than he’ll be able to spend if he lives as long as I have.”
The old man’s mouth curved down unhappily. “If I was gonna be around, I’d fix young Randy up with the right gal like I done Boone and Jesse and Trey. Unfortunately at my age I cain’t count on wakin’ up tomorrow, let alone bein’ around long enough to whip my great-grandkids into shape. I’ll just have to count on luck, God willin’ and the creeks don’t rise.”
There wasn’t a dry eye in the house by now. This did not deter the no-longer present Thom T.
“A’course,” he continued in a musing tone, “there’s always the risk that Randy won’t ever want the Rockin’ T.” His tone revealed pain at such a prospect. “I thought a’that, too. If Randy don’t claim this place by his thirtieth birthday, it goes to the Texas Sunny Days Nudist Colony. They been tryin’ to buy it for years anyway.”
Thom T. then proceeded to parcel out oil wells, oil and mineral rights, valuable Western paintings and sculptures, stocks and bonds—all the trappings of a rich but modest man. Beneficiaries included not only his loved ones but also those who had served him in his declining years—although judging by his image on the screen, he hadn’t declined nearly as much as his advanced age would suggest.
Unluckily the man who’d vowed to see a hundred had expired just ten days short of his goal. As everyone present knew, he’d been wrong about Randy not attending the funeral. The boy had, and he’d been as torn up as the rest of them. He just hadn’t hung around for the reading—or viewing—of the will.
Even his mother had to admit that Randy did have more money than was good for him, and he wasn’t interested in anyone’s opinion about what to do with it. Now it looked as if the Rocking T Ranch, its history and all it had meant to the Taggart family and this part of Texas, would inevitably be overrun by a swarm of naked sun worshipers.
Or so Jesse predicted later over a beer with Boone and Trey.
“He’s my son and I love him,” Jesse said darkly. “But he’s only twenty-one years old and he’s got the bit between his teeth. At this point, I don’t know if he’ll ever be the man me ’n’ Thom T. want him to.”
He sighed and lifted his can of beer. “What the hell. Here’s to the Rocking T.”
Boone clicked his can against his brother’s. “Here’s to Randy. May he do the right thing, and do it in time.”
“And here’s to Thom T. Taggart.” Trey added his can to the cluster above the small table. “That old fox was smarter than all three of us put together. He pulled strings his entire life, as we can all attest—to our great good fortune. It wouldn’t surprise me any if he’s still pulling strings from the great beyond.”
Three hard, handsome, successful men drank to that.
CHAPTER ONE
Eight years later
DOWN TO HIS last hundred thousand in ready cash, Rand Taggart boarded a small Alar Airlines jet in Chicago on a pleasant September afternoon. The day was the only thing that was pleasant, unfortunately, for he was bound for San Antonio and a heaping helping of crow. Even a smile from the pretty blond flight attendant didn’t lighten his mood.
Helluva note when a good-lookin’ woman fails to arouse my baser instincts, he thought glumly, stowing his leather flight bag and briefcase in the overhead compartment in the small first-class section. The best he could manage for her was a nod.
The fact was, he’d rather eat a bug than face what awaited him in Texas: telling his parents that he’d spent, given away and been scammed out of millions of dollars—the latter by his old college roommate, of whom they’d never approved anyway. Then, while they were still in shock, the unmarried ne’er-do-well son would try to coax them into helping him break his great-grandfather’s will.
The mind reeled. Nevertheless he had to do it before he could go after his onetime friend. He wanted his money back, but he wanted to get his hands on the perpetrator almost as much.
“Excuse me.”
He turned to find a gray-haired woman standing in the aisle, trying to juggle a large travel bag and a child. She appeared flustered.
“Young man, could you help me get this bag into the overhead bin?” she asked.
“Sure thing.” He rose and hoisted the bag easily next to his in the open bin. “Anything else I can do for you, ma’am?” He managed a grin for the kid. Only two or three years old, he guessed, although he was no expert on children. The little girl looked back at him with unblinking blue eyes, her mouth turned down petulantly.
“Nothing. Thanks for your help.” The woman set the child into the seat in the last row, directly behind Rand’s. “I hope Jessica won’t be a bother on the flight. She’s cross because she didn’t get her nap today. With luck she’ll sleep all the way to San Antonio.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rand said. If he’d been wearing a hat, he’d have tipped it politely. Good manners died hard, even when you were mired in a slough of despond.
Other passengers were trekking down the narrow aisles. Rand seated himself in his usual window seat and ignored them, along with the whole routine of boarding. It wasn’t that he minded flying; God knows he’d done enough of it in the past eight years. Trips to Europe, the Caribbean, back and forth from coast to coast…
He’d hopped a plane and traveled three thousand miles to dine in Pasadena at the mom-’n’-pop café that served up his favorite pizza, the one with cashew nuts mixed in with the meat and veggies. He’d flown to Pamplona for the running of the bulls and to Acapulco for cliff diving, to Japan to buy pearls and to Florida to give them to a woman he hardly knew.
He’d thought the money would last forever.
It hadn’t…but it would have lasted a helluva lot longer if he hadn’t renewed acquaintances with good old Bill Overton. Now Rand either had to get married with lightning speed—God forbid!—or convince his parents, his aunts and his uncles to back his attempt to break the will of Great-grandpa Taggart.
Fat chance, he muttered. They’d want to hear chapter and verse on how he was able to throw away the millions left to him by his other great-grandpa, John Hayslip Randall IV, of the Boston banking Randalls. There’d be richly deserved lectures about responsibility and duty and obligation, and a whole lot of “I told you so’s.”
The worst part of it was, they couldn’t say anything to him that he hadn’t already said to himself, and in much harsher terms than they’d use. He was fairly certain most of them still loved him, which was more than he did at this sorry point.
Nevertheless the Rocking T Ranch had suddenly become his only source of ready cash while he tried to recover his lost fortune—he should live so long. This time he intended to use his head to manage his money—quite a change from the last go-round. At twenty-nine, he knew better than anyone that it was damn well time for him to grow up.
He’d already been thinking along these lines before Bill Overton had revealed himself for the dirty dog he was. Why did Rand always have to learn the hard way?
Time crawled past. Now that he was committed, all he wanted was to get to Texas and get this over with. At last the line of passengers slowed to a trickle, then stopped altogether. Maybe he was going to luck out for once, he thought with the faintest flicker of optimism. Maybe he’d have this entire two-seat row to himself. If he did, it would be the first positive thing that had happened to him since—
“I’m sorry?”
At the soft words, he forced his attention away from the window, where he’d been idly watching the usual bustle of the ground crew. A woman stood in the aisle, regarding him coolly from behind the most unattractive pair of eyeglasses he’d ever seen.
The rest of her wasn’t very impressive, either. Her neat brown dress hung around her waist like a sack with a string tied round the middle. The garment buttoned all the way up to her chin, and elbow-length sleeves dangled limply around her arms.
Her features were regular, but bland to the point of invisibility. Eyes of a nondescript brown were magnified by those miserable glasses, and her hair, an equally ordinary brown, was slicked back to her nape and tied with a droopy bow.
She licked colorless lips. “Uh, I’m sorry?” she said again, making a question out of words that would normally be an apology.
“For…?” Rand encouraged her to elaborate, since he had no idea what she was getting at.
“I think you’re in my seat?”
“No way.” Rand fished into his hip pocket and extracted his ticket. “I always get a window seat. See, right here—” He broke off, staring at his ticket: aisle seat. Even his travel agent had it in for him these days.
“If it’s a problem, I don’t mind trading.” The woman sounded anxious about it, though. “Really, it’s no problem at all.” Bending, she hoisted a large garment bag.
“Let me do that,” Rand said quickly, scooting over and out into the aisle. “Go ahead.” He gestured toward the window seat. “It’s all yours.”
“If you’re sure you don’t mind…” She gave him an agitated glance and relinquished her bag to his care. “Thank you so much.”
He swung the ungainly piece of luggage into place, surprised that it weighed considerably less than he’d expected. Apparently she believed in traveling light. After sitting down in the detested aisle seat, he squirmed around to locate the safety belt. To his displeasure, she spoke again.
“I’m Maxine Rafferty.” Turning awkwardly against the confines of her seat belt, she offered her hand.
“Rand Taggart.” He barely touched her hand with his. He wasn’t in the mood to get friendly with anyone on this trip and those feelings had nothing to do with her lack of appeal. He’d have felt the same no matter who took his window seat.
She chewed on her lip with even, white teeth. “Are you going to San Antonio, too?” she asked.
He nodded. That was where this plane was headed, so what did she think?
Her smile was strained. “I really hate to fly,” she said suddenly. “Something bad always happens. The last time, the plane sat on the runway for four hours. It was awful.”
“I can see how it would be.” He should be kind and supportive, but all he wanted was for her to shut up and let him return to his brooding.
Seemingly she caught on, for with a distracted frown she turned back to the window. This left Rand free to resume his dark thoughts, the darkest of which was the absolute certainty that the six people who held his fate in their hands were gonna turn him down cold.
Okay, so he hadn’t exactly been leading that productive life Thom T. had envisioned for him—the word wastrel leaped to mind. Once he reached his parents’ ranch in the Texas Hill Country, he’d have to talk fast. He could count on his mother, of course, but his father…
Jesse James Taggart was not a man who made a lot of allowances, and especially not for his son. Rand had never been able to please his father, had never even come close to living up to the Taggart name. Early on, he’d quit trying.
The flight attendant’s voice came over the intercom, reciting the usual safety instructions while the plane rolled away from the jetport. He didn’t listen to what she was saying because he could have given the spiel for her he’d heard it so many times. Strapped into his seat, he waited until they were airborne before leaning back with a sigh.
In so doing, his elbow extended into the aisle and somebody smacked into it. Rand yanked his arm aside, automatically mumbling a “Sorry” and glancing up.
The guy never even saw him, probably didn’t even realize what had happened. Rand had just a glimpse of a set, white face and blazing eyes. Several years of sometimes-fast living immediately told him that the man’s expression owed more than a little to the use of booze, pills, illegal drugs, something along those lines.
The guy was probably rushing to the postage-stamp-size rest room to ingest illegal substances. Rand hoped no one was unfortunate enough to already be crammed in there, because this guy was in a big hurry. Whatever. Rand had more important things to worry about.
The die was cast. Nothing could stop the fate flying toward him at breakneck speed.
“THIS IS A HIJACKING!” A rough male voice sliced through the flight attendant’s smooth recitation. “Everybody stay where you are and nobody will get hurt.”
The flight attendant’s voice shot up into a squawk of protest and the intercom went dead.
Ha, ha, Maxine thought crossly. Just what I need—a comedian serving the pretzels.
She glanced at the darkly handsome man in the aisle seat, curious to know how he’d react to this less-than-funny prank. His eyes were closed, so perhaps he was sleeping. That gave her an opportunity to admire him for just a moment.
Rand Taggart wore a butter-soft leather jacket, a shirt with an expensive logo, khaki trousers and pricey leather sneakers. And he wore it all with the kind of nonchalant grace that shouted “Money!” without him ever opening his mouth.
It was more than that, though; the photograph definitely hadn’t done him justice. He was so damn good-looking that she’d caught her breath in surprise at first sight of him. He had a square-jawed suntanned face, dark hair that curled slightly around his ears and temples, long-lashed eyes a shade of blue-gray she’d never encountered…
And a natural arrogance not unexpected, under the circumstances. Nevertheless she was determined to strike up a conversation with him. After taking off her eyeglasses, she rubbed idly at the bridge of a nose unaccustomed to their weight. No way did she intend to waste this flight to San Antonio, especially at first-class prices, when she’d gone to so much trouble to—
The intercom opened again in a hail of static. “We’re being hijacked!” the flight attendant shrieked. “This is not a joke!” A series of grunts and gasps and the sounds of a scuffle followed.
Rand sat bolt upright. “I close my eyes for five minutes and we’re being hijacked?” he demanded. Half rising, he looked about.
Maxine stayed where she was, aware of the increasingly anxious buzz around her. People were confused, their voices growing louder in alarm. From the row of seats directly behind, a child let out a screech that cut through Maxine like a blade.
Even so, she refused to believe the plane was actually being hijacked. No way! She’d been nervous about booking this flight, but fear of flying wasn’t why. Normally as subtle as a sledgehammer, she’d set herself a task that depended on subtlety. She wouldn’t allow herself to be distracted by—
