Plain Jane's Texan

Eve had jutted her jaw. “Yeah, other than that?”

Irish had burst into laughter. “I swear, Eve, I think you go out of your way to look grungy. No makeup, shapeless clothes. What are you trying to prove?”

Actually Eve wasn’t trying to prove anything. She simply didn’t think much about her appearance. Never had. Irish had always been the beauty; Eve had the brains. Not that Irish was dumb, of course. She wasn’t. Irish was very bright, but she’d always been more interested in clothes and makeup and drama. Eve had been content to hide away with a book or her paints or a stray cat. She’d always cared more for digging in the dirt among the flowers and vegetables than polishing her fingernails.

Predictably, Irish had decided that the time had come for Eve to pay some attention to her appearance, and nothing would do but for the two of them to spend a week in New York. The prospective groom, Dr. Kyle Rutledge, agreed that it was a splendid idea and insisted on bankrolling the excursion.

Now here Eve was, her hair styled, her nails polished, her face made up, wearing new contact lenses and a Scarlett O’Hara gown and feeling like a damned fool. Sure that everyone must be staring at her, she’d kept her eyes on the toes of her satin pumps as she walked down the aisle to the altar, praying earnestly that she wouldn’t throw up or keel over. Terrified as she was, the walk had seemed ten miles long.

The first thing she saw when she finally looked up was a pair of flashing black eyes staring at her. The man, who she assumed was Kyle’s cousin, wasn’t just staring, he was gaping. He probably thought she looked like a damned fool, too. She wanted to disappear in a puff of smoke.

Automatically, she began to draw in her shoulders to protect her heart, but the new bra Irish had insisted she buy was taut as a bow string. The blasted thing gouged and pinched her and prevented her familiar postural shield.

So instead of drawing in like a turtle, she lifted her chin and defiantly gaped back.

Gaping at him wasn’t difficult. The man was gorgeous. Six and a half feet of gorgeous. Thick dark hair, cleft chin, sexy mouth, shoulders a yard wide.

He winked at her, and she almost pitched over on her nose. Heat rose from her chest and spread over her throat. Before she made a complete idiot of herself, she turned quickly as the congregation rose and Irish and their dad started down the aisle.

This must be Matt Crow, Eve thought as the wedding march swelled. She’d met Kyle’s cousin, Jackson Crow, at the rehearsal and subsequent dinner the night before, but Jackson’s brother couldn’t make it to Ohio until that morning, and Kyle’s brother Smith hadn’t been able to make the wedding at all. Even so, never had Eve seen so many tall, handsome men as the bunch of Texans Irish had met on her jaunt to find a millionaire. Eve had thought that Jackson was particularly good-looking, but his younger brother was unbelievable. He took her breath away.

Little colored dots began to dance in front of her eyes. Eve shook herself, sucked in a deep breath, and turned to face the priest.

Matt couldn’t keep his eyes or his thoughts off the maid of honor. She must be Irish’s younger sister. Ann? Karen? Lisa? For the life of him, he couldn’t remember. When Irish or Kyle had mentioned her, her name hadn’t registered. Everything about her registered now.

When Kyle finally kissed his bride and turned to grin like a possum at the audience, Matt could hardly wait until the bridal party got outside and he could make the angel’s acquaintance. Moments later the best man, Flint Durham, lucky dog, offered his arm to her, and they followed Kyle and Irish up the aisle. Jackson and one of the bridesmaids went next. Matt crooked his arm for Kim Devlin, another bridesmaid, and they brought up the rear.

“What’s Irish’s sister’s name?” he asked Kim as they hurried from the church.

Kim grinned. “Eve. Beautiful, isn’t she?”

“You got that right.”

Matt tried to make his way to Eve, but the group was herded by a photographer into an area for picture taking, and there was no opportunity to speak with her. Matt prayed that Jackson didn’t set his sights on Eve, and for once he was lucky. His big brother was busy trying to hustle another of the bridesmaids—a dark sultry type named Olivia.

Jackson, the prime stud of Texas who usually had willing women lined up four deep, put his arm around the woman’s waist and whispered in her ear. Olivia looked at him as if he were something she’d stepped in on a walk through the cow pasture and said, “I’ve told you for the last time, I’m not interested in anything you have to offer. And if you don’t move your hand, I’ll break your fingers.”

Matt nearly broke up laughing, and when the photographer said, “Smile!,” he didn’t have to put on.

Matt was tempted to carry Jackson high for striking out for once in his life. Jackson never struck out. He was the luckiest son-of-a-gun in the world, and everything had always come easy for him. All his life, Matt had to bust his butt for the breaks. But he wasn’t in the mood to razz his brother; he was preoccupied with meeting Eve. He could only stand and stare at her as she posed with Irish and their family for more pictures.

She had totally captivated him, and Matt couldn’t exactly define what it was that enthralled him so. Sure, she was beautiful, but he’d seen his share of beautiful women. Something else about her struck a chord deep within him. There was a guilelessness about her, sort of an innocence that shone in her pale eyes and made him want to protect her. And possess her.

Matt knew as sure as shootin’ that this was the woman for him. Knew it as certainly as if it had been announced with a blare of trumpets and a voice from the clouds.

As he watched, frown lines marred her smooth forehead. He had the craziest urge to hop on a horse, ride through the crowd, pull her up in the saddle with him, and rescue her from whatever was making her unhappy.

Eve would sooner have had her fingernails pulled out with pliers than pose for pictures—especially beside Irish. Irish was so astflnishingly beautiful, and she herself was so...not. Since she was a kid in grammar school, people had always looked at her with amazement and said, “You’re Irish Ellison’s sister?”

Many nights she had cried herself to sleep after such hurtful comments or after being teased by her classmates for her beanpole gawkiness and her overbite.

Eve had learned soon enough that she had to settle for brains because her sister got all the beauty from the barrel before she arrived. And after Irish became a model with her face on magazine covers, things had gotten worse for Eve, who was in high school with braces, zits, no boobs, knobby knees and a head above most of the boys on the basketball team—though at least the braces had remedied the overbite.

She tried to inch away after the family picture, but Irish grabbed her arm. “Oh, no, you don’t. I want another of just you and me.”

“Good Lord, why? I might break the camera.”

Irish laughed. “You goose. You’re gorgeous.”

“You need glasses.”

“Matt Crow thinks you’re gorgeous, too,” Irish whispered as she arranged her skirt. “He hasn’t taken his eyes off you. I definitely think he’s interested.”

“Him? In me? Get real, Sis. I’m not his type. And don’t you dare do any matchmaking. I’ll put a spell on you, and you’ll grow hairy warts on your nose on your honeymoon.”

Irish only laughed.

Before Matt had a chance to talk to Eve, everybody was whisked into limos and taken to a hotel. As soon as they arrived, he strode toward the reception area, his eyes scanning the crowd.

When he finally spotted Eve across the room talking to his grandfather, Cherokee Pete, Matt tried to make his way toward the blond beauty, but his mother stopped him with a firm grip on his wrist and insisted that he meet Irish’s parents.

“I swear you look pretty as a picture,” Kyle’s grandfather said, a broad smile splitting his weathered, wrinkled face. “Puts me in mind of an angel”

Eve laughed. The old fellow, who was well into his eighties, was every bit as charming as his grandsons. Close to six feet tall, he stood ramrod straight. With his dark eyes and high cheekbones, a gift of his Native American ancestry, he was still an imposing presence. “Thank you, Mr. Beamon. You look very handsome in your tuxedo.” And despite the long braids trailing over his shoulders, he honestly did.

He let out a bark of laughter. “Like a damned fool is what you mean. Never worn one of these gawldum getups in my life, but I didn’t want to come in my overalls and embarrass your sister. I’m right fond of Irish, you know. And even if I am decked out in my bib and tucker, I’ll have none of this ‘Mr. Beamon’ stuff. Everybody calls me Cherokee Pete or just plain Pete.”

“Then just plain Pete it is. And I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’d rather be in overalls or blue jeans myself. Irish has told me so much about you and your trading post in Texas that I’d love to see it. Do you really sculpt animals from logs with a chain saw the same way Kyle does?”

“Yep. Taught Kyle everything he knows. He was the only one of my grandsons who took after it, but I reckon he won’t be doing much log sculptin’ now that he’s going back to docfiorin’. I’ve got four grandsons, you know. Kyle’s the first one to get married. Got three left. Kyle’s brother, Smith, who’s got himself stove up from a wreck right now, and Jackson and Matt. They’re not bad-looking boys.” He cocked his head, and a twinkle came into his eyes. “Any way I could interest you in one?”

Eve grinned. “I don’t think so.”

“You sure? I’d be willin’ to throw in a couple of million, and you could take your pick. ’Course Jackson’s the oldest, and I’d like to see him making a family pretty soon. Them boys is past time to be settling down.”

Despite his appearance, his folksy talk and his lifestyle, she knew that the wily old man could make good on his offer. He’d struck oil on his property many years before and was loaded. “Do they know that you’re trying to sell them?”

He winked at her. “Oh, that would be just between you and me. I’ve about got your daddy talked into retiring and moving down to Texas with your mother. Like I told Al and Beverly, we’ve got a big spread down there. Lots of room. Why don’t you come on down with them?”

“I would love a place with more room for all my animals, but my job is in Cleveland.”

“You got animals?”

“Lots of them. My mother swears that I can’t resist a stray. They seem to always find their way to my door. I have two cats, Charlie Chan and Pansy, a goat named Elmer, a pig, a rooster, two ducks, four dogs and—”

“Could I interest you two in some champagne?” a deep voice said behind her.

Eve turned to find Matt Crow holding three stemmed glasses, two cupped between the long fingers of his left hand, another in his right. He held the one out to her and smiled.