Hitched!

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

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.