Hand-Picked Husband

by Heather MacAllister

  FACSIMILE

  To: Nellie

  From: Debra

  It looks hopeless, but I don't think it is. For now,

  let's go along with them.

  RETURN FAX

  To: D.

  Are you crazy?

  N.

  Haven't you ever heard of reverse psychology? P.S. Don't forget Saturday's barbecue and bake sale.

  D.

  Autumn hated bake sales, especially bake sales that were judged. Her cakes slid apart, her cookies were hard and her piecrust cemented itself to the pan, crumbling like dry mortar when she tried to extract a piece, leaving her as weepy as her meringues.

  Forget canning and preserves. People nowadays knew all about botulism.

  So she cheated. People expected it. They were re­lieved. And her mother got to enter twice.

  Or she entered chili cook-offs. Put in enough pep­per, and tasters couldn't taste anything else, especially if they'd been washing the chili down with beer. But this wasn't a chili cook-off, this was a bar­becue, and Autumn had used the same rationale for her barbecue-sauce entry. Lots of peppers ground into a paste with enough molasses, mustard, vinegar and tomato sauce to hold everything together.

  Superb.

  The thought of actually having a chance to win something other than the consolation prize for her cooking canceled the bake-sale unpleasantness. Oh, sure, she'd dutifully entered her mother's lemon me­ringue pie with its foot-high meringue, but no one was fooled.

  All the Livestock Auction Committees had gath­ered for this one last chance to make money before the rodeo and livestock show began. It was held out­doors in the parking lot of Freeman Coliseum, where the rodeo would take place next week.

  And Autumn was meeting her top-ranked match from the Yellow Rose. Morgan Dooley was an in­vestment banker who'd grown up on a ranch. He sounded articulate on the telephone, so Autumn wasn't anticipating another George Garza disaster.

  She'd worn a red embroidered shirt with coordi­nating black vest, black jeans and a black cowboy hat. It was rodeo wear and subdued by comparison with some of the outfits, but she was working the barbecue-rib booth from two o'clock until four and hadn't wanted to wear anything too dressy.

  Morgan was scheduled to meet her at one-thirty at the ticket-hut entrance. They'd planned to wander through the crafts section before going to work in the rib tent.

  Autumn was a little early. As she watched the Saturday afternoon crowd go through the turnstiles, she almost—almost—wished for George's yellow rose.

  It was a sunny day, fortunately, and neither warm nor cool. A day she would long for during August's relentless heat. Smoke from the grills hung in the air and Autumn knew that after two hours tending ribs, she'd reek of it, but it was a familiar smell. A good smell.

  Autumn leaned against the metal fence pole by the entrance gate. Just before one-thirty, a tall woman in a short denim skirt and expensively tooled cowboy boots walked to the other side of the gate and checked her watch before looking back the way she'd come. And there in the hatband of her flint-colored cowboy hat was a yellow rose.

  Autumn had a very bad feeling about whom the woman was supposed to meet.

  She didn't get to see because just then a man wear­ing new jeans and a Western jacket with an open-throated shirt approached her. "Autumn?"

  "Morgan?"

  He whipped off his sunglasses and smiled at her with eyes that looked as though they'd been bleached pale blue by a thousand summer suns. They were striking in the deeply tanned face, though from what he'd said about himself, Autumn didn't think he'd gotten that tan from ranch work.

  Still, it was a pleasant face, with smile lines that creased attractively.

  "You're the first call I've had from the Yellow Rose in weeks," he confided as they went through the turnstile. "And I must say, it's well worth the wait."

  Hmm. A definite possibility. "What happened to your first matches?"

  ''I dated my first one for three months. By the time I called the others, they weren't available,"

  Better and better.

  So much better that right before they had to report to the booth, Autumn took Morgan by the pie tent to introduce him to her mother.

  Debra was as charming as she'd ever been in her life, which surprised Autumn. Not by a flicker of an eyelash did her mother telegraph, You're betraying Clay. All Debra's expectations concerning Clay might never have existed. Clay might never have ex­isted.

  Just before following Morgan out of the tent, Autumn leaned across a table full of apple pies. "Thanks, Mom."

  Debra didn't pretend to misunderstand her. "I've learned quite a bit about moving on in the past year. Now, go catch up with that handsome man."

  "I'll be working the barbecue ribs for the next couple of hours," Autumn told her, and went to find Morgan.

  When they got to their booth, they were given pink-and-white-striped aprons that clashed with Autumn's outfit but coordinated with the pig-shaped pot holders.

  "If my mother could see me now," Morgan said with a grin.

  For the next hour, they worked side by side at the smokers with other volunteers barbecueing ribs using the twenty-seven sauces entered for judging. Autumn hadn't even tasted her own sauce. She just knew that anything with that many jalapefios in it had to be good.

  Morgan, though fifteen years away from the ranch­ing life, fancied himself a backyard barbecueing pro and gave her tips. Autumn was more than glad to surrender her place at the smoker to him. In fact, it was probably better that way. People were picky about how charred they liked their ribs.

  Now this was the kind of date Autumn liked. She could get to know Morgan in a relaxed atmosphere. He fit right in with the others in the booth and, oddly, nobody made any "Where's Clay?" cracks.

  By three-thirty, they had twenty-seven plates of ribs labeled and waiting for the judges, along with plenty of soda crackers and milk to clear the judges' palates between tastings.

  Autumn was feeling pretty darned good about her chances—until the judges came into view. There, among the five people wearing blue badges with at­tached ribbons bearing the word "JUDGE" in gold, was Clay Barnett.

  And on his arm was the woman with the yellow rose in her hatband.

  Clay hadn't noticed Autumn standing among the rib chefs, similarly clad in pink-and-white-striped aprons, so she was able to watch him laugh and talk with his date. And there was a lot of laughing and talking, but unlike Julia, this woman didn't babble incessantly—and she certainly didn't take up with another man.

  Autumn glanced toward Morgan, who stood beside her, barbecue sauce splattered on his apron. Someone in the crowd recognized him, and he raised his hand and grinned.

  Suddenly, Autumn wanted to pull number seven­teen from the entries. It didn't matter that the en­trants' names were on the bottom of the plate so no one could see; Clay would know her barbecue sauce immediately. He'd give her a hard time and Autumn didn't want to put up with jokes about her cooking today, especially not in front of Morgan.

  Standing near the end of the row of tables, Fred Chapman spoke into a bullhorn. "Okay, folks, we're ready for the barbecue judging. After the judges get through, those of you who want to second-guess them can pay ten dollars and eat your fill of ribs. We'll award first, second, third place, and crowd pleaser. But before we get started, how about a round of applause for our cooks?" Fred turned to them as he spoke and apparently just noticed Morgan. "Mor­gan, you dog, why didn't you tell me you were gonna be here?"

  Morgan shouted something back to him, but Autumn wasn't listening. With everyone's attention drawn toward him, she had ceased to be invisible among the pink-and-white stripes. She couldn't help looking at Clay. He met her gaze and nodded briefly in acknowledgment, but maybe he hadn't realized Morgan was her date.

  Until Morgan smiled down at her. "I'm rooting for you," he said, and briefly squeezed her shoulder. She smiled back, and he slid his arm lightly around her waist and left it there.

 
That would pretty much tell Clay the situation, not that he should care one way or the other.

  At that moment, his date said something to him, and he had to lean down to hear her. Autumn didn't like the way the woman put her hand on Clay's arm. Oh, well. He'd soon have a mouthful of barbecue ribs. It was hard to whisper sweet nothings while gnawing on a rib.

  To Autumn's unease, a line of hungry people trailed the judges under the awning. She looked at the plate of ribs soaked in sauce number seventeen. It was darker and muddier than the other sauces, probably due to the green of the jalapenos. It prac­tically screamed, "Autumn's entry."

  She watched as the judges ate from number six and tried to look anxious as though she had a per­sonal stake in whether or not they liked it.

  "Now, this is a rib," said one.

  Autumn sighed as they made notes.

  Okay, it was obvious that number six was too good for Clay to believe it was hers. She'd go for number ten. She stared at Clay, and when their eyes met, she darted a look toward number ten.

  When they reached the entry, she widened her eyes and bit her lower lip, smiling when some of the judges licked their fingers.

  Clay gave her a surprised look.

  Autumn relaxed and the judging panel moved on.

  There was a lot of talking and eating and heavy paper-towel consumption. Autumn refilled the soda-cracker bowl and brought it out just as the lead judge picked up a rib from number seventeen's platter. She faltered, then forced herself to walk forward.

  As though it happened in slow motion, Autumn watched the judge pick up a rib, eye it thoughtfully, then take a bite. He blinked, then blinked some more. "Dang!" He chewed, but his eyes started watering. "Dang!" he said again. "Whoo, boy." Exhaling, he grabbed for the milk.

  With minor variations, his actions were repeated by the other four judges, except for Clay. He reached for a rib, bit into it and hollered, "Autumn!"

  She cowered behind the bowl of crackers, but he saw her anyway.

  "You did this on purpose!"

  Tilting her chin up, she defended her entry. "It's my own recipe."

  "No doubt about that." He coughed. "This stuff ought to be used to clean carburetors."

  "Hey!" Morgan appeared at her side. "There's no need to be insulting."

  "Have you tasted her sauce?"

  "No," Morgan said. "But I'm going to as soon as I get a plate." With a murmured word of encour­agement, Morgan left to do so.

  The lead judge declared a fifteen-minute recess so everyone's taste buds could recover from entry num­ber seventeen.

  "My taste buds have been seared off," Clay com­plained.

  "Was it that hot?" his date asked.

  Clay touched the back of his hand to his mouth. "Blistering." He gestured to Autumn. "Courtney, this is Autumn. I grew up with her. Courtney is from Garcia and Delgado and will be handling the layout of the auction brochures."

  Autumn perked up. "So she's not a Yellow Rose match?"

  "Yes, I am, and I recognized Clay's name from the other day even though we didn't meet then." Courtney maneuvered next to him and wrapped her arm loosely around one of Clay's. "So this isn't a completely blind date."

  "How nice," Autumn said.

  Courtney released Clay. "I like hot food. Could I try your sauce?"

  "Courtney," Clay warned, "you don't want to do that."

  "Sure, I do." She gave Autumn a friendly smile.

  If Courtney hadn't been so...nice, Autumn would have gladly fed her a gallon of the stuff. As it was... "It must be pretty bad. Even I haven't tasted it."

  "That's because you know better," Clay said.

  "Oh, hand me a napkin." Undeterred, Courtney took a rib and bit into it. "Yeah," she said with a grin, "it's like liquid fire, but it's got a great kick." Her eyes watered, but she took another bite anyway. "You know, if you cut back on the jalapenos and mix in another kind of pepper, you'd have a rounder flavor. The consistency is great. I wouldn't change that at all."

  Autumn didn't want to like this woman. "But in the meantime, it looks like I've wasted several pounds of ribs."

  "Maybe not." Courtney wiped her hands. "It's all in the way you market them. Make eating them a challenge. Let me borrow your pen," she said to Clay. "Do you have some paper?"

  Autumn looked around, then tore off some of the butcher paper they'd used to cover the tables.

  Courtney sketched a sign that read, "The ribs too hot for ordinary men! Prove you're no ordinary man. Try one!" She stuck the end of the paper under the platter.

  "Nobody's gonna fall for that," Clay scoffed just before an old cowboy came by with a plate.

  "These the ribs that stopped the judging?" he asked.

  Autumn nodded, and he took one.

  "Nothin's tickled my taste buds for forty years." He bit into it and smiled. "Oooh, doggie. They's a-ticklin' now." He took two more ribs and proceeded to eat them.

  Autumn smiled triumphantly at Clay and grate­fully at Courtney.

  "Autumn!" Morgan waved her to the end of the tables. "Sorry I didn't get back there," he said when she reached him, "but we've got customers."

  For the next several minutes, they sold rib serv­ings. Eventually, the judging continued. Autumn didn't win but she sure didn't mind. Her ribs had attracted more attention than all the winners'. The only thing she did mind was that Clay's date had rescued her pride.

  "Hey," Morgan said during a lull, "I'd better get over there if I want to get one of your ribs. I hear they're going fast."

  "You don't have to," Autumn said.

  "Of course I have to!" Grinning, he headed for the table.

  Autumn knew she should man the cash box, but...they were nearly out of paper plates. It wouldn't do to run out now, would it? She'd just nip around the corner and open a new package. The fact that she could watch Morgan while she did so was entirely incidental.

  Morgan put a generous helping of ribs on his plate. As he turned to come back to the sales area, he took his first bite. His face went funny and he spit out the meat. Setting down the plate, he helped himself to the water jug, drinking three cups in quick succes­sion. Still in obvious discomfort, he started eating crackers left over from the judging.

  Poor man. Autumn felt guilty until she saw him scrape all but one of the ribs into the trash. As she watched, he used a paper towel to blot as much sauce off the remaining rib as he could, then put it back on his plate.

  At that point, Autumn returned to the cash box.

  Within moments, Morgan reappeared. "Autumn, honey, you were robbed." He made a show of eating the rest of the de-sauced rib. Two other bones were on his plate. Autumn guessed she was meant to think they were from her entry. "Sure it's spicy, but that's what a good barbecue sauce should be."

  She stared, a strained smile on her face as Morgan took a couple more bites before throwing his plate in the trash.

  "Glad you enjoyed them."

  "Oh, yes, ma'am, I sure did. Too bad I couldn't have eaten more."

  YELLOW ROSE MATCHMAKERS MATCH EVALUATION

  NAME OF DATE: Morgan Dooley

  ACTIVITY: Barbecue cook-off

  WOULD YOU DATE THIS PERSON AGAIN?

  No.

  WHY OR WHY NOT? How can I accept a date

  with a person I can't trust?

  DID YOU FIND ATTRIBUTES OF THIS MATCH THAT ARE INCOMPATIBLE WITH

  TRAITS YOU DESIRE IN A MATE? BE SPECIFIC. A PERSONALITY PROFILE IS

  ENCLOSED FOR YOUR REFERENCE. He lies.

  YELLOW ROSE MATCHMAKERS MATCH

  EVALUATION

  NAME OF DATE: Courtney Vaughn ACTIVITY: Barbecue and bake sale

  WOULD YOU DATE THIS PERSON AGAIN? No.

  WHY OR WHY NOT? No sense wasting time when there isn't a future.

  DID YOU FIND ATTRIBUTES OF THIS MATCH THAT ARE INCOMPATIBLE WITH TRAITS YOU DESIRE IN A MATE? BE SPECIFIC. A PERSONALITY PROFILE IS ENCLOSED FOR YOUR REFERENCE. Her people raise sheep! We'll never see eye to eye. It's like having a different religion.r />
  CHAPTER FIVE

  FACSIMILE

  To: Nellie Barnett, Golden B From: Debra Reese, Reese Ranch I met Clay's date. She seemed nice. Guess who Autumn was with? Morgan Dooley, the investment banker. I've heard a lot about him, and I have to say none of it was an exaggeration. He's such a charm­ing man, and from all accounts fairly well-off. He seemed taken with Autumn.

  Yours, Debra

  FAX

  To: Debra Reese, Reese Ranch From: Nellie Barnett, Golden B Ranch, Inc.

  Dear Debra,

  Yes, we know Morgan. He's an ambitious young man who would like to get back into ranching, we hear. So you met Courtney Vaughn? Isn't she just pre­cious? She grew up on a ranch and is an advertising account executive. Clay says she's handling the layout for the rodeo sales programs. It's reassuring to know that such an important job is

  being handled by someone of such good character.

  Yours sincerely, Nellie

  Though Morgan had been a disappointment, Autumn was pleased enough with the generally changed attitude of her mother and the reaction of friends at Saturday's barbecue to accept Clay's offer of a ride to the final auction program sales meeting on Sunday evening.

  After all, they were both going to the Hilton on the River Walk. There was no sense wasting gaso­line.

  The first inkling Autumn had that things were dif­ferent between them was that Clay parked his truck and knocked on the front door instead of beeping the horn. He opened the passenger door for her, too.

  As Autumn got into the truck, she fired the open­ing salvo in what she expected to be their usual ver­bal sparring. "Courtney has you trained already, I see."

  "I haven't seen her since yesterday," Clay said. She'd thought he'd respond with something like, "I only open doors for ladies."

  Autumn watched him as he walked around the truck and got in. Without looking at her, he fastened his seat belt, started the truck, put it in gear and drove off.

  "Are you going to see her again?" Autumn knew she shouldn't ask the question, especially since she didn't want to answer the return question about Morgan.

  They'd reached the end of her drive and Clay was checking the road for traffic. His gaze skimmed over her. "Don't see that that's any concern of yours."