by Amanda Renee
Lucy braved a look in the mirror. The dress was stunning. It was the first one she’d seen and she’d fallen in love with its lace straps, sweetheart neckline and lace racer back instantly. Having been married and divorced, she hadn’t even planned on a wedding gown, but Ella had insisted. And she was glad she’d listened.
“Are you ready for me to walk you down the aisle?” Nicolino peeked his head in the door. “Che bellissima!” Tears formed in his eyes.
“Grazie.” Lucy promised herself she wouldn’t cry and ruin her makeup. “Don’t you start, because once you start, then I will.”
It was Christmas Eve. Lucy and Lane stood in the middle of Ella and Nicolino’s living room as their closest friends and family formed a circle around them. The groom had never looked more charming in his jet-black tuxedo.
“I hope to heavens this is legal.” Rusty cleared his throat and joined the couple’s hands together. Lucy and Lane had both agreed he was the perfect person to officiate their wedding. Now that he was ordained, he wanted everyone to call him Preacher Rusty. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to join this lovesick cowboy with his Italian cowgirl once and for all.”
The room erupted in laughter. “In all seriousness... I’ve been on this earth for seventy-five years and I’ve never seen a couple more made for each other than these two. Although my sweetheart, Barbara, and I come in a close second. Most of the people in this room watched these two kids fall in love with each other way back when they were teenagers. It’s about time they tied the knot.”
“Lucille Giovanna Travisonno, do you take this man to be your beloved husband, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, in horse hair and mud, forsaking all others for as long as you both shall live?”
“I do.” Lucy wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. But smiling won out when she looked into Lane’s eyes. They were doing this... They were really getting married.
“And do you, Lane Foster Morgan, take this magnificent woman to be your beloved wife, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, in Italian or English, forsaking all others for as long as you both shall live?”
“I do.”
“Little miss.” Rusty nodded to Carina. “Come on up here, sweetie.”
Her daughter was beautiful in her tea-length pale ivory dress. Carina placed her left hand on top of Lane’s and Lucy’s.
“Do you, Miss Carina, bless this marriage between your mother and Lane?”
“I do.” Carina smiled at both of them. Tears began to well in her eyes.
“Rusty, you better marry us before I start to cry,” Lucy warned.
“Miss Carina, do you have the rings?”
Carina removed two gold bands from the satin drawstring bag tied around her wrist and handed them to Rusty.
“These rings are a symbol of your love and commitment to each another, forming an unbroken circle. Lane, place this ring on Lucy’s finger and repeat after me.”
Lane’s steady hands clasped hers. “I got this part.” She gazed into his eyes as he slid the ring on her finger, her heart finally calm after ten years. “With this ring, I thee wed.”
Lucy didn’t think she could smile any bigger without bursting.
Lucy slid Lane’s ring on his finger, her voice caught in her throat. This was it. This was their moment. “With this ring, I thee wed.”
“By the power granted to me, I now pronounce these two hitched! You may kiss the bride.”
Lane placed his hands on both sides of her face and kissed her mouth sweetly. “I love you, Lucy, for all eternity.”
Everyone in the room began to clap.
“We have one more ceremony to perform,” Rusty said.
Lane removed a red velvet box from his jacket pocket and knelt on one knee in front of Carina. He opened the box and removed a silver bangle bracelet.
“Carina, this bracelet symbolizes my love for you. Never ending, never broken. I will always be there for you, whether it’s today, tomorrow or on your wedding day.”
Lucy’s hand flew to her chest. She hadn’t known Lane had planned such a touching gesture to include Carina in the ceremony.
He slipped the bangle onto her wrist and took her hand in his. “I love you, munchkin.”
Carina threw her arms around his neck. “I love you, too.”
“Now, if you three will join hands in the middle, everyone will join hands around you.” Rusty looked around the room, satisfied. “On this day, in front of family and friends and the Almighty above, I now pronounce you a family.”
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from HAVING THE RANCHER’S BABY by Cathy McDavid.
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Having the Rancher’s Baby
by Cathy McDavid
Chapter One
“Easy does it, Hotshot.”
Cole Dempsey nudged the paint gelding slowly forward. One step, two steps, then wait.
The six steers at the end of the corral shifted nervously and bunched closer together. Several ears twitched impatiently. Every pair of eyes stared unblinkingly. No one, not horse, rider or steer, moved for a full thirty seconds.
“See him?” Cole murmured. “Number 497.”
As if in answer, Hotshot turned his head to the left, something horses did to bring an object into better focus. In this case, it was the steer with the white patch on his chest. The one getting ready to bolt.
Cole was pleased. What the horse lacked in experience he made up for with inherent cow sense. A few more months’ training under his belt, and Hotshot would make a respectable, if not outstanding, cutting horse. Cole might even cross-train the horse for calf roping. Along with cow sense, both required speed, agility and fearlessness.
“Let’s go!” He pushed Hotshot into a quick run at the small herd, which split at the center like pins being scattered by a bowling ball.
Number 497 took off, instinctively heading for the gate. Cole and Hotshot followed, matching the steer’s every twist and turn as if attached by an invisible cord. Within seconds, they separated the steer from the rest of the herd and ran him to the far end of the corral. He reached the corner and turned to face them, awaiting his fate.
Cole pulled Hotshot to a stop. In a real team penning event, they would have herded the steer into a small holding pen, then gone after the next one until the required three were rounded up and contained. Today, they settled for simply boxing him in a corner.
“Good job.” Cole reached down to give Hotshot a pat on the neck.
The horse had hardly broken a sweat, while Cole was drenched in it, his hair plastered beneath the tattered straw cowboy hat he wore. Mid-May
, early afternoon, and the temperature was already in the high eighties. Southern Arizona tended to be like that, alternating between an oven and a boiler room six months of the year. Far different from northern California, where Cole grew up.
Some might say he hailed from here, Mustang Valley. Technically, they’d be right. But his mother had taken him and his older brother, Josh, away when Cole was five to live with their grandparents. California was and always would be home to him. Dos Estrellas, his late father’s six-hundred-acre cattle ranch, now owned by him, Josh and their half brother, Gabe, was a temporary place for Cole to hang his hat. Nothing more.
As soon as the ranch was free of the debt incurred during their father’s lengthy battle with colon cancer, and Cole’s brothers purchased his share, he planned on returning to the rodeo circuit and his life as a professional cowboy.
In the meantime, he filled his days working as a wrangler and learning the cattle business, whether he wanted to or not. Whenever he found a free hour or two, he trained one of Josh’s girlfriend’s rehabilitated mustangs. Hotshot was the first to show potential for being more than a dime-a-dozen ranch horse. The first to light a fire in Cole, albeit a small one.
Practicing on green broke cutting horses wasn’t the same as busting broncs or riding a bull, but team penning was a close cousin to rodeo and, for a while anyway, allowed Cole to be his old self.
“Get a move on.” Waving his coiled lasso over his head, he walked Hotshot along the fence, encouraging number 497 to rejoin the others.
“You’re sweating the fat clean off those steers.”
Hearing a familiar voice, Cole turned in the saddle.
Violet Hathaway, ranch foreman and the only female on Dos Estrellas’s payroll, strolled unhurriedly toward the corral, her boots stirring up dust with each step. She wore her usual attire, a worn blue work shirt and faded jeans. Nonetheless, she looked good. Too good for Cole to tear his gaze away. Not that he tried very hard.
Careful, pal, he warned himself. Thinking of her in those terms was a waste of energy. She was off-limits and had made that crystal clear.
She stopped at the railing. “Skinny steers won’t bring in much money at the sale next month.”
They’d had this discussion before. Every time he borrowed a few head for practice.
“What are you doing here on your day off?” he asked.
Sundays were usually quiet at the ranch. Barring an emergency, Violet always stayed home—home being a cozy house on the outskirts of town. Cole had recently learned that about the ranch foreman, along with a few more interesting tidbits, such as the fact that she owned two cats and read gossip magazines.
“Tying up a few loose ends.” She grabbed the top railing and studied Hotshot with her expert eye. “He looks good.”
“Thanks. Hard to believe he was near starving three months ago.”
“Just goes to show you what regular meals and a little TLC will do.”
The drought last winter had been hard on the few remaining wild mustangs in the area. Hotshot had belonged to a ragtag group rounded up near the Salt River and brought to the sanctuary on Dos Estrellas in the hopes that he might be fattened up and adopted out. Now he belonged to Cole.
He rode the horse over to Violet, offering a smile as he dismounted. Looping the reins around the saddle horn, he rested an arm on the top railing near her hand. He and Violet were face-to-face, except that he had a good five inches on her. She was forced to lift her chin in order to meet his gaze.
Truth be told, he liked her petite stature. She was a lot of snap, crackle and pop in one small package. A very attractive package.
“It’s Sunday,” he said. “The day of rest.”
“Yeah, well, no rest for the wicked.”
He let his voice drop and his eyes rove her face. “You’re not wicked, Vi.” Though she could be flirtatious and fun when she let loose.
For the briefest of seconds, she went still. Then—strange for her, as Violet usually oozed confidence—she turned away. “I asked you not to call me that.”
“I like Vi. It suits you.”
And it was personal. Something just the two of them shared. Calling her Vi was his way of reminding her about the night they’d spent together, which he supposed explained her displeasure. She didn’t like being reminded.
She’d made the mistake of telling him that Vi was a childhood nickname, one she’d insisted on leaving behind upon entering her teens. They’d been alone, lying in bed and revealing their innermost feelings. Unfortunately, the shared intimacy hadn’t lasted, disappearing with the first rays of morning sunlight.
“Cole.” She sighed.
“What?” He feigned innocence.
“You know what. We agreed.”
“To what? Me not calling you Vi?”
“Don’t joke.”
She was definitely out of sorts today. And pale. She hadn’t been feeling well all week, which might account for her prickliness. Not that she’d complained to anyone, but he’d noticed.
“Okay.” He shrugged one shoulder. “No joking.”
Finally. A smile from her, though it was a small one. Even so, a powerful jolt shot through Cole. She really was lovely. Vivid green eyes, reddish-brown hair reaching well past her shoulders and twin dimples combined to give her an irresistible girl-next-door appeal.
No surprise she kept that bubbly personality under wraps. Otherwise, she’d be fighting the guys off right and left.
“I was wondering. If you weren’t busy later...” She let the sentence drop.
“I’m not busy.” Cole leaned closer, suddenly eager. “What do you have in mind?”
Could she have had a change of heart? They weren’t supposed to see each other again socially or bring up their one moment of weakness. According to Vi, it had been a mistake. A rash action resulting from two shots of tequila each, a crowded dance floor and both of them weary of constantly fighting their personal demons.
Cole didn’t necessarily agree. Sure, the road was not without obstacles. As one of the ranch owners, he was her boss. On the other hand, she oversaw his work while he learned the ropes. Confusing and awkward and a reason not to date.
But incredible lovemaking and easy conversation didn’t happen between just any two people. He and Vi had something special, and he’d have liked to see where it went, obstacles be damned.
Strange, he hadn’t given her a second thought before their “mistake.” One moment on a dance floor and, boom, everything had changed. A shame she didn’t feel the same.
Unless she did and was better at hiding it? The possibility warranted consideration.
“We need to, um, talk.” She closed her eyes and, pressing a hand to her belly, swallowed with obvious difficulty.
“Hey, are you okay?”
“Yeah. Just this darn stomach flu.”
He was becoming concerned. Her bout with the flu had been hanging on far too long. “Maybe you should see a doctor.”
“Maybe.” She squeezed her eyes shut, appearing to be fighting another wave of nausea.
“Are you sure you feel all right?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me put Hotshot up. I’ll return the steers later.” They’d be fine for the time being, as there was both a metal shade covering and a water tank in the corral. “Give me ten minutes.”
She nodded, and he led the horse to the gate, expecting her to be standing there. By the time he opened the latch, however, Vi was gone. He caught sight of her running across the open area toward the horse stables.
Cole frowned. She was certainly in a hurry. A big hurry.
He walked toward the stables, Hotshot following along. The closer he got, the more his concern mounted. She was normally healthy as a, well, as a horse.
Entering the stables, he started down the aisle. Where had she gone? There weren’t many places to choose from. He settled on the tack room as the most logical one. If she wasn’t there, he could at least tether Hotshot to the post outside the doo
r while he searched elsewhere.
Horses nickered as they went by, some of them stretching their long necks for a sniff or a nip at Hotshot’s hind quarters. He took the attention in stride, displaying yet another good quality.
Cole tied Hotshot to the post and opened the tack room door. It was dark inside, and no one answered when he called out. Maybe Vi had headed to the house. He started back down the aisle, only to stop short at the sound of retching and choking.
“Vi? Is that you?”
He followed the sound three stalls down to the only empty one in the entire stables. Vi was there, bent at the waist, her long hair forming a silky curtain that shielded her face.
“Whoa. Are you okay?”
She coughed and held out a hand as if to ward him off. “Leave me alone.”
Like hell he would. Cole strode forward and reached her just as her knees buckled and she slumped to the ground.
* * *
THIS WASN’T HOW Violet had wanted to start her conversation with Cole, the two of them crammed elbow to elbow in the restroom behind the stables.
He ran the cold water in the tiny sink, wet a paper towel and handed it to her. “Here. You missed a spot.” He motioned to her face.
“I did?” She automatically touched her chin and cringed. Yep, there it was. She quickly wiped her entire face on the chance she’d missed another blob, then tossed the paper towel in the wastebasket. “Sorry.”
“Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
She wondered about that. How many times, exactly, had he seen a woman lose her lunch before collapsing in his arms? Did he make a habit of hurrying them to the nearest bathroom and dispensing wet paper towels? Apparently so, because he was fairly adept at it.
“You don’t say.” She tried not to sound curious.
“On the circuit. There’s always one guy who upchucks after finishing his run.”
Riding a bucking bull or horse. Being tossed through the air and landing hard. That would definitely be a reason to throw up.