Ruth Jean Dale - Hitched!

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.

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.