Linda Varner - Lone Star Bride

Most days, that was.

Today Mariah actually spotted a suspicious dot miles ahead, marring the flat Southern Texas horizon. Instantly her curiosity was piqued. And as the car Mariah was driving zipped past the white lines dividing Hwy 385, she watched with interest how the dot grew in size until it materialized into a pickup truck with concessionaire’s trailer, parked on the shoulder up ahead.

“I’ve seen that rig before!” exclaimed Opal Crawford, one of Mariah’s passengers and half owner of the car.

“I have, too!” chimed in the other half owner, Opal’s twin sister Ruby Smythe. “Slow down, Mariah! We want a better look.”

Mariah willingly did as requested, braking the car until it barely rolled past the beautiful rig. Long and jet-black, the trailer sported a Texas license plate and side window flaps that could be raised to reveal whatever merchandise was inside. The words Tony Mason, Freelance Artist were painted on the doors of both the trailer and the antique truck, which gleamed even though the sun barely peeked through the storm clouds that had hovered for days.

“Tony Mason. Tony Mason. Goodness that name rings a bell,” Opal murmured as Mariah drove slowly by the fancy rig. “I’m sure we’ve met him somewhere, sister.”

“So am I,” answered Ruby. “But where?”

Opal offered choices. “San Francisco? Santa Fe?”

“You two really have seen this trailer before?” Mariah asked as she gradually began to accelerate again. She didn’t know why she was surprised. The twins had relatives all over the country and loved to visit them all.

“Oh, yes, indeed,” Opal said. “It was at...at...” She frowned, clearly struggling to remember.

“I know!” exclaimed Ruby. “The Royal Gorge in Colorado Springs.”

“That’s it,” Opal agreed as she tossed her short, silvery-white hair and gave the armrest a slap. “Four years ago. We were there for third cousin Elsie’s stepdaughter’s niece’s wedding.”

“Yes,” said Ruby. “John Andrew—that’s cousin Elsie’s stepson—bought a cap, and his wife, Misty, bought a T-shirt.”

Not for the first time, Mariah, who had no relatives of her own, silently marveled at the number of people in the twins’ family.

“Where do you suppose Tony Mason is right now?” asked Opal.

“Probably on foot somewhere ahead, though I don’t know how he could leave that beautiful truck behind.” Ruby craned her neck and looked ahead, as did both her companions. “Speed up a little, Mariah. Maybe we can catch up and offer him a ride into town.”

“Are you kidding?” Mariah answered, aghast. “I’m not about to let some stranger in this car.”

“But Tony’s not a stranger at all,” protested Ruby. “Why, he chatted with us the whole time he airbrushed Misty’s T-shirt. Told us all about his travels and his work.”

“And that makes him safe?” Mariah shook her head in disbelief. “I don’t think I have to remind you what happened to Sarah Louise Riley.” She referred to a friend of the seventy-eight-year-old twins, equally youthful and impetuous and recently robbed of her money by a hitchhiker she should never have picked up in the first place.

“Poor Sarah.” Opal shook her head in sympathy.

“Poor, poor Sarah,” echoed Ruby.

Pleased to have made her point, Mariah turned her full attention to her driving and put the truck and trailer out of her mind. She thought instead about her home, where they were heading—a pretty, upstairs apartment in the oversize house owned and shared by the vivacious twins, both widows with grown children.

Ruby and Opal were good, generous landladies, and she loved them—the reason she’d agreed to this morning’s impulsive shopping trip to Mexico. Thoroughly exhausted, she could only wonder where her landladies got their energy. Why, those dear women could easily have browsed for Christmas presents another hour or two in the festive shops of old Mexico while she had wilted in temperatures that felt more like the Fourth of July than mid-December.

“It’s him! It’s him!” Ruby suddenly exclaimed, grabbing Mariah by the shoulder.

“It is indeed!” Opal eagerly agreed.

A glance ahead revealed a man walking on the shoulder of the road. Dressed in form-fitting jeans, a snow-white T-shirt and boots, he turned and walked backward so he could scope them out. A heartbeat later he flung out his right arm and raised his thumb—universal signal that he needed a ride.

Mariah was not surprised to feel the twins’ gazes shift to her. “I am not picking him up,” she announced, pressing her foot firmly on the gas pedal. Immediately the car gained speed. The man sprang to life at once, taking a giant step directly into their path. Mariah screamed and stomped on the brake. The car fishtailed, then skidded to a stop...mere inches from the hitchhiker, who’d now dropped to his knees in the middle of the highway and raised his clasped hands to the sky, literally begging to be rescued.

Nauseous at the near miss, furious at his blatant stupidity, Mariah could only cling to the steering wheel for long moments and stare across the hood of the car at him. What a sight met her gaze—damp, golden hair in need of a trim, eyes the color of bitter chocolate, chiseled chin and jawline.... Mariah’s heartbeat changed from the thudding tempo of fear to a cadence of sheer sexual appreciation. Then righteous indignation took over. Throwing open the door, she sprang out of the car.

“Are you crazy?” Mariah yelled as she rounded the front of the vehicle.

“No, ma’am, but I am desperate,” the good-looking stranger answered. Getting to his feet, he flashed a smile so dazzling it put Mel Gibson’s to shame. Mariah promptly tripped over her own feet and had to grab the bumper to keep from sprawling on the hot asphalt.

“My rig broke down a few miles back. You probably passed it. Could you give me a lift to the next town?”

Mariah quickly reined in her scattered wits. “I never pick up hitchhikers,” she stated with a toss of her long brown hair. Keeping her gaze just above his left shoulder, Mariah deliberately avoided those piercing dark eyes as well as the deliciously masculine anatomy below them. “I will send you a wrecker, however.” Spinning around, she walked back to the car to quickly slip behind the steering wheel again and catch her breath.

A glance through the windshield revealed that the man hadn’t moved a muscle, but stared after her as if he were as stunned as she that she’d actually rejected him.

“We’re not picking him up?” Opal asked, incredulous.

“We are not!” snapped Mariah, whose experiences with good-looking men had left her intolerant of the species. This specimen particularly bothered her, perhaps because he’d so easily exhumed hormones she’d long since buried.

Ruby promptly scooted over to the back left window and rolled it down. “Can we give you a ride?” she called out, obviously taking matters into her own hands.

Mariah gasped; the stranger grinned and strode to that side of the car.

“You’ve got room for one more?” He ducked down to peer through the open window at Ruby.

“If his name is Tony Mason,” Ruby coyly answered.

“That’s my name,” he said. “Have we met before?”

“We sure have.” Ruby reached over to open the car door.

Mariah’s quick glance in the rearview mirror revealed that Ruby, who’d divorced three husbands before burying her fourth, positively simpered at the man now getting into the back seat with her.

“You do look familiar now that I think about it.” His gaze shifted to Opal. “You, too,” he said to her with a rumbly laugh at his own cleverness.

The women—identical twins—giggled like teenagers at his joke.