The Texas Wildcatter's Baby. Cathy Thacker Gillen

we can’t get married today?” Ginger lamented when they found out the justice of the peace set to conduct their ceremony was not even on the premises. “We made an appointment to get married at noon!”

      “I know.” The middle-aged court clerk swept a hand over his buzz-cut hair. “And believe me, the justice is sorry, but it can’t be helped. It’s a ‘family’ thing.” Then he continued, a little lamely, “So if you all want the J.P. to marry you, you’re going to have to reschedule...”

      Not about to give up that easily, Rand asked, “Is there someone else who could perform the ceremony?”

      “Not today. But...” The clerk studied the calendar on the computer in front of him. “The J.P. could fit you in a week from now, at three.”

      A week was too long to wait. Rand could see his bride-to-be thought so, too.

      Ginger swung toward him, her body nudging his in the process. “What are we going to do?” she asked plaintively. “You told your parents you’re coming to Laramie this evening to see them.” She threw up her hands. “My mother is expecting me in San Angelo first thing tomorrow morning.”

      They hadn’t told either of their families they weren’t coming alone. That news, they had figured, could wait until they arrived, announced their “elopement” and introduced their new spouse, all in one fell swoop.

      Aware she was sounding a little more emotional than usual—probably due to her pregnancy—Rand felt a surge of protectiveness rush through him. He gave Ginger’s hand a brief, reassuring squeeze. “And we’ll keep those promises,” he said.

      He dropped her hand and turned back to the clerk with a possible solution. “Do we have to get married in Summit County for our license to be valid?”

      The beleaguered clerk perked up. “No, sir. Anywhere in the State of Texas is fine.”

      Rand thanked the clerk and they left the justice of the peace’s office.

      Ginger shot Rand a sidelong glance as they walked toward the exit. Their footsteps echoed on the polished marble floors. “I gather you have a plan?” she asked.

      “I do.” He held the door for her, and accompanied her out into the midday heat of the spring day and down the broad limestone steps. “Even better, the place is sort of a McCabe family tradition. Which means—” he paused to give her a level look, hoping she would cooperate with him just this once “—it’ll give our union an air of authenticity we probably wouldn’t get any other way.”

      Although they hadn’t talked about it, Ginger seemed to know what a hard sell their surprise elopement was going to be—for both families. Their eyes met and held once again. After a moment she took a deep breath, squared her slender shoulders and vowed softly, “Then I’m all-in.”

      * * *

      AT RAND’S INSISTENCE, they would leave her truck behind and take his pickup for the drive north.

      At Ginger’s insistence, they phoned ahead to their destination, to make sure that Jeff-Paul Randall could marry them. The internet-certified minister slash business owner promised to be there when they arrived around five o’clock.

      Relieved to have that arranged, Ginger climbed into the passenger seat of Rand’s gray hybrid pickup and settled in beside the tall, broad-shouldered Texan.

      Trying not to think about the fact he would soon be her husband, at least in name only, Ginger turned her attention to the rugged scenery. The creosote flats peppered with yucca and cholla cactus gradually gave way to elevations of higher rainfall, pinyon pine and scrub oak. Oil wells, cattle ranches and the occasional wind farm abounded, but towns were few and far between as they traversed the canyons, landed on Interstate 20 and gradually left the desert prairies and majestic mountains of the Trans-Pecos behind.

      Rand said little during the four-and-a-half-hour drive. Ginger was quiet, too. In truth, there wasn’t much to say. She just wanted the elopement to be over and done with. Although he didn’t say as much, she was pretty sure Rand felt that way, too.

      Finally they hit the outskirts of Laramie County. Minutes later they approached their destination: J.P. Randall’s Bait and Tackle Shop. The squat, flat-roofed building with its peeling white paint was in the middle of nowhere, and just rundown enough to make it disreputable without being dangerous. Frequented by sportsmen and campers en route to Lake Laramie from the west, as well as people looking to fill up their gas tanks, or to be wed in a hurry, it was usually populated by a few cars and trucks.

      Ginger knew, because she had stopped there herself a few times when in this part of the state. Never before, though, had she seen the establishment rimmed by three Laramie County Sheriff’s Department squad cars. “I wonder what’s going on.”

      Rand frowned. “The lights aren’t flashing on the squad cars. Nothing is cordoned off by yellow tape...”

      When Rand shrugged his broad shoulders, Ginger hitched in a breath. Masculine sinew strained against the soft chambray of his shirt, and she yearned to feel those smooth, rippled muscles beneath her fingertips....

      “Maybe the deputies are just on a break,” he said, snapping her out of her reverie.

      “Maybe.” Still, her feminine intuition told her it was more than that.

      His expression serious, Rand pulled into the lot. The two of them got out of his pickup just as three men in khaki uniforms exited the shop. They grinned in recognition and Rand muttered a low curse as one of the men raised a hand in greeting. The other two deputies amiably followed suit.

      Ginger pivoted to her husband-to-be.

      So much for relative secrecy, she thought. “Obviously you know these men,” she drawled. No surprise, in a rural county, where he had not only been born, but grown up.

      Rand locked eyes on the approaching trio of law enforcement officers. A half smile tugged at the corners of his lips, yet his gaze remained wary. “Yep.”

      Her body tingling with a mixture of frustration and wariness, Ginger turned her attention back to the trio. All were about Rand’s age, which meant early-to mid-thirties. All were well over six feet tall with fit, muscular physiques, all teemed with testosterone. But one of them was more similar to Rand than the other two. The badge on his chest said Deputy Colt McCabe.

      It was all Ginger could do not to groan. “Tell me you’re not related.”

      “Okay, we’re not related,” Rand repeated facetiously.

      Except they clearly were.

      Deputy Colt McCabe slapped Rand on the back. “Hey, there, baby brother.”

      Rand braced, as if ready for more teasing. “Colt.” The word was clipped and dry, yet oddly welcoming.

      Colt McCabe’s wicked smile broadened. He inclined his fine-looking head at Ginger and asked his brother, “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?”

      Keeping his gaze trained on his older brother’s, Rand angled his thumb at Ginger, as if they were no more than the most casual of acquaintances. A fact that for some unknown reason annoyed the heck out of her.

      “This is Ginger Rollins.” He turned, briefly catching her eye. Warning flashed in his expression. He, too, thought something was up, and wordlessly urged her to play along with whatever he said and did.

      And really, Ginger thought, what choice did she have?

      “Ginger,” Rand continued with laudable politeness, “my brother Colt.”

      Colt tipped his Stetson in her direction. “Pleased to meet you.”

      Rand went on reluctantly. “This is Rio Vasquez.” He nodded at the olive-skinned lawman, then the dark-haired man beside him. “And my cousin, Kyle McCabe.”

      Ginger shook all three deputies’ hands in turn and uttered a cheerful greeting to each.

      “So