Hitched!. Ruth Jean Dale

      “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.

      Fat chance, he muttered. They’d want to hear chapter and verse on how he was able to throw away the millions left to him by his other great-grandpa, John Hayslip Randall IV, of the Boston banking Randalls. There’d be richly deserved lectures about responsibility and duty and obligation, and a whole lot of “I told you so’s.”

      The worst part of it was, they couldn’t say anything to him that he hadn’t already said to himself, and in much harsher terms than they’d use. He was fairly certain most of them still loved him, which was more than he did at this sorry point.

      Nevertheless the Rocking T Ranch had suddenly become his only source of ready cash while he tried to recover his lost fortune—he should live so long. This time he intended to use his head to manage his money—quite a change from the last go-round. At twenty-nine, he knew better than anyone that it was damn well time for him to grow up.

      He’d already been thinking along these lines before Bill Overton had revealed himself for the dirty dog he was. Why did Rand always have to learn the hard way?

      Time crawled past. Now that he was committed, all he wanted was to get to Texas and get this over with. At last the line of passengers slowed to a trickle, then stopped altogether. Maybe he was going to luck out for once, he thought with the faintest flicker of optimism. Maybe he’d have this entire two-seat row to himself. If he did, it would be the first positive thing that had happened to him since—

      “I’m sorry?”

      At the soft words, he forced his attention away from the window, where he’d been idly watching the usual bustle of the ground crew. A woman stood in the aisle, regarding him coolly from behind the most unattractive pair of eyeglasses he’d ever seen.

      The rest of her wasn’t very impressive, either. Her neat brown dress hung around her waist like a sack with a string tied round the middle. The garment buttoned all the way up to her chin, and elbow-length sleeves dangled limply around her arms.

      Her features were regular, but bland to the point of invisibility. Eyes of a nondescript brown were magnified by those miserable glasses, and her hair, an equally ordinary brown, was slicked back to her nape and tied with a droopy bow.

      She licked colorless lips. “Uh, I’m sorry?” she said again, making a question out of words that would normally be an apology.

      “For…?” Rand encouraged her to elaborate, since he had no idea what she was getting at.

      “I think you’re in my seat?”

      “No way.” Rand fished into his hip pocket and extracted his ticket. “I always get a window seat. See, right here—” He broke off, staring at his ticket: aisle seat. Even his travel agent had it in for him these days.

      “If it’s a problem, I don’t mind trading.” The woman sounded anxious about it, though. “Really, it’s no problem at all.” Bending, she hoisted a large garment bag.

      “Let me do that,” Rand said quickly, scooting over and out into the aisle. “Go ahead.” He gestured toward the window seat. “It’s all yours.”

      “If you’re sure you don’t mind…” She gave him an agitated glance and relinquished her bag to his care. “Thank you so much.”

      He swung the ungainly piece of luggage into place, surprised that it weighed considerably less than he’d expected. Apparently she believed in traveling light. After sitting down in the detested aisle seat, he squirmed around to locate the safety belt. To his displeasure, she spoke again.

      “I’m Maxine Rafferty.” Turning awkwardly against the confines of her seat belt, she offered her hand.

      “Rand Taggart.” He barely touched her hand with his. He wasn’t in the mood to get friendly with anyone on this trip and those feelings had nothing to do with her lack of appeal. He’d have felt the same no matter who took his window seat.

      She chewed on her lip with even, white teeth. “Are you going to San Antonio, too?” she asked.

      He nodded. That was where this plane was headed, so what did she think?

      Her smile was strained. “I really hate to fly,” she said suddenly. “Something bad always happens. The last time, the plane sat on the runway for four hours. It was awful.”

      “I can see how it would be.” He should be kind and supportive, but all he wanted was for her to shut up and let him return to his brooding.

      Seemingly she caught on, for with a distracted frown she turned back to the window. This left Rand free to resume his dark thoughts, the darkest of which was the absolute certainty that the six people who held his fate in their hands were gonna turn him down cold.

      Okay, so he hadn’t exactly been leading that productive life Thom T. had envisioned for him—the word wastrel leaped to mind. Once he reached his parents’ ranch in the Texas Hill Country, he’d have to talk fast. He could count on his mother, of course, but his father…

      Jesse James Taggart was not a man who made a lot of allowances, and especially not for his son. Rand had never been able to please his father, had never even come close to living up to the Taggart name. Early on, he’d quit trying.

      The flight attendant’s voice came over the intercom, reciting the usual safety instructions while the plane rolled away from the jetport. He didn’t listen to what she was saying because he could have given the spiel for her he’d heard it so many times. Strapped into his seat, he waited until they were airborne before leaning back with a sigh.

      In so doing, his elbow extended into the aisle and somebody smacked into it. Rand yanked his arm aside, automatically mumbling a “Sorry” and glancing up.

      The guy never even saw him, probably didn’t even realize what had happened. Rand had just a glimpse of a set, white face and blazing eyes. Several years of sometimes-fast living immediately told him that the man’s expression owed more than a little to the use of booze, pills, illegal drugs, something along those lines.

      The guy was probably rushing to the postage-stamp-size rest room to ingest illegal substances. Rand hoped no