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 what brings the two of you to the bait shop?” Colt asked.
Ginger had a feeling, from the way Colt McCabe’s eyes had initially been twinkling, that he already knew. So much for their plan of calling ahead to ensure there were no further delays.
Rand kept his poker face. “Nothing much,” he told his older brother. “You?”
Colt’s silence was answer enough.
Rio continued, in all seriousness, “We heard you have a marriage license in your possession that was issued in Summit County four days ago.”
Rand pressed his fingers to his eyes and grimaced.
Wondering what her husband-to-be knew that she didn’t, Ginger asked, “Is there a problem?”
All three deputies exchanged looks. “Mind if we take a look at it?” Kyle McCabe asked.
Unhappy that their marriage license might somehow be suspect, Ginger took it out of her handbag and handed it over. Kyle inspected it, then showed it to Vasquez and McCabe. All three shook their heads in silent remonstration.
“Just as we thought,” Rio declared, eyes twinkling.
Kyle McCabe handed the license back to Ginger and said, “We’re going to need the two of you to get back in your vehicle and follow us.”
Whatever the joke, Rand was clearly not in the mood. He paused, as if weighing his options. “And if we don’t?” he challenged.
Colt McCabe gave his younger brother another long, provoking look. “I think you can imagine,” he retorted. “Sometimes it’s just best to go along to get along, if you know what I mean.”
“Go along with what?” Ginger asked.
Rand shoved a hand through his mahogany hair and muttered something under his breath that Ginger was just as glad not to be able to decipher. More meaning-laced looks passed between the four men.
Aware
