Mason was miserable. Tex was glad to have temporarily left a house that only he and Mason were currently sharing, Tex wandered into one of the riverboat’s many bedrooms. He couldn’t see himself living on a boat the way Hannah’s friend Jellyfish did. Too confining. Too narrow. Louisiana’s Mississippi River had its charm but nothing like the great open spaces of Texas and the Union Junction ranch. He was a man of the soil, not a man of the water.
Of course, land was in Tex’s blood, as it was in the blood of his eleven brothers: Mason, Frisco Joe, Fannin, Laredo, Calhoun, Ranger, Archer, Crockett, Navarro, Bandera and Last. The men shared three houses on the Union Junction ranch. With Frisco, Laredo and Ranger married, the quarters were getting less crowded, leaving room for Helga the Housekeeper. Tex suspected Mimi had sicced Helga on them to keep Mason “safe” from other women—but since Mimi had married Brian, maybe that thought wasn’t honorable. Still, Helga had overseen the Jefferson brothers like a strict governess, making the sprawling ranch seem confining.
Startled, he realized he’d stumbled into the newly decorated honeymoon suite—Hannah’s bedroom converted for that purpose, as Ranger had mentioned. There were white roses galore and two crystal flutes on the nightstand. Fascinated, Tex ogled the place where love ended up. You met a girl, you married a girl and then you bedded down with the girl, every night for the rest of your life.
Sheesh. Not me, Tex thought.
Next to the crystal flutes was a book that bore Hannah Hotchkiss’s name. She was Hannah Jefferson now, since Ranger and she had just said their vows. Through the window, Tex could hear the sound of dance music and happy guests on deck.
He knew he was foregoing dancing for snooping. But he had thought Cissy Kisserton might make it to Hannah’s wedding, since the two of them had gotten close during their infamous road trip with Ranger. He’d hoped for a glimpse of that platinum-haired man-magnet; a glimpse was about all a man could handle. But she hadn’t attended.
Being nosy, Tex picked up Hannah’s book. A picture fell to the floor, which he scooped up guiltily.
And there was Cissy Kisserton, looking like no Cissy he’d ever seen. She wasn’t dressed in a mini-skirt and high heels. She wasn’t wreaking havoc on a man’s groin by wearing catsuit jeans.
This Cissy was dressed for church.
Whew. She was a wicked brew of sin underneath that churchy lace thing. Who was she trying to fool?
Tex wasn’t admitting it, but he’d stayed on that bull, BadAss Blue, just to impress Cissy. Sure, she’d lied about the other bull, Bloodthirsty, pulling left so that Tex’s twin, Laredo, wouldn’t be able to stay on.
But Tex sort of admired a woman with gall.
And he’d stayed on his bull just to show Cissy Kisserton what he was made of. He figured she’d be appropriately admiring and grateful after the rodeo.
She hadn’t been.
It was as if she had too many things on her mind to be bothered with him. A winning cowboy, and she hadn’t given him the time of day. He’d beat his own brother—not that it was difficult since Laredo couldn’t have stayed on a bull if he’d had crazy glue in his jeans—just to get her attention.
Tex turned his gaze back to the picture. Seven children stood around Cissy, some of them clinging to her. There was a church in the background. In fact, she was standing in a church parking lot. The baby stroller at her side held what looked like two more infants, and, he saw with a growing sort of horror, her left hand was on the stroller handle!
Tex’s jaw sagged as if he’d been punched in a bar brawl. The nine little moppets of varying ages were going to church with her.
Chapter One
If I knew everything, I’d be less of a man Maverick Jefferson to his sons when they bragged to Mimi that their father knew more than Mimi’s father, Sheriff Cannady
“Wimmin are tricky,” Tex Jefferson stated, his voice slurring. “I think they aim to trick ush poor men into matrimony and sex and giving money at church and even stealing candy from babies. Donchoo think?”
Newlyweds Hannah and Ranger Jefferson stared down at Ranger’s thirty-four-year-old brother, who was lolling in the middle of their unchristened honeymoon bed. Tex had obviously helped himself liberally to wedding champagne.
“Tex, dude, that’s all fine and good, but you’re going to have to vacate. What are you doing in here, anyway?” Ranger asked.
“Hidin’ from wimmin,” Tex told them, trying to roll onto his side to achieve an upright position and failing miserably as he listed to the left, back onto the down pillows. “Did you notice all the wimmin out there at the reception? They’re plotting,” he said to Ranger in a hushed whisper. “I could tell they were plotting something. It’s not safe!”
Ranger cleared his throat. “I don’t think it’s you they’re after, particularly. Here, let me heave your arse out of our bed. Hannah and I have a wedding night to enjoy, without you, bro.”
Together, Hannah and Ranger pulled Tex to his feet and helped him—pushed him—to the door.
Tex peered owlishly down the hall. “Are they gone?”
“Who?” Hannah asked.
“The wimmin!”
“Yes,” she said. “Now, you head on to bed.
You’ll be safe in your own room.”
“Okay. ’Night,” Tex said, lurching down the hall. He wasn’t certain if this riverboat suited him or not. It was pretty and all. He felt claustrophobic.
Or maybe he felt left out. He certainly hadn’t wanted to dance with Hannah’s stylist sisters from the Lonely Hearts salon. That way led to certain danger. And he hadn’t wanted to stand around and gab with his brothers—all they did anymore was rib him about his problems with his rose beds. Budus Interruptus! Shoot, it was only April! Who expected a rose to open in April, anyway? All right, so to morrow began the month of May, but it was his opinion that anything that took a long time was worth waiting for. When they finally bloomed, his roses were going to be so spectacular his brothers would shut up for good.
He hoped.
He’d endured a lot of ribbing about those roses, and his own “unplowed” field. Only at Malfunction Junction would a man’s lack of a sex life be such a game topic of conversation. His eleven brothers: all lures to the female gender. And he, Tex, lately eschewing female companionship. For two months now, though he wasn’t counting.
But his brothers were.
“Mind their own beeswaxes,” he said to himself, opening the door to his room. “I don’t need any wimmin. Nothing but trouble. Arrgh!” he cried, his brain late to assess what his eyes were surveying in disbelief. The entire female wedding party was assembled in his room.
Maybe it wasn’t his room. He backed up and looked at the letter on the door, but one of the girls took his hand and pulled him inside, closing the door behind him.
“Hello, Tex,” they chorused.
It was a she-wolf pack. A curse.
