Make Mine a Bad Boy (37 page)

“Hope Marie Scroggs.”

Her gaze dropped down to the man who knelt on one knee. She brushed the tears from her eyes and looked again. But he was still there, his beloved gray eyes staring straight at her.

“I love you. And because of that love, I couldn’t stay here and watch you marry Slate. So I left. But it didn’t help. Because wherever I roamed, my thoughts were never far away from the Sweetheart of Bramble. I know I probably don’t deserve you, but damned if I care. Marry me, Hope.”

Unable to speak with the emotions clogging her throat, Hope flopped down on his knee and covered his face in kisses. When she pulled back, he was smiling.

“Yes,” she breathed. “I’ll marry you.”

The townsfolk let out a rousing cheer. But the cheer fizzled when Rachel’s cousin, Bear, shoved his way through the crowd, pushing a handsome man in front of him.

“I did it! I found him!” Bear beamed with pride, tobacco juice seeping from his wide grin.

For the first time in Bramble history, the townsfolk were struck speechless. Everyone just stood there staring as if they couldn’t quite believe their eyes. Of course, it didn’t take long for Kenny to find his voice.

“Well, hey, Matthew. Welcome to Bramble.”

I
T WAS A DREAM
. It had to be. Where else but in a dream could you stand in front of a church filled to the rafters with all your family and friends and whisper your vows to the handsome outlaw you’ve loved for all your life? An outlaw who kissed you as if his life depended on it before he strolled you down the aisle and off to the town hall, where he fed you strawberry soda from his Solo cup and Josephine’s Raspberry Jamboree Cake from his fingers, and sweet kisses from his lips before taking you in his strong arms and waltzing you toward happily-ever-after.

It was a dream.

Her dream.

“Hey, Hog!” Kenny Gene waltzed by with Twyla. “Is it true that you and Colt are buildin’ a house out by Sutter Springs?”

“ ’Course it’s true,” Rachel Dean said, as she tromped by in the arms of Rossie Owens. “You can’t expect a Hollywood movie star to live with her mama and daddy forever. Especially when she’s got a husband and a couple babies on the way.”

Hope ignored the conversation and snuggled back into her dream.

“Maybe I should start referring to the baby as Pumpkin Seeds.” A deep, familiar voice rumbled above her head.

With a sigh of contentment, Hope pulled back and stared up at her handsome husband, who looked as sexy as a movie star in his crisp white tuxedo shirt. The black bow tie had long since been stripped off and the first few studs opened, so it was no trouble at all to slip her hand inside and touch all that smooth warm skin.

Preoccupied with the hollow at the base of his throat, it took her a while to answer. “I’m not having twins.”

“And just what makes you think that?” Colt adjusted his hands on her waist so his thumbs could gently stroke her rounding belly. “Seeing as how the ultrasound isn’t until next week.”

“Call it woman’s intuition—or just a strong feeling.” Her fingers trailed along the edge of his collar, over his broad shoulder, down his hard biceps to his tattooed forearm. With his sleeve cuffed almost to his elbow, she was able to trace a fingernail along most of the rattlesnake. “Have I told you how sexy I think your tat is?”

“You might’ve mentioned it.” There was a trace of humor in his voice.

“Of course, I could do without the pig.”

The words were barely out of her mouth before Colt reached down and tipped her chin up. His eyes were heartbreakingly serious.

“Never. I’m never getting rid of my Homecoming Hog. Not in this lifetime or the next. And we better get that straight right here and now, Mrs. Lomax.”

His words brought a brilliant smile to her face and a happy flutter to her stomach. She stretched up on her toes and gave him a kiss that ended the conversation for a good while. When she pulled back, she cradled his face in her hands, the two-carat diamond engagement ring flashing like the disco ball overhead.

“You spent too much money on the ring,” she sighed.

Colt placed a kiss in her palm. “Please don’t tell me, you
still
believe I’m broke.”

She had, until she googled
Desperado Customs
. Then she sat in stunned silence staring at page after page of information about a certain motorcycle bum who had made it big.

Hope lowered her hands to his shoulders. “I’m sorry. I should’ve believed you. I guess I just didn’t want to think you had made it when I had failed.”

“Failed?” He shook his head. “Didn’t you hear what Rachel Dean said? To the people of Bramble, you’re a movie star—a movie star wealthy enough to pay for our house.”

“A house way too big for just three people?”

“Three people,” he sent her a sexy wink, “with more to come.”

She tipped her head and shot him a sassy look. “So you plan on keeping me barefoot and pregnant, Colt Lomax?”

“Not barefoot.” Colt glanced down at the pretty pink boots he’d given her as a wedding present.

“Well,” she shrugged, “I can’t say as I mind having a houseful of kids, as long as in between having babies I can go back to school to prepare myself for my next contest.”

“Hog-callin’ or pie-eatin’?” he said with a devilish grin.

“How about politickin’?”

For an answer, he swept her up in his arms and headed for the door.

“Colt Lomax, what are you doing?” she asked, not the least bit upset to find herself snuggled against his warm chest.

“I’m taking you to bed, Hog. If I’m going to be married to the next mayor of Bramble, I need to get while the gettin’s good.”

She giggled as the townsfolk took note of their departure.

“Hey, now,” Harley yelled. “We aren’t finished yet. I still need to make my speech.”

“I’m sure it will keep, Harley,” Colt said as he weaved around the tables.

“But you haven’t throwed the bouquet.” Twyla hurried after them, holding out the ugly silk arrangement.

Noticing Shirlene standing in one corner, Hope reached out and snagged it, heaving it as far as she could. The bouquet sailed through the air straight at Shirlene, who was forced to reach up and catch it or end up clocked in the head with five pounds of hot glue.

“Oh, no.” Shirlene immediately dropped the flowers and shook her head.

“Too late, Shirl,” Hope said, and sent her an evil smile. “You already caught it.”

“She’s right,” Faith added, as she leaned over and picked up the bouquet. “Besides, who knows what waits for you just around the corner?”

“Trouble.” Shirlene jerked the bouquet out of her hand. “No doubt, nothing but trouble.”

Then Colt swept out the door, and Shirlene and Faith
were swallowed up by the herd of townsfolk who followed behind them. Beneath the town hall flagpole, an old Harley Knucklehead waited with a new custom seat Colt had made especially for two and a string of plastic baby bottles attached to the rusted back fender, along with a sign that read “Hitched Just In Time.”

While Darla handed out the small bundles of birdseed and the townsfolk tried to figure out how to get the hot-glued pieces of tulle open, Colt slipped Hope’s helmet on and snapped it beneath her chin.

“You sure you wouldn’t rather drive away in my Escalade?”

Hope adjusted the helmet. “An Escalade when I just married a motorcycle bum? Not a chance.”

Colt flashed her one of his smiles, which recently seemed to be getting more and more frequent, and then helped her into his leather jacket. It took some sweat and more than a few kicks to get the Knucklehead started, but finally the engine caught and throbbed to life as Colt hopped on and twisted the throttle.

Once he was satisfied, he helped her on and secured her hands around his waist before leaning back to ask, “So what’s the plan?”

Snuggled up against his back, Hope contemplated the question before she rested her chin on his shoulder and whispered in his ear.

“To live happily ever after.”

As the motorcycle eased down the sidewalk and off the curb, the townsfolk hurried after them, the unopened birdseed bundles still clutched in their hands.

“Well, who would’ve thunk it,” Rachel Dean said as
she dabbed at the corners of her eyes with the sleeve of her Sunday-best dress.

“Makes sense,” Harley replied, hitching up his pants. “Shoulda known our little Hope wouldn’t fall for some foreigner from California.”

“Though Matthew was awful understandin’ about the mistake,” Cindy Lynn said. “And he is from Austin.”

“Austin’s nice,” Kenny Gene stated. “But there’s no place better than Bramble.”

There was a chorus of “sure ain’t” as the Bad Boy of Bramble disappeared into the night with his sweetheart.

I
F
Y
OU
T
HINK
M
Y
T
RUCK
I
S
B
IG…

Faith Aldridge did a double take, but the bold black letters of the bumper sticker remained the same. Appalled, she read through the rest of the signs plastered on the tail end of the huge truck:
DON’T MESS WITH TEXAS; REBEL BORN AND REBEL BRED AND WHEN I DIE I’LL BE REBEL DEAD; I LIVE BY THE THREE B’S: BEER, BRAWLS AND BROADS; CRUDE RUNS THROUGH MY VEINS
.

She could agree with the last one. Whoever drove the mammoth-sized vehicle
was
crude. And arrogant. And chauvinistic. And a perfect example of the rednecks her aunt Jillian had warned her about. Not that her aunt Jillian had ever met a redneck, but she’d seen Jeff Foxworthy on television. And that was enough to make her fear for her niece’s safety when traveling in a state filled with punch lines for the statement—

You might be a redneck if
…

You have a bumper sticker that refers to the size of your penis.

The front tire of her Volvo hit yet another pothole,
pulling her attention away from the bumper stickers and back to her quest for an empty parking space. There was no defined parking in the small dirt lot but, even without painted lines, the occupants of the bar had formed fairly neat rows. All except for the crude redneck whose truck was blatantly parked on the sidewalk by the front door.

Someone should report him to the police.

Someone who wasn’t intimidated by law enforcement officers and didn’t worry about criminal retaliation.

Faith found an empty space at the very end of the lot and started to pull in when she noticed the beat-up door on the Ford Taurus next to her. Pulling back out, she inched closer to the cinder block wall, then turned off the car, unhooked her seat belt, and grabbed her purse from beneath her seat.

Ignoring the trembling in her hands, she pulled out the tube of lip gloss she’d purchased at a drugstore in Oklahoma City. But it was harder to ignore the apprehensive blue eyes that stared back at her from the tiny lit mirror on the visor. Harder, but not impossible. She liberally coated her lips with the glistening fuchsia of Passion Fruit, a color that didn’t match her plain brown turtleneck or her conservative beige pants. Or even the bright red high heels she’d gotten at a Payless ShoeSource in Amarillo when she’d stopped for lunch.

A strong gust of warm wind whipped the curls around Faith’s face as she stepped out of the car. She brushed back her hair and glanced up. Only a few wispy clouds marred the deep blue of the September sky. Still, it might be a good idea to get her jacket from the suitcase in the trunk, just in case it got colder when the sun went down. Of course, she didn’t plan on staying at the bar past dark.
In fact, she didn’t plan on staying at the bar at all. Just long enough to get some answers.

After closing the door, she pushed the button on her keychain twice until the Volvo beeped. Then, a few feet away, she pushed it again just to be sure. One of her fellow computer programmers said she had OCD—Overly Cautious Disorder. Her coworker was probably right. Although there was nothing cautious about walking into a bar filled with men who paraded their egomaniacal thoughts on the bumpers of their trucks. But she didn’t have a choice. At seven o’clock on a Saturday night, this was the only place she’d found open in the small town.

As Faith walked past the truck parked by the door, she couldn’t help but stare. Up close it looked bigger… and much dirtier. Mud clung to the huge, deep-treaded tires, hung like stalactites from the fender wells, splattered over the faded red paint and blotchy gray primer of the door, and flecked the side window. A window her head barely reached. And in the heels, she was a good five-foot-five inches. Well, maybe not five inches. Maybe closer to four. But it was still mind-boggling that a vehicle could be jacked up to such heights.