Rustler's Moon. Jodi Thomas
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laughed. “They are all good people. You might watch out for Wagner, though. Vern’s been known to ask any single girl around to marry him.”
“How many wives has he had?”
“None. Talk is, after he forgot to show up at the church a few times, every woman in town stopped believing anything Vern said.” Dan shook his head. “I don’t know if that story is true. Wagner told it to me himself.”
“I’ll watch out for him.”
Dan laughed. “I promise, he’s someone not easy to miss.”
Angela said good-night and walked down the path to her cabin trying to remember all the names she’d heard. Kirkland, Collins, O’Grady and Wagner. Once she got settled in her new job, she’d look up all their family histories. Though she’d like to forget hers, most people wanted to talk about their roots.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING she was so early to the parking lot of the museum she waited half an hour before the sheriff showed up. While he was unlocking the huge double doors of the museum, cars and pickup trucks began pulling into the lot.
The sheriff stood beside her as the families piled out and greeted each other. Dan leaned close to her and quietly gave her the lowdown. “The couple in the Cadillac are the Collinses, they own the Bar W Ranch. Both their sons are away at school. That van with all the kids are one branch of the O’Gradys. Lots of them around town.” He nodded to an attractive couple with a young son. “The tall couple with the toddler are the Kirklands. Staten owns the Double K. Biggest spread within a hundred miles. Word is his wife, Quinn, is pregnant again. The two men climbing out of that old rusty red pickup are Wagners. They own the Devil’s Fork Ranch.”
Angela fought the urge to bolt. So many people, all coming to see her. Kirkland was tall, big like his voice had been on the phone. The man called Collins looked bored and his wife seemed overdressed.
She suddenly had a dozen questions to ask the sheriff, but it was too late.
People were too near the museum for him to fill her in on any more details, but she felt as if she had at least put a few names with faces.
When the sheriff finally opened the doors, she was surprised to see a banner welcoming her. A long lace-covered table was set up with red velvet cupcakes, lemon squares and juice in tall champagne glasses. All made it seem more a party than her first day at work. Three round little grandmother-types stood behind the refreshments table beaming with pride.
Fifty people crowded into the big two-story open foyer. Angela and the sheriff stood next to the mayor, Davis Collins, and his perfect, much younger wife named Cherry.
Angela fought down a giggle every time the mayor called his wife “Cherry Baby.” Everyone in the room, except Davis Collins, could see his wife glare at him. She obviously hated the name and he obviously didn’t care.
Everyone except two-year-old James Kirkland stood silently as the mayor said what a grand day it was to have a new curator over the museum they all loved.
With keys in her hand, Angela moved among the people trying to remember names. Everyone wanted to show her their favorite exhibit. After two hours, Angela felt as if she’d had a private tour of every foot of the museum from archives with journals of the first settlers, to the gun collections, to a mock-up of the first wagons. All her years of studying Texas history came alive as she touched artifacts that had survived since the time of the first Austin colony, including weapons that were around during the fight at the Alamo, and Native American clothing now treasured as works of art.
She loved it all. This was where she belonged. She’d grown up with her father and uncle always talking antiques. Every family member’s house had tables no one touched and chairs no one sat in. Yet, all these treasures of this Western past came alive as the descendants told stories of how life had been here on this very land a hundred and fifty years ago.
When the last guest finally left, and the three volunteers vanished into a small kitchen in the back to clean up the refreshments, Angela almost danced up the stairs. She wanted to pull the pins from her tight bun and run like a carefree child through her new life.
But of course she wouldn’t. She giggled. She’d do what was expected, at least until everyone was gone. Being here was both terrifying and Christmas morning at the same time.
After stopping at her office to pick up a pencil and pad, she began at the top of the stairs jotting things down that needed to be done and ideas for new displays. It would take weeks to examine all the artifacts, but what fun she would have.
She was so lost in her ideas, she didn’t notice a man moving up behind her until she felt his breath on the back of her neck.
“I have a question.”
She jumped, almost tumbling into the diorama of the canyon. Her notepad and pencil flew into the air. The pad slapped against the floor, but the pencil jabbed her attacker’s forehead drawing a drop of blood.
His right hand shot out, catching her shoulder as his tall frame leaned forward. His grip was strong, digging into her arm as he fought to pull her toward him and away from the display glass.
Opening her mouth to scream, she whirled. Her elbow plowed into his ribs as she found her footing. He folded over and his jaw slammed against her forehead, sending his hat flying into the display.
Both let out a cry. Hers sounded more like a squeal, and his seemed more like swearing, but when they met one another’s eyes, both were in pain.
She recovered first. “Mr. Wagner!” At over six-four, he was hard to forget. Especially when he’d added boots and a hat to his height. He had towered above her when he shook her hand at the reception, and he towered over her now.
“Mrs. Jones.” He gasped as he straightened, rubbing his ribs.
She had no idea what kind of man he was, but she wasn’t taking any chances. “My colleagues are in the back. If you are thinking of assaulting me, all I have to do is scream, and they’ll come running.”
Wagner made an effort to smile. “I doubt your three volunteers have run in thirty years. A cattle prod wouldn’t budge them into more than a stroll. As for assaulting you, I’m the one with a hole in my chest from your elbow and several teeth loose from the blow to my jaw.” He brushed two fingers across his forehead. “It appears I’m also bleeding. All I planned to do was ask you a question, lady.”
She saw his point. Surprisingly enough, she seemed to have won the short battle. “Well, Mr. Wagner, if you’re thinking of asking me to marry you, you can forget it. I’m wise to your tricks. I was warned by the sheriff.”
The tall cowboy gave up looking injured and stared at her as if she’d gone crazy. Anger flared. “Look, much as I’m turned on by your plain, gray suit and those practical shoes, I’m not in the habit of proposing to complete strangers on first contact.”
“I’ve heard different, Vern Wagner.”
Now he looked shocked. Then, to her surprise, he smiled and winked at her. “You do fit the list, Mrs. Jones, except I’m thinking you’re too smart. Dumb was a definite on the criteria. That suit looks like it’s homemade, and I’m betting you cook. Now that I think about it, we might as well get married, assuming your bank account is hefty and your husband is missing.”
She could only stare at the insane man. Maybe there was too much inbreeding in this county. He looked all right, close to perfect, actually. Tall, handsome with his sandy-blond hair and blue eyes. From boots to Stetson he was dressed as if he’d walked off the cover of a romance novel. Too bad he was brain-dead.
“Maybe we should get on with the mating. After all, your being pregnant at the wedding would be a plus.” He leaned down to her level as he moved closer.
Angela froze in total shock as his lips touched hers. The few times in her life she’d been kissed, really kissed, were nothing like this. His lips were soft against hers, but he seemed to