CHAPTER TWO

      FACSIMILE

      To: N. Barnett, Golden B

      From: D. Reese, Reese Ranch

      How can I stop wonying? They haven’t seen each other for two weeks. Autumn is on her way over to Yellow Rose—remember that nice lady we met and her grandson?

      Debra

      FAX

      To: D. Reese, Reese Ranch

      From: N. Barnett, Golden B

      I’ve put a bug in Clay’ s ear .

      Nellie

      IT WAS a lovely mid-January day, cool enough so she could wear her new red suede jacket, and dry with a clear blue sky. Autumn drove through town, avoiding the tourists lining up to tour the Alamo, and entered an older residential area of San Antonio.

      Yellow Rose Matchmakers was located at 10 Bluebonnet Drive, in a charming Victorian house painted yellow with white trim. A white picket fence surrounded the yard, making an old-fashioned statement among the unfenced neighboring yards.

      Autumn parked her black Ford Bronco on the street next to a mailbox hand-painted with yellow roses, then went to push open the gate. Something about the act of stepping through the gate and latching it behind her made Autumn feel as though she had stepped into another time.

      She’d climbed the porch steps and rung the doorbell before she stopped to consider that it was still fairly early on a Saturday morning and the agency might not be open yet, or even at all. She was just about to turn away when a shadow appeared behind the frosted-glass door and it swung open.

      “It’s about time, Hector. Just because you’re my cousin’s son doesn’t mean—you’re not Hector.”

      “No. Sorry.”

      The woman, short and full-figured, wearing her salt-and-pepper hair in a bun, reminded Autumn of the wife of Clay’s ranch foreman. The no-nonsense tone in her voice had prompted the automatic apology.

      “Well, who are you?”

      “I’m Autumn Reese, from the Junior Swine Auction Education Committee.” Autumn held up a copy of the magazine-size program from last year’s auction. “I was wondering if Yellow Rose Matchmakers might be interested in contributing to the committee this year.” Autumn flipped through the program so the woman could see the ads contributors were entitled to.

      “Pigs, eh?”

      Autumn nodded. “Cows are by invitation only, chickens aren’t compelling, and I’m allergic to sheep.”

      “I’m not so sure Miss Willie would want to be associated with pigs.”

      Prepared for this reaction, Autumn whipped out a batch of adorable photos of cute baby pigs. Donated by a professional photographer, they featured pigs with wings, pigs dressed in kilts, pigs among flowers—anything to negate the image of pigs wallowing in a trough.

      As had so many others, the woman cooed.

      “Money donated goes to the education fund so all exhibitors receive a minimum amount for their pig at auction. The kids use the profits from selling their animals to fund their education.”

      “Weeell...let’s talk. You don’t see Hector out there, do you?”

      Autumn dutifully looked around. Her Bronco was the only vehicle in sight. She shook her head.

      The woman muttered something in Spanish. “You try to give them a break and they let you down.” Opening the door wider, she gestured for Autumn to follow her inside.

      Walking through the door, she experienced the same stepping-back-in-time feeling she’d had when she’d come through the gate, only more intense. A huge bouquet of yellow roses in a vase on the foyer table caught her eye immediately. Autumn stopped to smell them before following the woman into a parlorlike reception area.

      Except for the brass plaque announcing Yellow Rose Matchmakers by the front door, there was nothing that resembled an office about the house. The only way Autumn knew she was in the right place was because framed photographs of smiling couples—presumably satisfied clients—covered the walls.

      “I’m Maria Perez,” the woman said when they settled themselves on a blue velvet sofa. “Now, I don’t own this business and can’t speak for Miss Willie, but she depends on me for advice. How much money are we talking?”

      “The committee will be grateful for whatever amount you care to donate. However, there are certain donor levels if you wish to be acknowledged in the program.”

      Since Autumn had given this speech several times a day for the past two weeks, she took the opportunity to study the photographs as she talked and Maria looked through the program magazine. Never in her life had Autumn considered signing up with a dating agency. But there must have been two dozen wedding pictures on the walls.

      “Miss Willie’s never had a failure.”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      Maria had caught her staring. She gestured to the photographs. “These are people Miss Willie and Wanda—she helps Miss Willie out—these are people they’ve brought together. They have a gift.”

      “They do?”

      Maria nodded her head. “Course that was in the days before the computer, when Miss Willie hand-picked her clients. She was so good, people convinced her to become a professional matchmaker. So many people came to her, it was either turn them away or get help. That’s when Wanda came here. But then Miss Willie’s grandson convinced her to get some computers. That’s not the kind of help they need, if you ask me. Ain’t nothing been the same since we got those machines. But you know people. Always in a hurry.”

      “Yes,” Autumn said slowly. “How...how does your business work?”

      Maria set aside Autumn’s program and opened the huge scrapbook that lay on the coffee table. The first pages were laminated forms. “You fill these out so the computer knows what kind of person you are. Then we type all this stuff into a program Miss Willie’s grandson paid way too much for and the computer picks your perfect match—or at least the three men you’re most likely to get along with.”

      “And how does the