* * *
BUCK FELT LIKE an extra in a Hollywood movie. He’d woken this morning ready to rodeo and now here he was, hitching a ride on a Harley with a runaway bride. He swatted the lace veil away from his face. Life sure had gotten interesting since his older brother Will had all but kicked him off the family pecan farm and told him to get the heck out of Dodge for a while. Buck was the first to admit he’d deserved the banishment.
Will had learned for the first time this past June that he had a fourteen-year-old son. The mother had been a girl he’d taken to the prom his senior year. After Marsha Bugler graduated high school, she’d left Arizona to attend college in California. Buck had kept in touch with her through email and then one afternoon a year ago in March he’d surprised Marsha with a visit on the way home from a rodeo and had met her son for the first time—a teenager who’d looked suspiciously like Will.
Marsha had confessed that Will was the boy’s father, then begged Buck not to tell him until she figured out the best way to break the news. He’d agreed to keep Marsha’s secret, believing she’d follow through on her promise. A month passed then another and another, and it wasn’t until a year and a half later that she wrote Will a letter, informing him that he was a father. Buck didn’t blame his brother for kicking him to the curb, and he’d left willingly while Marsha and Will sorted through the wreckage of their past and figured out their future as a family.
Once in a while Buck checked in with his younger sister Dixie, but he never told her his whereabouts. Since leaving home in June, his brother Johnny and his wife, Shannon, had delivered a baby girl, named Addy in honor of Grandma Cash. And just last week Dixie had texted him the news that Will and Marsha had married.
Almost daily Dixie begged Buck to come home, but he wasn’t ready. He couldn’t say for sure what kept him away from Stagecoach. He only knew that he didn’t want to go back to the same-old-same-old—a rodeo once a month and working on cars in Troy Winters’s garage. His brothers were moving on with their lives, and he wanted to move on, also—to where and to what was anyone’s guess.
The road curved and Destiny slowed the bike. Buck relaxed his grip on her slender hips as the faint scent of lilacs drifted up his nostrils. He didn’t know if the scent came from her skin or the red locks she’d pinned to the top of her head. He dropped his gaze to the bare shoulder in front of him. Crawling out from the edge of the sleeveless vest was a red, yellow and green lizard, its tongue extended toward a tiny tattooed fly. Despite her petite size, Destiny was solid muscle. Maybe she was a personal trainer at a fitness gym—that would explain her toned arms.
One more mile and the bike slowed to a crawl then veered onto a dirt road badly in need of grading. It wasn’t until the bike crested a small mesa that he spotted the handful of buildings in the middle of the desert. Twin palm trees stood a hundred feet in the air above the buildings and looked out of place in the dusty barren landscape.
His escort coasted into town—if the place even qualified as a town. He counted six structures. The towering palms guarded the entrance to the Flamingo Inn Resort—a seen-better-days motel that had been converted into a trailer park. A gas station with one repair bay and one pump sat at the end of—he read the street sign—Gulch Road. Carter Towing and Repair had been painted in red block lettering across the front of the whitewashed brick.
The Florence Pastry Shoppe, a two-story Victorian-style home, faced the motel on the opposite side of the street. A giant-sized croissant twirled atop a pole mounted to the roof. Three white rockers sat on the front porch.
Instead of driving to the garage, Destiny parked outside Lucille’s Smokehouse Grill and Saloon, which sat next to Dino-Land, a nine-hole miniature golf course whose entrance was guarded by giant plaster dinosaurs, their green paint faded and cracked.
She cut the bike engine and Buck heard the faint sounds of piano music. “What’s going on?”
“My wedding reception.”
Uh-oh. Even though Destiny didn’t act upset, he doubted the jilted bride looked forward to informing her wedding guests there was nothing to celebrate. He caught her arm when she stepped past him. “If you want, I’ll tell them the wedding was called off.”
For the first time since they’d met, she removed her sunglasses. Buck sucked in a quiet breath as he felt himself being dragged into the undertow of Caribbean blue waters. The eyes staring up at him were perfectly round and easily the largest feature on her freckled face. “Thanks, but it’s not a big deal.”
Not a big deal? What kind of man had she been engaged to? She climbed the steps to the saloon and he couldn’t help but notice that the white leather pants fit her firm little fanny like a glove. The groom had a screw loose if he let a woman like this get away.
“You’re welcome to come inside for food and drinks,” she said.
The other businesses appeared deserted. The entire population of Lizard Gulch, including the mechanic, Buck guessed, waited inside the bar.
“What’s it gonna be?” She tapped her boot heel against the wooden boardwalk. He took the steps two at a time then held the door open for her. As soon as she entered, the piano music switched to “Here Comes the Bride.” A group of geriatrics stared—mouths hanging open, their gazes swinging back and forth between Destiny and Buck.
A barrel-chested man who wore his long gray hair in a ponytail eyed Buck suspiciously before speaking to Destiny. “I thought you were marrying Daryl? Where’d you find this guy?”
“He’s a whole lot better-looking than Daryl.” A skinny man with gray sideburns and a receding hairline patted his chest beneath his cobalt-blue silk shirt.
“This is...” Destiny sent Buck a blank look.
Holy cow. She’d forgotten his name—that had never happened to him before. Not only was his moniker memorable, but most ladies thought his face was, too. “Buck Owens Cash.”
“Buck Owens? Why Buck is one of my favorite country-and-western singers.” A blonde lady wearing a strapless rhinestone dress that pushed her wrinkled bosom up to her chin batted her eyelashes.
“Heel, Sonja.”
“Go soak your head in a bucket, Ralph,” Sonja said.
“Whoever thought to name their kid Buck Owens Cash must have been a dimwit.” A man closer in age to Buck moved to the front of the group. Dressed in a gray suit and red tie, he assessed Buck. “Is Cash your real surname or one you made up to go with your Vegas stage name?”
Stage name? “All three names are for real, and I doubt my deceased mother would appreciate you calling her a dimwit,” Buck said.
“Knock it off, Mark. Buck’s pickup broke down near the chapel and I gave him a lift into town,” Destiny explained.
“You look very...hot.” Sonja handed him a bottled water.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Buck guzzled the drink.
“Where’s Daryl?”
“What happened?”
“How come you’re late?”
Questions were fired at Destiny from all directions, and she raised her hands in surrender. “Daryl was a no-show.”
An elderly man with grizzled cheeks dressed in polyester slacks and a plaid dress shirt appeared at Destiny’s side. He tapped his finger against what appeared to be a toy sheriff’s badge pinned to his shirt. “Want me to bring him in?”
Was this guy for real?
“Thank you for your concern, everyone, but I’d rather Daryl have changed his mind about marrying me now than after we tied the knot.”
The redhead didn’t act