Most people loved a good wedding.
Cole Erickson hated them.
It wasn't that he had anything against joy and bliss, or
anything in particular against happily-ever-after. It was
the fact that white dresses, seven-tiered cakes and
elegant bouquets of roses reminded him that he'd failed
countless generations of Ericksons and had broken more
than a few hearts along the way.
So, as the recessional sounded in the Blue Earth Valley
Church, and as his brother, Kyle, and Kyle's new bride,
Katie, glided back down the aisle, Cole's smile was
strained. He tucked the empty ring box into the breast
pocket of his tux, took the arm of the maid of honor and
followed the happy couple through the anteroom and onto
the porch.
Outside, they were greeted by an entire town of well-
wishers raining confetti and taking up the newly coined
tradition of blowing bubbles at the bride and groom.
Somebody shoved a neon-orange bottle of bubble mix into
Cole's hand. Emily, the freckle-faced maid of honor,
laughed and released his arm, unscrewing the cap on her
bottle and joining in the bubble cascade.
Grandma Erickson shifted to stand next to Cole. She waved
away his offer of the bubble solution, but threw a handful
of confetti across the wooden steps.
"Extra two hundred for the cleanup," she said.
"Only happens once in a lifetime," Cole returned, even
though the soap and shredded paper looked more messy than
festive.
"I've been meaning to talk to you about that."
Cole could feel his grandmother's lecture coming a mile
away. "Grandma," he cautioned.
"Melanie was a nice girl."
"Melanie was a terrific girl," he agreed.
"You blew that one."
"I did." Grandma would get no argument from Cole. He'd
loved Melanie. Everyone had loved Melanie. There wasn't a
mean or selfish bone in her body, and any man on the
planet would be lucky to have her as a wife.
Problem was, Cole had plenty of mean and selfish bones in
his body. He couldn't be the husband Melanie or anyone
else needed. He couldn't do the doting bridegroom,
couldn't kowtow to a woman's whims, change his habits, his
hair or his underwear style to suit another person.
In short, there was no way in the world he was getting
married now or anytime in the foreseeable future. Which
left him with one mother of a problem. A nine-hundred-year-
old problem.
"You're not getting any younger," said Grandma. "I've been
thinking," said Cole as Kyle and Katie climbed into a
chauffeur-driven limousine for the ten-mile ride back to
the ranch and the garden reception.
"About time." Grandma harrumphed.
"I was thinking the Thunderbolt of the North would make a
perfect wedding gift for Kyle and Katie."
Even amid the cacophony of goodbye calls and well wishes,
Cole recognized the stunned silence beside him. Heresy to
suggest the family's antique brooch go to the second son,
he knew. But Kyle was the logical choice.
Cole had already moved out of the main house. He'd set up
in the old cabin by the creek so Kyle and Katie would have
some privacy. Soon their children would take over the
second floor, making Kyle the patriarch of the next
Erickson dynasty. And the Thunderbolt of the North was
definitely a dynastic kind of possession.
As the wedding guests moved en masse toward their
vehicles, Grandma finally spoke. "You're suggesting I
throw away nine hundred years of tradition."
"I'm suggesting you respect nine hundred years of
tradition. Kyle and Katie will have kids."
"So will you."
"Not if I don't get married."
"Of course you'll get married."
"Grandma. I'm thirty-three. Melanie was probably my best
shot. Give the brooch to Katie."
"You are the eldest."
"Olav the Third came up with that rule in 1075. A few
things have changed since then."
"The important things haven't."
"Wake up and smell the bridal bouquets. We're well into
the twenty-first century. The British royal family is even
talking about pushing girls up in the line of succession."
"We're not the British royal family."
"Well, thank God for that. I'd hate to have the crown
jewels on my conscience."
Grandma rolled her eyes at his irreverence. She started
down the stairs, and Cole automatically offered his arm
and matched his pace to hers.
She gripped his elbow with a blue-veined hand. "Just
because you're too lazy to find a bride —"
"Lazy?"
She tipped her chin to stare up at him. "Yes, Cole
Nathaniel Walker Erickson. Lazy."
Cole tried not to smile at the ridiculous accusation. "All
the more reason not to trust me with the family treasure."
"All the more reason to use a cattle prod."
He pulled back. "Ouch. Grandma, I'm shocked."
"Shocked? Oh, that you will be. Several thousand volts if
you don't get your hindquarters out there and find another
bride." Then her expression softened and she reached up to
pat his cheek. "You're my grandson, and I love you dearly,
but somebody has to make you face up to your weaknesses."
"I'm a hopeless case, Grandma," he told her honestly.
"People can change." Cole stopped next to his pickup and
swung the passenger door open. He stared into her ageless,
blue eyes. "Not me."
"Why not?"
He hesitated. But if he wanted her support, he knew he had
to be honest. "I make them cry, Grandma."
"That's because you leave them."
"They leave me."
She shook her head, giving him a wry half smile. "You
leave them emotionally. Then they leave you physically."
"I can't change that."
"Yes you can."
Cole took a deep breath. "Give Kyle the brooch. It's the
right decision."
"Find another bride. That's the right decision. You'll
thank me in the end."
"Marital bliss?"
"Marital bliss."
Cole couldn't help but grin at that one. "This from a
woman who once threw her husband's clothes out a second-
story window."
Grandma turned away quickly, but not before he caught a
glimpse of her smile.
"You know perfectly well that story is a shameless
exaggeration," she said.
His grin grew. "But you admit there were men's suits
scattered all over the lawn."
"I admit no such thing, Cole Nathaniel." She sniffed.
"Impudent."
"Always."
"You get that from your mother. May she rest in peace."
Cole helped Grandma into the cab of the truck. "The
Thunderbolt would make a perfect wedding gift."
"It will," Grandma agreed, and he felt a glimmer of hope.
Then she adjusted the hem of her dress over her knees.
"You just have to find yourself a bride."
So much for hope. "Not going to happen," he said. "You
need some help?"
Cole's brain froze for a split-second, then it sputtered
back to life. "Grandma…"
She folded her hands in her lap and her smile turned
complacent. "We're late for the reception."
"Don't you dare."
She turned to him and blinked. "Dare what?"
"Don't you try to match me up."
"With whom?"
"Grandma."
"Close the door, dear. We're running late." Cole opened
his mouth to speak, but then snapped it shut again.
His grandmother had inherited the stubbornness and
tenacity of her ancestors. He knew all about that, because
he'd inherited it, too.
He banged the door shut, cursing under his breath as he
rounded the front grill. There was no point in arguing
anymore today. But if she started a parade of Wichita
Falls' fairest and finest through the ranch house, he was
going bull riding in Canada.
Cultural Properties Curator Sydney Wainsbrook felt her
stomach clench and her adrenaline level rise as Bradley
Slander sauntered across the foyer of New York's Laurent
Museum. A champagne flute dangled carelessly from his
fingers and that scheming smile made his beady brown eyes
look even smaller and more rat-like than usual.
"Better luck next time, Wainsbrook," he drawled, tipping
his head back to take an inelegant swig of the '96 Cristal
champagne. His Adam's apple bobbed and he smacked his lips
with exaggerated self-satisfaction.
Yeah, he would feel self-satisfied. He had just outbid her
on an antique, gold Korean windbell, earning a hefty
commission and making it the possession of a private
collector instead of a public museum.
It was the third time this year he'd squatted in the wings
like a vulture while she did the legwork. The third time
he scrabbled in at the last second to ruin her deal.
Sydney had nothing against competition. And she understood
an owner's right to sell their property to the highest
bidder. What galled her was the way Bradley slithered
around her contacts, fed them inflated estimates to
convince them to consider auction. Then he bid much lower
than his estimate, disappointing the owner and keeping
important heritage finds from the community forever.
"How do you sleep at night?" she asked.
Bradley leaned his shoulder against a marble pillar and
crossed one ankle over the other. "Let's see. I spend an
hour or so in my hot tub, sip a glass of Napoleon brandy,
listen to a bit of classical jazz, then crawl into my
California king and close my eyes. How about you?"
She pointedly shifted her gaze to the stone wall beside
them. "I fantasize about you and that broad ax."
He smirked. "Happy to be in your fantasy, babe."
"Yeah? The broad ax wins. You lose."
"Might be worth it."
"Gag me."
His lips curved up into a wider smile. "Whatever turns
your crank."
A shudder ran through Sydney at the unbidden visual. She
took a quick drink of her own champagne, wishing it was a
good, stiff single malt. It might have been a long dry
spell, but she wouldn't entertain sexual thoughts about
Bradley if he was the last man on earth.
Bradley chuckled. "So, tell me. What's next?"
She raised an eyebrow. "On your list. What are we going
after? I gotta tell you, Wainsbrook, you are my ticket to
the big time."
"Should I just e-mail you my research notes? Save you some
trouble?"
"Whatever's most convenient."
"What's most convenient is for you to stick your head in a
very dark place for a very long time."
"Sydney, Sydney, Sydney." He clucked. "And here I tell all
my friends you're a lady."
"It'll be a cold day in hell before I voluntarily give you
any information."
He shrugged. "Suit yourself." Then he leaned in. "I have
to admit. The chase kind of turns me on."
Fighting the urge to fulfill her broad-ax fantasy, Sydney
clenched her jaw. What was she going to do now?
She was on probation at the Laurent Museum due to her lack
of productivity this year. If Bradley scooped one more of
her finds, she'd be out of a job altogether. Her boss had
made that much clear enough after the auction this
afternoon.
What she needed was some room to maneuver. She needed to
get away from Bradley, maybe leave the country. Go to
Mexico, or Peru, or…France. Oh! She quickly reversed the
smile that started to form.
"See?" purred Bradley. "You like the game, too. You know
you do."
Sydney struggled not to gag on that one.
He held up his empty glass in a mock salute. "Until next
time."