“No, I said I’d go.” He took his first and last sip of coffee, left the mug on the table and slid out of the booth, too. He hadn’t gone more than a few feet when Chrissie stopped him.
“All right!” she cried. “All right.”
Frowning, he faced her. “I’ll be out of Hard Luck by morning.”
“I…I wasn’t agreeing to that. I meant, I’ll marry you.”
Mary stood in the background, both hands over her mouth as though to keep from shouting with glee. Scott cast her a warning glance, and her eyes twinkled with sheer delight.
“Why would you marry me?” he demanded.
“Other than the fact that I asked you to.”
“First…” She lowered her gaze to the floor.
“I…love you. I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember.”
“I want a woman’s love and not a schoolgirl crush.”
“Give me a chance, and you’ll see how much of woman I am.”
He grinned. “Any other reason?”
She nodded. “I couldn’t stand to let you walk away from me again. It nearly killed me the first two times.”
“It’s not going to happen, sweetheart.” He held open his arms, and not a moment passed before she was in them. His hold was so strong he practically lifted her from the floor, then her lips were on his. She kissed him in a way that left him in no doubt of her feelings. And in no doubt that she was every inch the woman she’d claimed.
“This is wonderful news!” Mary cried from behind them.
Scott heard the honking sound of Ben blowing his nose and recognized that his friend was shedding a tear of shared happiness.
Scott broke off the kiss, afraid to believe Chrissie was actually in his arms. “You aren’t going to wake up tomorrow morning and change your mind, are you?”
Her smile told him there was no chance of that. Her expression sobered and she sighed. “I promised myself I wouldn’t let this happen, but, Scott, oh, Scott, I’m so happy it did. I’ve always loved you.”
Still he held her. “Don’t make any more promises to yourself, all right?”
Chrissie laughed softly. “All right,” she whispered. “I won’t.”
And then she kissed him again.
From the Hard Luck Gazette
By Lani O’Halloran, Editor
It’s official! I don’t suppose I’m the only one who’s noticed that Chrissie Harris is sporting an engagement ring. I spoke with the soon-to-be-mother-of-the-bride, Bethany Harris, early this afternoon and Bethany confirmed that Scott O’Halloran and Chrissie have set the wedding date for New Year’s Eve.
Bethany and Mitch proudly claim credit for having brought this couple together as a result of some timely advice to the bride to be. However, this conflicts with what Matt and Karen Caldwell recently told me, which suggests that they were the ones who’d played a major role in the wedding plans—although when pressed Matt insisted their part in furthering the romance would remain his and Karen’s secret.
The new Mrs. O’Halloran will continue practicing law with Tracy Porter, while Scott’s duties with Midnight Sons will expand, particulary since his father, Sawyer O’Halloran, intends to retire. Sawyer and Abbey have already booked a trip to New York and are looking forward to a second honeymoon.
As a “Welcome Back to Hard Luck” gift, Sawyer has given his son a purebred Alaskan husky, who is a direct descendant of Scott’s beloved Eagle Catcher, whom many of our readers will remember. Scott and Chrissie have both expressed their delight.
A bridal shower will be hosted by Scott’s sister, Susan Gold, and will be held at the Hard Luck Community Center the sixth of November. On the same night, Ben Hamilton will host a bachelor party at the Hard Luck Café.
As a wedding gift, my husband, Charles O’Halloran, and I, together with Mariah and Christian O’Halloran, as well as Scott’s parents, have presented the engaged couple with twenty acres of land—and a cabin. Kind of goes full circle, doesn’t it?
The Glory Girl
Judith Bowen
Other Men of Glory books by Judith Bowen
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
739—THE RANCHER’S RUNAWAY BRIDE
791—LIKE FATHER, LIKE DAUGHTER
814—O LITTLE TOWN OF GLORY
835—THE DOCTOR’S DAUGHTER
872—HIS BROTHER’S BRIDE
900—THE RANCHER TAKES A WIFE
and coming in November, 950—A HOME OF HIS OWN
GLORY, ALBERTA
I’ve spent a lot of my life in towns, starting with twelve years of riding the school bus an hour each way to attend school in a small town in Alberta. I’ve lived in small towns all over Canada, from a remote coastal village in British Columbia, where I met my husband, to a farming and fishing village in Prince Edward Island, where my oldest child was born.
Today, I still live in a small town, this one on the banks of the Fraser River in B.C., with my family of five.
When I started writing romance novels, it made sense to write about the kind of life I knew best. Thus, the fictitious town of Glory was born, set in the beautiful Rocky Mountain ranch land and foothill country of southern Alberta. Glory is small enough for everyone who lives here to know everyone else, and big enough to supply the district’s needs for groceries, doctors, lawyers and so on.
Over the past seven books, my readers have come to know Glory well. They’ve seen the same characters drift in and out of the novels and have seen children grow and the librarian retire. They’ve sympathized with the landlady who keeps losing her tenants to marriage and they’ve waited in the doctor’s office with creaking oldsters and cranky youngsters.
I love small towns. Glory’s a hometown like no other—and like all others. I hope you enjoy your stay!
Judith Bowen
Other Men of Glory books by Judith Bowen
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
739—THE RANCHER’S RUNAWAY BRIDE
791—LIKE FATHER, LIKE DAUGHTER
814—O LITTLE TOWN OF GLORY
835—THE DOCTOR’S DAUGHTER
872—HIS BROTHER’S BRIDE
900—THE RANCHER TAKES A WIFE
and coming in November, 950—A HOME OF HIS OWN
CHAPTER ONE
“EVERYTHING?” THE BARBER paused in the act of retrieving a bowl of hot towels from the old microwave that sat on the shelf, along with the bay rum, the jar of licorice twists, the tin of humbugs and the black-plastic comb card. He caught Jack’s eye in the spotty mirror. “Mustache?”
Jack raised both hands and felt his jaw and full luxuriant mustache, then relaxed and stretched his six-foot-plus frame under the cape. No regrets. He crossed his feet at the ankles on the chair’s footrest. “Take it all off, Saul. I’m changing my image. Cleaning up.”
Every time he came back to civilization, he treated himself to an old-fashioned shave and a haircut at Saul’s Barber Emporium next to Calgary’s St. Regis Hotel, a service only practitioners like Saul Crabbe still delivered. Steaming hot towels applied just so, a perfect shave with a straight razor honed on an old-fashioned leather strop, a scissor cut, plenty of bay rum splashed around afterward whether you wanted it or not.
Jack had had the mustache for years. His pride and joy. He’d always secretly believed it suited him—gave him a devil-may-care look. But he’d ruthlessly scrutinized his appearance and general air this time when he came out of the bush and had decided: The mustache had to go.
He smiled as Saul applied the towels, one by one. Wasn’t this the life? Back in the city, rested up, pockets full of money, a little pampering at the hands of a master like Saul and then…maybe he’d head out to Glory once he’d seen his uncle again. He had plenty to attend to out there. Or he’d spend another night in town and drive out tomorrow. He wanted to buy some new clothes. And it was Halloween. There’d be a party somewhere. Then he reminded himself that he was finished with that kind of thing. It was time to get serious. Forget the party life.
“Cleaning up? What’s the occasion, Jack, my boy?” The old man stared at his customer’s reflection in the mirror as he critically combed through Jack’s overlong hair. Black as the bottom of a well and past his collar. “New girlfriend, eh?”
Jack laughed. “I wish,” he said, and shrugged slightly under the snowy white, carefully mended and patched linen barber’s cape.
“Girls. Huh.” Saul cleared his throat and spat expertly into the brass spittoon he kept a few feet from the barber’s chair, just out of eyesight of his customers. Those who chewed knew where it was; those who didn’t weren’t interested in having it on display. Jack had never seen the barber without a plug in one cheek.
“Doesn’t sound like you think much of the idea, Saul,” Jack continued, closing his eyes. The warm waves of steam from the towels made him sleepy. That and his reclining position in the old leather chair.
“Young ladies today!” Saul shook his head. “Bad news,” he muttered, as if he’d had some experience in that department. Saul Crabbe was sixty-six years old, and Jack happened to know he’d been married for forty-two of those years to Sadie, who made the best blueberry pie east of the Rockies, according to her devoted husband.
The barber lifted the towels to inspect Jack’s beard. “Mad Jack Gamble, isn’t that what they call you up north?” Saul asked. “The ladies call you that, too?”
“None that I know of. Just buddies, here and there.”
“Yeah, I know ‘here and there.’ You and that digging around looking for gold in the rocks. It’s nuts. They’re rocks, Jack, just rocks. You oughtta take up a real occupation. Some kind of business—like barbering. Or keeping store. Take a steam-fitting course, maybe.”
Jack had heard the argument before. For twelve years he’d been prospecting on and off in Canada’s far north. He’d had his run of luck. And when he was in the money, he spread it around. His friends didn’t know whether he was plain generous or plain crazy. Thus the nickname. Maybe he was crazy. He hadn’t saved much in all that time. Now, with Ira’s farm falling on his shoulders, he wished he had.
There was silence in the barbershop for a few minutes. The barely audible sound of a baseball game on the radio, permanently tuned to a sports station, buzzed soothingly in the background.
“World Series?”
“Yeah. Those damn Braves,” Saul growled as he snipped at the thickest parts of Jack’s beard. Jack hadn’t shaved in six months. “I hope they lose. I can’t stand that hatchet song. Na-na-na-na. So, tell me, what’s this about girls?”
“Girl, Saul.” Jack emphasized the singular. “I’m going to find myself a nice quiet Glory girl and settle down. Get married. Have kids. The works.”
“Settle down?” The barber laughed, then coughed. “You? Ha! Don’t pull my leg, please. I’m an old man. My health’s not so good anymore—”
“I’m serious. My prospecting days are over, Saul. I’ve done that. I’m taking up farming, didn’t I tell you?”