Hill Country Hero (17 page)

Sunday finally rolled around. The game was in full swing and Jake was sweating bullets. He wasn’t intimidated by the massive linemen who were trying to kill him. He wasn’t in awe of the coaches, or the fans or even Texas Bob. He was, however, terrified of a woman in a chicken suit.

The Road Runner defense was on the field. It was a fourth down and less than a foot for the other team. Under ordinary circumstances he’d be at the yard marker, yelling encouragement. Not this time.

Cole popped him on the arm. “Hey, guy, keep your mind on the game.” He was the only person—other than the Hurst family and the entire broadcast staff—who knew what Jake was planning. “What can happen, other than looking like a moron on national TV?” He tempered his jibe with a huge grin. “Screw you.”

The quarterback hooted. “Not in a million years, dude, not in a million years. I sure wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”

His friend had that right. Jumping into a pit of snakes sounded less scary than what he was about to do. “Thanks for your support.”

The quarterback hit him on the arm again. “Good luck, man. I’m on your side.” He grinned once more before turning his attention back to the game.

A roar went up and Jake realized the other team had lost the ball on downs. It was his time to hit the field. He pulled on his helmet and trotted to the huddle. Another quarter and his fate would be sealed. Was he man enough to do the job? Or would he “chicken out” and call the whole thing off?

“C
ULPEPPER, NEXT TIME
I throw you a ball, you catch it, ya hear? You’re not up to snuff here.” Cole’s patience was about to run out.

“No kiddin’. Ya better keep your mind on the game or the coach is gonna have you out here running wind sprints.” That pearl of wisdom came from a 300-pound linebacker. Irritating the offensive line was never a good idea, not unless Jake was hankering for a torn ACL.

On the next pass play, he tried for a diving catch and missed. It was third down when Cole threw a perfect spiral to another receiver, who sprinted toward the goal line.

Touchdown! A point after touchdown kick and the score was seven/zip. Jake had to get his head back in the game, at least until the halftime. The next series of downs produced an amazing run into the end zone for the opposing team. It was seven/seven and Jake hadn’t done a darned thing to help the team.

“The next one’s gonna be yours. Don’t mess it up,” Cole said.

Don’t mess it up, don’t mess it up. If the cameras hadn’t been on them, Jake would have shot his old buddy the one-fingered salute of friendship.

The next offensive play was a pass to Jake that gave them a first down. Three series later and they were in the end zone for another touchdown. When the buzzer sounded, the score was fourteen to seven.

And it was showtime!

T
HE STUPID CHICKEN SUIT
was stifling. Why had CiCi agreed to this lunacy? A smart girl would be up in the luxury box enjoying a frozen margarita, not down on the sidelines in a smelly mascot costume.

The crowd roared. What had she missed? She checked the peephole and saw that Jake’s teammates were slapping him on the back. CiCi jumped up and down flapping her wings. Of course, her enthusiasm had nothing, absolutely zilch, to do with Jake. It was her job to root for the team. Uh-huh!

A high-school band was gathered on the sidelines for the halftime show and the dance team had formed a semi-circle around her. Before they marched on the field, she’d better get out of the way or they’d mow her down.

When the buzzer for the end of the half sounded, the Road Runner gals tightened the circle. That was CiCi’s first inkling that something was up. And when the network reporter showed up, microphone in hand, she knew for sure. And that was before she spied Buster Fullbright, the national broadcast co-host, heading her way.

What in the bloody hell was going on?

S
WEAT DRIPPED DOWN
the back of Jake’s neck and it had nothing to do with exercise. To put it succinctly, he was terrified. He signaled the cameraman and marched toward his fate.

If this harebrained scheme went south, he’d have to banish himself to the Arctic Circle. With that cheerful thought in mind, he called on every ounce of courage he could muster.

It felt like a replay of his first encounter with CiCi. Ten yards, five, three yards to the target. She was surrounded by members of the dance team. Then Cole appeared next to him—he was the ring bearer.

“I can’t believe I agreed to do this,” the quarterback said but his grin was the size of Texas.

Jake jabbed him, though with all the padding, it was more symbolic than effective.

“Go on,” Cole prompted.

Jake grabbed the mascot’s wing, hoping like heck she didn’t whack him. He couldn’t think of anything worse than getting decked by a six-foot chicken in front of millions of people.

Buster Fullbright gave him a sly wink.

He could do this. He could do this. He could do this. That was Jake’s story and he was sticking to it.

Grabbing a handful of feathers, he dropped to one knee in front of CiCi. The camera was panning back and forth, the dance team was bouncing in place and unbelievably, the band was playing Alabama’s “Will You Marry Me.” How
many
people were involved?

A
LTHOUGH
C
I
C
I’S FIELD OF VISION
was somewhat limited by the chicken head, Buster Fullbright was hard to miss. What was he doing down on the field at halftime? It wasn’t until she saw Cole that she became convinced that something strange was happening.

Then she saw Jake. He looked sort of green. When he grabbed her wing and fell to his knee, CiCi was afraid he was having a seizure.

She tried to yell “Call 911,” but saying anything while wearing that stupid feather head was impossible. Everything from “go, team” to “get out of my way, you dumb cluck” came out as a garbled “humph.”

The cameras were rolling, Fullbright was grinning like a court jester, Cole was holding a tiny blue shopping bag, and CiCi was ready to whip off her crested head and get on with the CPR. Then Jake held out his hand.

Was that what it looked like? This had to be a dream. Jake
Culpepper was in full pads, down on one knee and in his hand he had a ring with a diamond the size of a penny.

This was hell, pure unadulterated hell. The man she loved more than anything in the world was offering her a glimpse of heaven, and she couldn’t do a thing about it because she had wings.

No fingers. Nowhere for him to put the ring. And to make matters worse, she was stuck in a stupid feathered head. Dante couldn’t have come up with a more distressing scenario.

“Let me help you with that,” Mac said and then CiCi noticed that her entire family was there, including Sugar Plum.

Without warning, Mac ripped off the chicken head, leaving CiCi to deal with a bad case of hat hair. She was so busy trying to tame her locks she almost missed what Jake was saying.

“Will you marry me?”

She was only vaguely aware of the band, the dancing girls, the national television camera and the crowd of thousands—make that millions. Everything was obliterated by the beat of her heart and the roar of blood gushing through her body.

Then Jake sealed the deal. He gave her one of those melt-her-bones grins and uttered the magic words: “I love you.”

CiCi was flapping her wings like Foghorn Leghorn on speed, but what else could she do? She didn’t have any usable appendages.

“Yes!” she screeched. The teachers from Miss Newcombe’s Finishing School would be scandalized, but they’d never faced Jake Culpepper down on one knee holding out a dream. She realized that the fiasco with Tank had been nothing more than a fit of temper on both their parts.

“I love you and I trust you. How about you?” she asked with a smile.

“Oh, yeah.”

“In that case,
definitely
yes.” It wasn’t a champagne-and-roses proposal, but it couldn’t have been more perfect.

CiCi tried to kneel beside him but the darned chicken feet tripped her and they both ended up flat on the ground.

Seems turnabout was fair play. This time it was the chicken who tackled the tight end, and what could be better?

Eight months later
Society section—Houston Chronicle—April 21

CiCi’s first wedding had been a formal affair and she was determined not to go down that path again. Her intention was good but she hadn’t factored in Mama’s considerable powers of persuasion. And that was why the soirée ended up a cross between a Buckingham Palace extravaganza and a Reba McEntire hoedown.

Yes to the trip to New York to purchase a Vera Wang original. No to a church wedding and a reception at the country club.

CiCi had her heart set on getting married in a field of wild flowers at Jake’s ranch, with a huge barbecue to follow. If Mama wanted that catered, so be it—just as long as the dudes doing the cooking wore jeans and Tony Lamas.

And speaking of boots, Daddy had a friend whose brother-in-law was known as the Van Gogh of boot making. The pair he created for CiCi was a masterpiece. Everyone in the bridal party—Mama included—was fitted for boots. This was Texas in the spring and smart folks didn’t tromp around a field during rattlesnake season without protective footwear.

The big day was finally here, and it was glorious. The sun was shining, the bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush wildflowers created a vibrant sea of color, and even better, CiCi was feeling beautiful.

“You’re so lucky.” Mac squeezed CiCi’s hand as they finished getting ready. “This is the beginning of a wonderful ad venture.”

“I am a lucky girl.”

J
AKE WAS TUGGING
at his bow tie—jeans and a nice button-down shirt were more to his liking, but his mom had always
dreamed of a fancy wedding for her son. Between her and Marianne Hurst, all sorts of possibilities had flown out the window—elopement to Vegas, a trip to the courthouse, a quick trip to Mexico, etc.

Even though they’d been living together at the ranch all winter, CiCi had insisted on moving into the guest room last night. She said it was bad luck to see the bride before the wed ding and she wasn’t taking any chances.

Jake’s musings were interrupted by a tap on the door. Without waiting for a response, Cole came in, followed by Dwayne and Darrell. Cole was his usual debonair self. Dwayne and Darrell looked like waiters at an expensive restaurant. And to think, he’d sprung for tailored tuxes. He was reminded of the old saying about making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. If it had been up to Jake, they’d be sitting in the audience, but his mom had insisted they be in the wedding party. And when Mom set her mind on something—

“Are you ready?” Cole asked, adjusting Jake’s tie. “There’s quite a crowd out there. The whole team’s already seated and they brought their wives and children.”

“Have my teenage buddies shown up yet?” Over the winter, Jake and CiCi had established a foundation for at-risk adolescents. He’d set aside a hundred acres of his ranch property for a permanent group of foster homes for kids in need and called it the Haven. The first twenty residents and their surrogate parents had already been selected—Angel and Rondelle were included.

“Yep, all present and accounted for,” Cole answered. “Now, let’s get going. It’s a good day for a wedding.” He chuckled. “I’ve been smelling that barbecue since breakfast and it’s made me mighty hungry.” He rubbed his hands together.

Dwayne patted his stomach. “Me, too.”

“A cold beer wouldn’t hurt, either. Right?” Jake asked. He couldn’t stop grinning.

“You got that one right.” Cole shot Jake a grin. “You didn’t ask about the bride.”

That comment got Jake’s attention. “What do you mean? Is there something I need to know?” He panicked momentarily, then came to his senses.

“Jerk! You’re pulling my chain, aren’t you?”

“Guilty as charged.” Cole’s expression turned sober. “I’m still not sure how your little surprise will go over. Did you clear it with Texas Bob?”

“Nope. If he doesn’t like it, that’s too bad.”

Cole and Dwayne shared a look. “It’s not my neck,” the quarterback said. “I hear the music and that’s our cue.”

Texas Bob had hired an up-and-coming Texas country music band to play at both the wedding and the reception. Nothing was too good, or too expensive, for his baby girl.

Jake was having second thoughts about his secret groomsman. The plan had been hatched over a six-pack of beer. It had seemed like a great idea then, but now he wasn’t quite sure. But it was too late to call it off. Please God, CiCi would find it funny.

“Okay.” Jake straightened his tie for the last time. “I’m ready. We need to get you hitched, too,” Jake told his friend.

“You’ll have to check with Mac on that one.” Cole and Mac had an on-again, off-again relationship. Jake knew his friend was smitten.

“Let’s go,” he said.

C
I
C
I CLUTCHED
her dad’s arm as the wedding party formed for the trip down the aisle. Mac gave CiCi a hug. “This is so cool. I’m incredibly happy for you.”

“I’m scared to death.”

“Don’t be a ninny. Put a big smile on. There’s a handsome groom waiting for you.”

She was right. Jake was tall, broad shouldered and yummy beyond belief.

“I’m ready. Let’s go, Daddy.”

Texas Bob nodded and the music started.

CiCi was halfway down the aisle, acknowledging friends and enjoying the walk when she stopped stock-still. It took a few seconds to understand what she was seeing, and when her brain finally kicked in she almost died laughing.

Tex—her replacement as the Road Runner mascot—was standing beside the preacher in all his red-crested glory. Lord in heaven, life with Jake Culpepper was never going to be dull. And that was exactly the way she wanted it.