On Lone Star Trail (30 page)

I
heard you came to church today,” Gillian said as she slid a piece of ham onto her plate. Though she attempted to keep her voice neutral, when Kate had reported that TJ had been seen in the last pew, happiness had surged through Gillian. Surely this meant TJ had continued to mend his relationship with God, and for that she gave a silent prayer of thanks. Once again the Lord had answered one of her prayers.

Gillian didn't claim to be an expert, but if the way he'd comforted her was indicative of his ministry—and Gillian believed it was—TJ was meant to be a pastor. Her heart filled with joy that he was moving in that direction.

TJ nodded. “I figured the grapevine wouldn't waste much time in spreading the word. I ducked out as soon as I could, but I wasn't able to avoid everyone.”

“You sound like a teenager breaking curfew.”

A smile crossed TJ's face. “More like the prodigal son, although I didn't see any fatted calves.”

“Carmen could arrange that. And for the record, you could have sat with us.” Though if he had, Gillian wasn't certain she would have heard much of the sermon. As it was, she wondered
what had brought him to church this morning. Since there was nothing special about today's service, she had to believe it was simply the right time for him.

“I know you'd have welcomed me,” TJ said as he took a spoonful of peas before replacing the bowl on the lazy Susan, “but the back of the church seemed like a better idea.”

“In case there were lightning bolts?”

The question was meant to be facetious, but TJ seemed to take it seriously. “Something like that.”

“I didn't notice any.”

This time he smiled. “No, and before you ask, yes, this was part of my plan for the future.”

That was wonderful news. Gillian laid her hand on TJ's. “I'm glad.”

“It was time.” TJ reached for a roll. “When I was in town yesterday, everyone was talking about tomorrow's Memorial Day celebration,” he said, obviously changing the subject. “I heard the seniors are planning to carry a flag to the cemetery and stop at each veteran's grave. They asked me to take some pictures.” He broke the roll open and buttered one piece. “I'd offer you a ride, but I know how you feel about my bike. I'll just meet you there.” Amusement tinged his words.

Gillian shook her head. “Actually, I won't be here.” There was no reason to feel so awkward telling TJ about her dates with Mike. Still, she tried to avoid any mention of Mike. Somehow, though she couldn't quite explain it, it seemed wrong to tell TJ she'd be spending the day with the man who'd made it no secret that he was interested in being more than a friend.

“I'm going to Blytheville's celebration,” she said quickly. There. It was out in the open.

For a second, TJ's expression was unguarded, and Gillian thought she saw both anger and disappointment in his eyes. It happened so fast that she might have been mistaken, because a second later he shrugged. “Oh . . . of course.”

The weather was perfect, the sky a vivid blue with a few puffy cumulus clouds drifting across it, a light breeze keeping the day from being too hot. Gillian looked around as she and Mike drove into Blytheville. It seemed as if everyone in town had come out for the ceremony. Though she'd referred to it as a celebration, that was a misnomer. Instead, it was a solemn reminder of those who'd given their lives for freedom.

As she studied the people who'd begun to line the parade route, Gillian was grateful Mike had told her about the unwritten dress code. Almost everyone wore red, white, and blue. The majority were dressed in jeans with red gingham shirts, but a few women wore red shorts, blue chambray shirts, and white hats. Gillian had chosen a white skirt with a red and white striped shirt. A wide navy belt and the navy boots Samantha had made for her added the blue to Gillian's ensemble.

She was in full patriotic dress, but Mike was not. When he had arrived to pick her up, Gillian had been surprised to see that, though he wore jeans and a white shirt, there was no red in his outfit.

“Where's your red?” she asked as she slid into the passenger seat.

He gestured toward the shiny red Ferrari. “Isn't the car enough?” When Gillian shook her head, pointing out that he wasn't wearing the car, nor was he driving it in the parade, he relented. “You'll have to wait until we arrive, but trust me. This mayoral candidate has no intention of breaking with tradition.”

Though Gillian speculated that he was planning to wear a red vest or that he had red boots like Kate's, Mike refused to confirm or deny her guesses, simply saying “maybe” and “possibly.”

When they parked behind Strawberry Chantilly in what appeared to be the staging area for several floats, he turned to Gillian. “You want red? Here it comes.”

He covered the distance to one of the floats in a couple quick strides. Reaching inside, he pulled out a red cowboy hat and plunked it on his head.

“A red hat?” Gillian studied the man standing in front of her. Though she'd seen a few red hats in the crowd, they'd been either ball caps or the fancy creations some over-fifty women wore to club meetings. Not one had been a cowboy hat. The look was distinctive, and yet . . .

“I thought the good guys always wore white.”

Mike adjusted the angle. “I imagine that's what my opponent is wearing. My campaign manager suggested I try something less predictable.”

Not only was it less predictable, but the hat made the statement that Mike wasn't afraid of change. He hadn't flouted tradition; he'd merely given it a fresh spin.

“If someone takes a picture of you holding the hat in front of you for the national anthem and the pledge of allegiance, you've got the perfect campaign photo.”

“Have you been talking to my mother? That's what she said.” Raised eyebrows accompanied Mike's response.

“You know what they say about great minds.”

Glancing behind him when he heard the rumble of a truck, he grinned. “Here comes the other great mind.”

Stacy hopped out of the truck and hurried toward Gillian, leaving her husband to follow at a more decorous pace. “I'm so glad you could come.” A warm hug accompanied her words, and for the seconds she was in the other woman's embrace, Gillian felt like part of the family.

There was no question about it. Being with the Tarketts—all of them—was wonderful. Moments like these filled Gillian with happiness and made her wonder if this was the future God had in store for her. The appeal of being part of a loving family and living near Kate and Sally grew with every hour Gillian spent with Mike.

“So, what do you think of the Tarkett uniform?” Stacy demanded as she took a step backward and gestured toward her jean skirt, white shirt, and red hat. The feminine version of Mike's outfit flattered her and announced that she was one of Mike's supporters.

“It's great. Very distinctive. My friend Kate would approve.” Pulling her phone from her bag, Gillian gestured toward Mike and his mother. “Let me send her a picture.”

As soon as Gillian had snapped the picture, Stacy reached for her phone. “And let me take one of you and Blytheville's future mayor.” When Mike wrapped his arm around Gillian's shoulders and she looked up, smiling into his eyes, Stacy took a couple shots. “Nice.”

“It is indeed,” Cal said as he approached the trio. Like his wife and son, he was dressed in jeans, a white shirt, and a red hat. “There's only one problem. Where's Gillian's hat?”

Stacy gave his arm a playful swat. “Now, Cal, don't pressure her. Gillian's already in red, white, and blue.”

“But it's not the same.” Cal feigned a scowl.

“C'mon, guys. I think you've said enough.” Mike reached into the float and pulled out another red hat, extending it toward Gillian. “I wasn't sure you'd want to wear one, but even if you don't, I was hoping you'd ride on our float.”

At the moment, there was nothing Gillian wanted more. “Yes to both.” As she settled the hat onto her hair, she grinned. “I'm happy to be an honorary Tarkett.”

Though Stacy looked as if she wanted to say something, the arrival of half a dozen trucks bearing the rest of the Tarkett clan distracted her. Within a minute, the parking lot was filled with two generations of Tarketts, all sporting the distinctive red hats of Mike's campaign.

“All right. Let's get started.” Cal helped his wife onto the float, then gestured toward Mike and Gillian.

“Just a second. I want a better look.” Before she climbed into the float, Gillian walked around it, studying it from all angles.

“You seem surprised,” Mike said when she'd completed the circuit.

“I am. I was expecting something more elaborate and a ‘vote for Mike' sign,” she admitted. The Tarkett float was identical to the other two in the parking lot, nothing more than a farm trailer draped in red, white, and blue bunting.

“Not today. One of the town's traditions is that all floats in this parade are the same. There's no one-upmanship on Memorial Day. Instead, we're commemorating others. It's kind of like those candlelight vigils where the important thing is just being there.”

“But there are no restrictions for the Fourth of July.” One of Mike's cousins rolled her eyes. “Everything is big and gaudy and fun. You should see what my brother and I have in mind for Mike's float.”

Mike wrinkled his nose in faux disgust. “I can see you and I are going to have to have a long, serious discussion.”

“Discuss away, cousin. You know you'll cave in the end.”

“Now, children.” Stacy shook her head and turned to her husband. “What did we do that they turned out this way?”

“Showed them that life should be fun?” he offered, giving Stacy's nose a light tweak followed by a kiss.

Gillian smiled at the playful banter. If she'd been asked to define the perfect family, it would be this one. Though she'd known that Sally and Grandpa Larry loved each other, they'd never been as demonstrative as Cal and Stacy were. It was refreshing, and yes, heartwarming, to see the love Mike's parents shared.

Gillian knew she'd never forget either that love or the way Blytheville celebrated the day. The parade wound through the streets, the bunting-draped floats interspersed with marching bands playing patriotic songs.

When they reached the center of town, Gillian thought they would stop in front of the courthouse. The large square bordered by Blytheville's most impressive buildings seemed the perfect
location for speeches, but the parade did not slow until they reached the cemetery. Once there, everyone disembarked from the floats and gathered around the small platform that had been erected in the center of the graveyard.

When the last person had arrived, one of the town's ministers climbed onto the platform and offered a prayer, asking God to bless the memory of the men and women who'd served their country so faithfully. He was followed by the current mayor, who made a brief speech. Mike's opponent was the next to step behind the microphone.

Gillian sized him up. He was as tall as Mike and equally distinguished. And, as Mike had predicted, he wore a white hat with a red, white, and blue hatband and a large button pin that Gillian suspected was one of his campaign buttons. To Gillian's surprise, the man began his speech with a reference to his service in Afghanistan. At her side, Stacy hissed, then nudged Cal. Apparently the other man had broken one of the unwritten rules.

Mike said nothing, and when it was his turn to speak, he gave a simple tribute to fallen heroes with no mention of himself. The round of applause after his speech was longer and louder than any of the predecessors', but Gillian wasn't certain whether they were applauding what Mike had said and his restraint from personal aggrandizement or simply that the speeches had ended and they could return to town for the barbecue.

Held in the town's largest park, the barbecue was both a fundraiser for the local veterans' group and an opportunity for residents to share stories of their families' bravery. As Gillian had expected, a reporter from the Blytheville paper was present, interviewing both mayoral candidates as well as a cross section of ordinary citizens.