Barbara Dunlop
Thunderbolt over Texas
© 2006
For Angela of the Vikings.
Princess and Warrior.
One
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.”
“
“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-”
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.”
