dwarf who knew how to tombstone.
The Winnebago slowed and coasted to the side of the road. Dylan parked behind the recreational vehicle and turned on the video camera mounted overhead. As he approached the driver’s side, the window rolled down, and he got his first good look at Myron the Masher. He had to admit that the wrestler really did look a bit like Patrick Swayze, just more compact.
“May I see your license, please?” he asked as he took in the cab; then his gaze suddenly stopped on the woman sitting in the passenger seat. “Paris?”
“Hello, Dylan.”
He stared at the woman he’d know for as long as he could remember. “What are you doing in there?”
“I’m leaving town with Myron.”
Paris had never had much of a sense of humor, but she had to be pulling his leg. Myron shoved his license at him, and Dylan took it. He’d seen the same picture of the man when he’d searched the NCIC.
“Myron’s going to teach me to wrestle. My wrestling name will be Sweet Thing,” she gushed.
Dylan glanced up from the license. “Now I know you’re kidding.”
Her pursed lips got all puffed up. “Is it really that hard for you to believe that a man could want me?”
He felt as if he’d been transported into the twilight zone. Or one of Hope’s stories. This could not be happening. “I didn’t say that, Paris.”
“Myron appreciates me. We’re in love and going to get married as soon as we get to Vegas.”
She sounded serious, but really, how serious could she be? “That might be a while. Your fiance here has violated a restraining order.”
“But I’m leaving the country for good.” Myron spoke for the first time. “I don’t ever want to lay my eyes on Hope Spencer again. That broad ruined my life. Until I met Paris, I had no direction. I’m a new man now.”
“Sure you are.” Dylan studied the woman who looked like Paris but sure as hell wasn’t acting like her. “Do you realize you’re involved with a stalker?”
“He’s not a stalker.” She smiled at her fiance and reached for his hand. She looked all soft. Like a woman in love. “He’s just persistent.”
“Well, his persistence is going to land him in jail.”
Paris’s bushy brows lowered over her narrowed eyes, and Dylan was exposed to a whole new side of the easy- tempered girl he’d known since first grade. “Don’t you dare ruin this for me, Dylan Taber. I’ve waited all of my life for someone like Myron. Someone who could love me. God knows I wasted enough time waiting for you.”
“Me?” Dylan took a step back.
“Do you think I baked all those cakes and pies for you for the heck of it? Didn’t you ever notice that you were the only man in town I baked for?” She laughed, but it came out sounding very bitter. “I bet you didn’t notice. Especially ever since Hope Spencer drove into town. You’re obsessed with her. Her with her blond hair and skinny behind.”
“Now, Paris,” he began, but stopped because he didn’t know what to say. He’d always thought she baked because it was her hobby, and he wasn’t altogether certain she was wrong about Hope. “Do your parents know about this?”
“I plan to call them from Vegas.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Myron interjected. “If you give me back my license, I’ll get the hell out of this state.”
As much as Dylan hated the thought of letting Myron off the hook, he listened while the man talked.
“As far as I’m concerned, Hope Spencer and I are square,” Myron continued. “She ruined my life, but if it weren’t for her, I never would have met Paris. By this time next week, I’ll be in Mexico starting a new life with her, and you won’t ever see me again.”
The alternative was hauling him back into town, booking him into custody, another court date and hearing that Hope had said she didn’t want. Dylan handed back the license. “You better make sure I don’t see you. And you better not even think about bothering Ms. Spencer.” He looked at Paris. “Are you sure about this?”
“Oh, yes.” She went back to gushing, and her face softened once more as she looked at Myron. “I’ve never been more happy in my life. I finally have a chance for a life outside of my parent’s diner, and for a family of my own.”
Dylan thought he’d probably heard crazier, but he couldn’t remember it if he had.
Paris reached for her big purse and set it on her lap. “I was going to mail this to you,” she said and removed a stack of sealed envelopes and handed him one. “But since you’re here…”
He took it and stepped back. “Good luck, Paris.”
“She doesn’t need luck as long as she’s got me,” Myron said as he shoved his Winnebago into gear and pulled out onto the highway.
Dylan stood on the side of the road until he completely lost sight of the vehicle. Damn, what a crazy morning. He walked back to the Blazer and climbed inside. Paris Fernwood marrying Myron Lambardo, a.k.a., Myron the Masher, a.k.a., Micky the Magical Leprechaun, and becoming a wrestler herself. He just couldn’t picture her wrestling anyone.
He turned off the grille lights and opened the envelope Paris had addressed to him. He expected a membership to the dessert of the month club. Instead, it was a rambling, mushy note about how much she loved Myron Lambardo. Christ, all the i’s had little hearts above them instead of dots. At the end, she included a quick “by the way…”
Dylan reread the last paragraph three times before he crumpled the note and dropped it on the next seat. For a few moments he let rage tighten his fists on the steering wheel, but then he let it go. Knowing it was Paris and not Hope didn’t matter now. Not since he believed Hope without proof, but last week it would have mattered. If he’d known last week, he could have saved himself a lot of misery.
When he thought of the nights he’d lain awake torturing himself about his troubles with Adam and Hope, anger again welled up in his chest, and he was extremely glad Paris was on her way to Mexico and no longer living in the same town. He didn’t wish Paris harm, nor did he wish her happiness. In fact, he hoped some big Mexican senorita got her into the wrestling ring and tied her into a pretzel.
The Founder’s Day committee worked long hours to come up with the perfect theme for this year’s Founder’s Day Ball. They fought and argued and finally drew straws. The winner, Boot Scootin‘ into the Millennium, was Iona Osborn’s idea.
The outside of the grange had been given a fresh coat of green paint, and the inside had been decorated to reflect the wilderness outside. Thousands of foil stars hung from the ceiling and the air was scented with the freshly cut pines stuck in Stanley Caldwell’s papier-mache and wire masterpiece. It towered in the far corner, an impressive rendering of the Sawtooth Mountains.
Pete Yarrow and his band, The Wild Boys, provided the night’s music. Pete’s one claim to fame was his two guest appearances on
Beers were a buck fifty, a glass of wine two dollars, and a can of soda a dollar. Water was free from the fountain. The people of Gospel were decked out in their finest. The women in yards of tulle and lace, the men in suits, a few opting for the cowboy leisure kind.
Stanley Caldwell’s monument of the Sawtooth Mountains stood in one corner of the grange, lit by a soft white light.
Hope stood in front of Stanley’s monument, paying particular interest to the splash of blue glitter that represented Sawtooth Lake. Never big on tulle, she wore a basic black dress she’d bought in Sun Valley on one of her shopping trips. The dress was sleeveless, with a scoop neck, and fit tight against her body. Twin seams ran up the backs of her legs, and she’d shoved her feet into a pair of four-inch pumps. She’d curled and pumped up the volume of her hair and wore diamond studs in her ears. She looked good and she knew it.
According to Shelly, Dylan never showed up at the Founder’s Day Ball, and since he’d been in such a bad mood
