The Sun Signs of Miranda Moon

By JoMarie Lodge

Star-Crossed Lovers

When the last single woman leaves Badger Creek, Idaho, the town's bachelors panic. Her boyfriend decides to follow her to the big city to win her back, and his buddies go along to help.

Miranda Moon, an astrology-consumed self-taught interior decorator has her own ideas of what city life should be all about--namely, finding a wealthy, debonair soul mate. A single-minded cowboy has no place on her astrological chart.

Cody McCord is in the city simply to help his lovelorn friend from doing anything foolish. He's reconciled to being a bachelor forever, plus he's learned his lesson about city women. Once was enough, and a flighty, candle-burning, mantra-chanting stargazer is as appealing to him as a three-headed rattler.

But the stars don't always line up according to one's wishes. Believe in them or not, sometimes stronger forces are at work than the hopes and plans of mere mortals.

Bonus Material: A "Sun Signs Compatibility Chart" for all readers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JoMarie Lodge
• Release date: Nov 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466138445

JoMarie Lodge

JoMarie Lodge has been an award-winning, USA Today best-selling author of other books in other genres using other names...but she now returns to her first love--romance. Her books bring you a variety of times, places, and reading experiences, from emotional contemporaries to lightly humorous contemporaries to powerful tales of the Old West.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I've Got the Hungries For Your Love And I'm Waiting In Your Welfare Line

--from the jukebox at Seegar's Bar,

Badger Creek, Idaho

The shiny chrome grill glinted in the early morning sun as a thirty-year old green Oldsmobile crested the rise on the winding two-lane highway that passed through the small and ever-shrinking town of Badger Creek, Idaho.

The Olds turned off the highway and in a cloud of dust pulled up next to a gas pump filled with regular. Seegar's Gas Station consisted of one bay of regular, one of high octane, and one diesel. To pay, you had to go into Seegar's General Store by day, or Seegar's Bar and Restaurant once night fell. Despite the multitude of names, the establishment consisted of one low, flat, wooden building that was nothing more than a glorified truck stop.

Ray Dodson's tired bones creaked as he slowly eased himself out of the driver's side to fill the tank. His dour-faced wife stayed seated, but their daughter, Lucille, emerged from the back seat to take this last chance to stretch her legs before the five-hour drive south to Boise. She glanced at the General Store and, in front of it, at the six young men staring at her. All wore Stetson hats, Justin boots, and Wrangler shirts and jeans.

With her nose high she headed in their direction. The air seemed to crackle; the men gawked even as they murmured their good mornings. She made no response beyond a dismissive nod, and sauntered right past them into the store.

Six heads swiveled in tandem at the up-close view of a nicely curved backside straining the seams of Kelley green short shorts.

You have to forget about her, Duke. Cody McCord dropped a sun-baked hand on Duke Hodge's slender shoulder. Although both were six-feet two-inches in height and twenty-four years of age, Cody was broad-shouldered with wavy jet black hair and moss green eyes framed by dark brows and lashes, while Duke had a loose-limbed, lanky build, and straight straw-colored hair. Gunmetal gray rimmed glasses covered pale blue eyes, making Duke's light blond brows and lashes practically disappear.

The two had been best friends since the first grade, and friendship was the reason Cody had shown up that morning to see Duke through this ordeal. Duke had been crazy about Lucille since she turned eighteen, four years earlier, and she'd had him by the balls ever since.

Cody suspected, however, that their other four friends, Arlo Cobbler, Chance Parker, Gil Tucker, and Shawn Davenport, were there more for the entertainment value than for sentiment's sake.

Duke sniffled loudly, raising a knobby hand to his scythe-shaped nose and pushed up the glasses that had slid down to his nostrils. Cody had never seen a man so morose since Chance Parker's favorite mare died from an attack of colic. And in Cody's opinion, Chance had a lot more reason for sadness.

Just then, Lucille walked out of the store sipping a can of Diet Coke. She peered at the men, said G'bye, and strolled slowly toward her father's car.

Cody tried to hold Duke back, but the glutton for punishment shrugged him off. Straightening his hat, Duke took leggy strides across dusty gravel toward Lucille, stopping a couple of feet behind her. You really going? he called, his skinny arms held stiffly out from his sides like a chicken about to cluck.

She yanked open the backseat passenger door, then gazed over her shoulder at him. Course I am. Languidly, she tucked a lock of chestnut brown hair behind one ear. I can't wait to live in the Big City, in a high-rise apartment, with elevators and cement balconies. I'm going to be able to go for a walk outdoors and not have to wipe cow dung off my shoes before I can go back in.

You really, really sure, Lucille? Duke asked again, his heart in his voice and so desperate it made Cody wince to hear it. He hated seeing his friend made a fool of--especially when he was doing it to himself. The woman just wasn't worth it.

With her mouth puckered as if she'd bit into a persimmon, Lucille rolled her eyes and got into the car, slamming the door shut. Ray Dodson, newly retired rancher, did the same. A plume of black smoke six-feet high belched from the Olds' tailpipe as it swung onto the highway.

Cody and the others surrounded Duke. Tall, short, heavy and slim, they walked out onto the hot asphalt highway, and suddenly it wasn't only Duke who looked ready to bawl. Similar expressions punctuated each of their faces as they huddled together and realized they'd just watched the last single woman in Badger Creek ride out of their lives.

What are we gonna do? Gil Tucker, half Nez Perce with black hair and eyes, scowled as the Dodsons' car became no more than a memory. A silver and turquoise bracelet circled one wrist. The only single women nearby are those Williams girls over in Kanab, and they'd all tie in an ugly contest. To see a pretty face, we have to drive seventy miles to Haverman. He spat onto the dirt.

And to get beat up by the Haverman men for ogling their women, Little Shawn Davenport added, talking out of one side of his mouth while holding a long stogie between his teeth on the other. At five-foot-five and a hundred twenty pounds, the cigar made him look like he was trying out for a role as a short but deadly tough guy in an old-time gangster movie.

I can't believe she's gone, Duke whispered. A fat tear rolled under his glasses and down his sunburned cheek. He was so blond, his skin tended to burn instead of tan, and he spent most summers lobster-hued.

Me, neither, Chance Parker added, his blue eyes and broad face woeful. At six-foot four and two-hundred sixty pounds he was called Fat Chance... behind his back. Everyone knew his bulk wasn't fat. It was solid, powerful muscle. And she wasn't even my girl.

No shit, murmured red-haired, buck-toothed Arlo Cobbler, who at age nineteen was the youngest of the group of bachelors.

We need to find some women of our own, Cody said, standing with his feet spread and hands on his waist. We're a decent group of guys--

Solid-- Little Shawn agreed.

Dependable-- Arlo added.

Hard-working-- Fat Chance piped in.

And well-hung. After Gil said that, no one could think of a thing more important to add.

Without a word being spoken, the six left to go back to their ranches to work the rest of the day. They would meet again, as they often did, that night at Seegar’s Bar.

Chapter 2

SCORPIO (October 24-November 22) Get ready! Mars is about to conjunct with Venus. Fireworks loom, and the deep freeze of your past is melting. Is this the one? The stars know.

Miranda Moon sat at the kitchen table with her morning breakfast of black coffee and unbuttered whole-wheat toast, the Idaho Statesman newspaper open in front of her. She turned to Star Signs, the daily horoscope, and read what it had for her sign, Scorpio, the scorpion. She nearly choked on her toast.

Mars and Venus…fireworks loom...

It sounded downright sexy. Too bad all that action was in the stars.

It surely wasn’t part of her life. She took another bite of dry toast.

Not that she'd ever had trouble getting dates, but dates and love were different things. She was beyond dating now, she wanted love, someone who cared about her mind, her essence.

She wanted a Soul Mate.

Unfortunately, hers seemed to be wandering in the desert. Or maybe in Brooklyn. He sure wasn't in any of the four states she'd lived in so far in her life—Wyoming, Missouri, California, and now, Idaho.

She wasn’t saying her life had been dull. Quite the opposite. Making money, going bankrupt, and becoming a nation-wide laughingstock—no exaggeration—was anything but boring. In fact, it was as much excitement as any person should have to deal with in one lifetime.

Maybe in some future life, when she could regress back and view all this as a past life experience, she might find her life had been interesting, if not amusing. After all, enough other people had found it downright hilarious.

Somehow, she doubted it.

She was refilling her coffee cup when her seventy-five year old grandmother clomped into the kitchen. Five feet tall, a hundred pounds, and a face more lined than a roadmap of the US, she was dressed in a man’s red and gray flannel shirt, baggy jeans, and oversized, brown buckskin cowboy boots. Her short gray hair was still in tiny, pink rubber rollers. Tucked under her shoulder was a nine-gauge shotgun.

Miranda nearly spilled the coffee. What are you doing with that gun?!

Granny Moon sidled up to the yellow-curtained kitchen window and cautiously peeked out. They lived in a small rented two-bedroom townhouse. The Deeters next door told me to keep an eye on their place while they're in Europe. I did this kind of thing a few times back in Wyoming. If anyone's poking around, well, let me say there's nothing like a little birdshot in the butt to make a body reconsider a life of crime. She turned from the window and squared her narrow, bony shoulders. Don't mess with Granny.

Put the gun away. Miranda tried to sound calm as she sat back down. You can't go around shooting people.

There just ain't no fun in life anymore. Granny Moon leaned the shotgun against the refrigerator door handle and grabbed a box of Cap'n Crunch's Choco Donuts cereal, with sprinkles, from the cupboard. Don't worry--anybody with half a brain sees a woman cock a shotgun, and he won't stick around to argue.

As Granny pulled open the refrigerator door for some milk, Miranda lunged for the shotgun and yanked it out of the way. She didn't doubt for a moment the gun was loaded, or that it could blow a hole through a wall. She broke open the shaft, took out the cartridges, placed them on top of the refrigerator, stood the shotgun in the corner, then sat back down, and continued with her paper. Just another day with Granny.

So, did you look at Libra? Granny asked. The tiny inner tube cereal began to float as she poured the milk. A couple of pieces cascaded right over the rim of the bowl.

Yes, would you like to read it? Miranda flipped the pages back to Star Signs.

No. Granny joined her at the table. Just tell me if it says I'll find me a rich man. I don't care about nothing else in my future. Just love and big bucks. Best if together.

Not today, I'm afraid. Miranda handed her the sports page instead. Granny Moon loved hockey, which was one of the reasons she'd agreed to stay in Boise. It had its own hockey team.

Miranda gulped down the rest of her coffee, left Granny to Cap'n Crunch and the Idaho Steelheads, and hurried to get ready for work.

The woman in the mirror before her was a long way from the wild, flirtatious eighteen year old who had been crowned Miss Demolition Derby back home, or from the cool chick she thought she was while living in Los Angeles, the one who was used as…

No, she didn't want to go there. That episode in her life was finis.

Or so she hoped.

Over the years, her horoscope often advised that if she didn't dwell on things, they would stop bothering her. The problem was, she was a Scorpio, and Scorpios never forget.

Or forgive.

o0o

Miranda's workplace was located on Main Street in the Old Boise section of town, a colorful area filled with two and three-story brick and gray stone buildings from a century ago. Restaurants, late-night bistros, coffee shops, and art galleries lined the streets, along with specialty businesses like Inspired Interiors. Its window display, with bold-colored fabric swatches, an intricately carved Queen Anne chair upholstered in hand-worked needlepoint, a restored Shaker sideboard, and expensive bric-a-brac, gave the barest hint of the hectic business within.

Miranda had been in Boise four months, and still couldn't believe her luck at landing a job with interior decorators. She wasn't making much money yet, but it had potential for security and stability, sadly lacking in her life from the time she'd left home and hopped a Greyhound to Los Angeles.

In Los Angeles, where a person's worth was judged by the brand of their shoes, she'd struggled to educate and better herself. Eventually, her hard work paid off, more than she'd ever dreamed. She had found what she thought was the perfect job. The perfect boss. Even the perfect salary.

Unfortunately, it all came crashing down. Just as the apex was higher, so was the depth lower, than she'd ever imagined. Life turned ugly. Even now, every so often, a remnant of that time would jump out at her. An always embarrassing remnant.

Her last year there, abandoned by fair-weather friends, she'd stayed home and watched so much TV she'd learned to accurately predict prices on the Antiques Roadshow, and she was convinced her ideas were far better than most of the designers on HGTV.

She also learned about astrology, and buried herself in studies of the zodiac trying to find answers to why her life sucked. One day her horoscope told her to find new horizons.

Why not? Los Angeles surely hadn't worked out the way she'd hoped, and held too many memories of days gone sour.

New horizons. She'd liked that idea. Despite everything she'd gone through, she still held fantasies about love and life, and she wasn't about to let them fizzle just because L.A. hadn't worked out. One major setback wasn't enough to stop Miranda Moon.

But she had to hurry. She was already thirty. In ten years, she’d be forty. Ten years after that, fifty. Maybe it wasn't the end of the world, but close enough.

So, since she didn't have enough money to make it to the East, South, or Midwest, she'd consulted the star charts of cities in the Western U.S. Most people didn't know that cities had star charts. Countries, too, but she didn't want to check those. Heavens forbid they told her she'd be much happier someplace outside the U.S., like, maybe, Zimbabwe.

To her amazement, her horoscope and the city charts told her she was compatible with Boise, Idaho. It wasn't quite Zimbabwe, but for someone living in Los Angeles, close enough. After a few years of exile there, she might have enough money to look elsewhere. Chicago might be nice. Or Boston. Maybe even Atlanta.

If all else failed, there was always Des Moines.

Still, following the stars was a better reason to move somewhere than any other she could think of, so she packed her bags, loaded up her Volkswagen (not difficult), and headed for a city that actually had a winter. Many more months of year-round sunshine and she'd start to look like one of California's raisins.

She wasn't there a week when she heard a knock on the door of the the tiny, studio apartment she was renting. It was Granny Moon. She lived with Miranda’s parents, who she couldn’t stand, and decided to move in with her favorite granddaughter.

With Granny Moon to support as well as herself, Miranda had to quickly find a job and a bigger place to live. Her money was dwindling, and she wasn't about to borrow from her grandmother's Social Security.

She was walking around the downtown area dropping off resumes like flyers announcing a Grand Opening, when she passed an interior decorator’s shop called Inspired Interiors by Irene. A Help Wanted sign stood in the window. She lowered her purple sunglasses to check it out, then asked neighboring shop owners about it. She learned it was a design business that furnished model homes and corporate rentals, as well as helped individual customers choose fabrics, wall coverings, accessories, and window treatments. The owner was a professional interior designer, but the other employees were not.

That gave Miranda an idea, since one thing she'd learned about in Los Angeles was design and color.

With her screaming credit cards in hand, swore them to silence, and headed for Macy’s to buy a reserved gray suit, black heels and purse. With her curly hair twisted into a tight knot, she strolled into Inspired Interiors as if she owned the world. Coupling lines from HGTV about interior design with her working knowledge of form and color, she applied for work and when the owner asked if she'd had any experience in home décor she mentioned a shop just off Rodeo Drive. She could sound very in-the-know when she wanted to--a trick from her big city sojourn. Also, she was pretty sure Irene was too trusting to check references, and she was right. She got the job.

That evening, at the Boise Public Library, she checked out every available book on interior decorating. The next day, she showed up at work posing as an expert. Late night study, determination, plus hours and hours of HGTV helped her pull it off.

Now, Miranda greeted her boss as she entered the shop. Irene was a middle-aged woman, who'd opted to let her hair go gray, and wore the most elegant clothes and expensive shoes Miranda had ever seen outside of Beverly Hills.

Good morning. Irene looked up from a batch of artist's sketches fanned across her drafting table. I put some catalogues on your desk. I thought you might be interested in taking the lead on Rachel Peterson’s house.

Miranda's mouth dropped open, and suddenly, she could scarcely breathe. Are you kidding me? she gasped. She'd decorated model homes, which involved mostly running all over town to buy and order tried and true furnishings and accessories, but she'd never worked with her very own client before.

You've got good taste. You can handle it. If you have questions, just ask. Why don't you go look at those catalogues before you get too busy.

"I will! Thank you so much! I'll do a wonderful job! Believe me, believe me, I'll--" She froze in the doorway of the back room where she and the two other assistants had desks.

The catalogues were there, with Peterson house in a yellow sticky note on top of them. And beside them, in the center of her desk stood an enormous bouquet of yellow roses. Nestled among the flowers was a small envelope with her name.