“Close enough.” Instead of sitting at the near-empty bar, Jason slid into a booth with a good view of both the door and the rear section near the pool table. He tipped his straw cowboy hat back. “Good things come to those who wait.”
Word around town was that Darcy Jones Harper had a big meeting at the courthouse today. He and Darcy went way back, to middle school. Up until last year, she’d been his. If she was coming out of hibernation from that gated fortress just outside of town, she and her friends would most likely meet up at Shaw’s for happy hour.
Jason’s cell phone rang just as Noah set a beer in front of him. It was Ken Tadashi, his sports agent. Jason let it roll to voice mail. Almost immediately, a text from Ken arrived. YOU NEED BUZZ OR A BUCKLE. CALL ME. Jason turned his phone over, flexing his scarred leg to rid himself of a sudden, deep ache.
He’d missed most of last year’s rodeo season because of a compound fracture in his right leg. He was missing the start of this year’s rodeo season partly because of that leg pain but mostly because of Darcy. Things had gotten out of hand between them last spring before a bull busted his femur. She’d seen a corporate buckle bunny kiss him on television after a fantastic bull ride—a smooch he’d been paid for—and instead of waiting to hear his explanation, she’d married old Judge Harper. Jason had been gutted.
He still was. He wasn’t returning to the circuit until he won Darcy back, which was hard to do when she’d been hunkering down behind locked gates for the past few weeks.
Three members of the Widows Club board entered Shaw’s. The elderly women paused in the entry to take stock.
Uh-oh. Jason recognized the ambitious look in their eyes. The Widows Club ran numerous events throughout the year to benefit good works and charities. In spring, they went on the hunt for volunteers. Jason slouched in his seat and tugged the brim of his cowboy hat lower, not that he expected to escape their notice. There was hardly anyone else in the bar. But he tried to look like he wanted to be alone.
Didn’t work.
Mims spotted him and headed over. The club president defied the label of grandma in all but appearance. She had white curls like Mrs. Claus but was an avid hunter and fisherwoman. Rumor had it she packed heat in that pink purse of hers. Edith motored behind Mims, short legs working as quickly as her mouth sometimes did. Clarice brought up the rear, slowed by her walking stick. Bitsy, the fourth woman on the board, was nowhere to be seen.
Mims slid into the booth across from Jason, followed by Edith. Clarice hip-checked Jason toward the wall, simultaneously adjusting her embroidered overall straps.
“So, Jason,” Mims said solemnly, “we’ve read your column.”
“Column?” For a moment, Jason was at a loss.
“Your advice to Lovesick Lily in the Cowboy Quarterly,” Edith clarified briskly. “You told me about it last December.”
“Right. Yes.” Jason’s agent had arranged a few public relations gigs while he was injured, one of which was writing a love advice column. “Hope you liked it.”
“It sucked,” Clarice said in her outdoor voice. Her ears were unadorned by earrings or hearing aids.
“Truly dreadful,” Edith echoed in a much quieter, but still disparaging, tone. “You have no idea what women want.”
Jason set his jaw.
“I believe a kinder way to deliver our critique is to say it left much to be desired in terms of valid relationship perspective.” Mims produced a copy of the thin magazine from one of her fishing vest’s utility pockets. She unfolded it and opened it to the page with his column.
“Thanks?” Jason sucked down some beer and looked toward Noah for a save.
The wily bar owner was making his escape, carrying a tray of glasses toward the kitchen.
Chicken.
“If you take our advice,” Edith said, as if Jason should do so without question, “you’ll be thanking us before your next column.”
“There will be no next column,” he said succinctly.
“Jason.” Mims stared down at the magazine and tsk-tsked, much as Mrs. Claus might upon reviewing Santa’s naughty list. “Telling a woman she should leave a hasty marriage in order to pursue her true love? That’s not advice. That’s—”
“Wishful thinking,” Clarice shouted in his ear. “It’s never that easy. Were there kids involved? Did someone in this love triangle have cancer?”
“Somebody always has cancer,” Edith said gravely.
“You need all the facts.” Mims stared at him levelly.
“All I had was a letter from a fan,” Jason said in a voice some might call weak.
Actually, there had been no letter. Whatever numb-nut had come up with the idea of Jason Petrie doling out love advice should be fired. No woman in her right mind would come to him for love advice. He and his agent had cultivated his Casanova image for marketing purposes too well. He’d had to write a letter to himself, and in doing so, he’d drawn on a situation he was all too familiar with—his girlfriend dumping him for another man and rushing into marriage.
“You received a letter?” Clarice was incredulous. “That’s odd. Who writes letters anymore? Folks your age write IMs, PMs, and DMs. They watch vlogs and tubers. Heck, I watch vlogs and tubers. Where have you been hiding?”
“Technology has never been my strong suit.” He couldn’t even figure out how to email on his phone. “Can I help you with something?” Volunteering for whatever activity they were recruiting for would bring this painful interlude to an end.
“Next time you want to give love advice, come to us first.” Mims pushed the magazine aside. “Now for the reason we’re here. I know we can count on you for the Date Night Auction.” She wasn’t asking.
“Just keep your advice column on the down-low,” Edith said sotto voce. “Opinions like that make you seem like less of a catch.”
This was too much. Jason planted his boot heels flat on the floor as if he were about to stand and walk away, a fruitless effort since he was trapped against the wall. “Ladies, I’ll have you know I was instrumental in bringing Kevin and Mary Margaret together.” The mayor and kindergarten teacher were getting married this summer.
The three elderly women burst out laughing.
Edith tapped her chest. “That was us.”
Clarice clucked her tongue. “Completely.”
“Didn’t see you dancing in the club the night Kevin proposed.” Mims rested their case by slapping her palms on the table.
Were they right? They couldn’t be. But since Kevin wasn’t here to defend him, Jason didn’t argue.
“Not that we hang our hats on our matchmaking success stories.” Mims leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “We don’t get belt buckles for every wedding bell rung.”
“But we do keep track.” Edith waggled her brows.
At which Clarice scoffed and shook her head. “Club business isn’t any of his business.”
Jason rolled his eyes. Everyone knew the widows loved to give Cupid a helping hand, and not always a subtle one.
“Regardless…” Thankfully, Mims prodded Edith from the booth. “You might want to wear one of those prize belt buckles of yours for the Date Night Auction. Your name always attracts a lot of donations.”
“We’ll work on drumming up bidders for you,” Clarice said in that overly loud voice of hers. She used her walking stick to get to her feet.
“Work on?” Jason snorted like a hard-to-ride bull. He was a catch, dang it. They wouldn’t need to drum up anything.
“Wendy Adams is always a generous bidder,” Mims said sagely.
Wendy Adams? The quiet elementary school secretary?
“Darcy always bids on me,” he mumbled through clenched teeth. That’s what he and Darcy did. They had each other’s backs.
“Oh.” Mims stopped sliding out of the booth. “We don’t encourage our widows to bid until they’re at least six months into their widowhood.”
“That’s a rule.” Leaning on her walking stick, Clarice frowned
at him. “Although a one-year widow-versary is preferable.”
“Rules?” Edith said in a quiet, rebellious voice, catching Jason’s gaze and winking. “I’ve found most Widows Club rules to be more like guidelines.”
Chapter Two
There’s been a mistake,” Darcy said again.
This wasn’t why I married George.
Some people in town already thought that she’d married George for his money. Now they’d think that she’d married him to get the judgeship too.
“It’s no mistake, my dear.” Henrik’s smile tried to reassure. “This is what George thought was right.”
Darcy shook her head. Since she was twelve, George had taken an active role in her life, from helping to find Darcy foster homes after sending her parents to jail to coaching her to wins in debate class to helping her pass the bar last December. George had been more than a mentor, and she’d have done anything for him, including care for him during the last year of his life. But this?
“I’ve only taken three cases to court.” And she’d lost all three! There was the irony. George had presided over all her pro bono cases and had raked her over the coals for her poor performance. “What was George thinking?”
“You can’t say this is news to you,” Henrik said gently.
Darcy opened her mouth to deny it. And then closed it.
Earlier this year, when he’d known death was near, George had argued Darcy should stay in Sunshine after he was gone and consider a judgeship—his judgeship, which was laughable, given Darcy had little legal experience and was a Jones. Who would vote her into office?
How she wished George were here to argue with today.
Henrik continued to regard her patiently. “Actually, it must have been fifteen years ago when George first told me you showed promise for the bench.”
Darcy’s jaw dropped.
Henrik continued to smile at her as if she were an unexpected ray of sunshine. “George said as much again last year.”
“But…” She’d graduated from law school in Denver a little over a year ago and celebrated with a big, lights-out, don’t-remember-the-details weekend with Jason in Vegas. “Are you sure it wasn’t more recently?”
Henrik shook his head. “I remember the conversation last year vividly. We were having steak at the Bar None in Greeley. George was relieved to finally have found someone worthy to be his replacement. He’d mentored several lawyers, including his sons, but he said your qualifications were unique.”
“But he knew I wanted to leave Sunshine.”
“Yes. He mentioned that too.” Henrik drew a piece of paper from his briefcase and handed it to her. “Perhaps this will clarify his rationale.”
Dear Darcy,
If you’re reading this, I’m no longer the sitting judge of Sunshine County. You are. I know the first thing you thought when Henrik told you the news—what was George thinking? You, of all people, know that I’m many things but I’m no fool.
Being a judge requires a big heart, a strong sense of justice, and a solid understanding of the law. You’re young but you have all those things. And, in time, a judgeship will bring you the acceptance you crave based on who you are, rather than the man you married. What I’m asking of you is hard but so was growing up a Jones, marrying this old man, and passing the bar. Have a little faith in yourself. And me.
Warmly,
George.
Darcy read through the missive once more, just to be sure she hadn’t misinterpreted George’s chicken scratch.
“We’ll get things signed and settled right away.” Henrik rummaged around in a drawer until he found a pen. “If you still have doubts, consider this. What on your résumé sets you apart from all the other wet-behind-the-ears recent law school graduates?”
“Nothing.” Other than the fact that it had taken her fourteen years to graduate college and law school and pass the bar.
“And would you agree that the phrase appointed temporary judge will look good on your résumé?”
That was a no-brainer. She nodded.
Henrik placed both hands on George’s blotter and leaned forward, continuing to present his case. “And if you had to choose a judge for Sunshine and your only choice was between Rupert and Oliver, who would you choose?”
Neither. But Darcy wasn’t going on record as admitting it.
“I rest my case.” Henrik hit the intercom speaker on the green rotary phone. “Tina Marie, we need some signatures notarized in here.” He released the button. “This isn’t going to be easy for you, but George said you were the right woman for the job.”
George had said a lot of things.
You’ll gain respect by holding to your principles, even if they’re unpopular.
Weather the storm.
Look forward, not back.
So many greeting-card-like sentiments. Darcy pressed her fingers to her aching temples.
George, I’d like to tell you a thing or two. Things they couldn’t print on greeting cards.
Feel free, George seemed to snipe right back. I can take it.
Tina Marie entered the room on a huff and a muted grumble. Muted, but not inaudible. “We should be fingerprinting her for something else.”
“Tina Marie, let me introduce you to your new boss, Judge Darcy Harper.”
Tina Marie hit Darcy with the kind of look she normally reserved for repeat offenders.
Doubt throbbed in Darcy’s temples.
Can I be Sunshine’s temporary judge?
Have a little faith in yourself, George replied again, as clearly as if he were in the room.
Granted, Darcy had skipped her morning Coke so, now that it was midafternoon, her caffeine-deprived brain might be fuzzy and her imagination overactive. But George’s voice sounded so real. And his encouragement…
Needless to say, if she did this, she’d need all the help she could get. Real or imagined.
If I do this…
She’d have to weather six months until the election, longer if she had to wait to leave town until the new judge was sworn in.
Her mother would say this appointment was a hard pass, too long for a successful con. Especially when two seasoned, vindictive lawyers were gunning for her.
She’d have to endure negative public opinion and personal attacks.
Her brother would say a Jones could handle the scrutiny and stress.
She’d have to hear cases, most of which would be citizens with traffic citations they wanted to contest or drunk and disorderly violations they didn’t want on their records. And she’d have to pass judgment, hand down sentences. All open to public record and censure.
Her father would say this was a new era for petty criminals since she—a Jones—could be soft on crime.
George had doled out punishments that he felt fit the offense. He always gave defendants a choice—a traditional sentence or a fine or restitution of George’s own making, anything from carrying a sign up and down Main Street declaring their crime to sitting alone all day in a jail cell while disco songs blared through speakers as penance for violating the noise ordinance. But he’d established himself as a knowledgeable judge long before he turned sentencing into an art form. He could get away with it.
If Darcy took the position, the safer route for her was to stick to the letter of the law when it came to sentencing. No one could attack a judge who operated within the law’s guidelines. Could they?
Quit doubting and take the job, George grumbled in her head.
“I’ll need your identification.” Tina Marie held out her hand. “You may look like Darcy Jones, but you can’t tell nowadays. Swindlers, liars, cheats. You never know who’ll walk through that door.”
This is it. Open season on Darcy Jones Harper.
Darcy’s hand crept up to tug the neck of her white blouse.
She must have made a noise, because Tina Marie and Henrik peered at her more closely.
You’re going to need a good courtroom face. Anybody can see you’re afraid.
George’s voice again.
He’d been dead a month, and he chose today to haunt her?
Darcy shook her head. Six months. It felt more like a life sentence.
* * *
Noah brought Jason another beer, blocking his view of the door as it creaked open. “If you don’t want to participate in the Widows Club bachelor auction, you should leave town and get back out on the bull riding circuit.”
Jason pressed his palm over the scar in his thigh. His leg wasn’t supposed to hurt. He’d been given the all clear to ride. But his leg had other ideas—nerves that unexpectedly tingled and the bone-deep ache of memory brought on when someone mentioned him returning to rodeo. Doc Janney claimed this would pass but couldn’t say when.
“When are you returning to the circuit?” Iggy King settled in across from Jason and ordered a beer and a burger from Noah. He wore jeans, a navy T-shirt, and a ball cap, all of which were stained and dirt smudged. “Your wins always lead to an uptick in business.”
Iggy and Jason had started Bull Puckey Breeding together. Jason had put up the money and Iggy was in charge of daily operations, but Jason considered them partners. They sold bull semen to dairy farms to keep cows pregnant and lactating and to ranchers who wanted an infusion of new blood in their herd. It was a lucrative business, more so when Jason was winning.
Jason kept his gaze on his beer. “Everyone gets something extra if I keep riding, don’t they?”
His agent. His business partner. The Widows Club. Even his mother cashed in on his reputation. She had a yarn store in town but bred miniature horses on the side. Only Darcy hadn’t cared about his career. The one thing she’d asked of him was that on the date of his retirement, they settle down and start a family somewhere that wasn’t Sunshine. Getting out of town had been her condition. Waiting to get hitched until he retired had been his. Jason hadn’t wanted to be an absentee dad like his traveling farm supply salesman father, who was now twice divorced.
Not that Jason hadn’t been true to Darcy, apart from photo-opportunity kisses given for his corporate sponsors, which were usually quickly executed without so much as names being exchanged. Heck, he was practically an actor, playing a role. Despite that, his biggest fear had been realized. After a televised kiss, Darcy had blindsided him with that breakup and sudden marriage to the geezer who’d mentored her all through school. They hadn’t talked. She hadn’t realized—
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