by Julia London
Wyatt honestly looked confused for a moment. “Are we?” he asked uncertainly.
Holly couldn’t help but laugh. “Let me tell you how I see it,” she said as she laid her hand against his bare chest. “I see two people who weren’t looking for a relationship but, through some miracle, met, and they were attracted to one another, and had ridiculous sex, and now they are contemplating seeing how things go.”
He gave her a lopsided grin. “Funny. I see the same thing.”
She kissed him on the mouth.
Wyatt’s hand instantly went to her back, holding her there. “Great analysis, but you are forgetting something.”
“What?”
“I haven’t heard your music,” he said, and tucked her hair behind her ears. “If you and I are seeing each other, I want to hear you play.”
“The babies are going to wake up …”
“They’re going to wake up one way or the other. Come on, now, Holly. Lots of other people—strangers—have heard your songs. If we’re seeing each other, I think that ought to be one of my perks.”
“So what’s my perk?” she asked.
“Want me to show you again?” he responded with a wicked grin.
“Yes!” she said eagerly, and kissed him.
“Uh-uh,” Wyatt said against her mouth, and laughingly pushed her back. “Play first.”
“Okay,” she said, cheerfully giving in. She got up from the couch, picked up her guitar from the mantel—she had to put it there to keep it out of Mason’s reach—and settled into a chair, her bare legs daintily crossed. She strummed a few chords, thinking.
Wyatt laughed at her. Holly strummed a few more chords, finding the right key. “You’re amazing,” he said, teasing her. “That song is amazing.”
She grinned, settled on an up-tempo song with basic chords, and winged it. “Okay, here goes:
“Met him on a dusty fall day
Learned the man had little to say.
He’s a tall drink of water, smiling at me.
Thought I was the bother, but now he won’t leave.
Beware those lonesome cowboys, girl, beware those lonesome cowboys.”
She finished it up with a flourish on the strings, then smiled at him.
Grinning, Wyatt applauded, and Holly bowed over her strings. “You play very well,” he said. “But I knew you would.” He held out his hand to her. “Come here.”
Holly put the guitar aside and took his hand. Wyatt yanked her toward him and she landed on his lap.
“I won’t leave, huh?” he asked, and smothered her laughter with a very stirring kiss.
Chapter Fifteen
The next few weeks swirled around Wyatt, speeding past him, sweeping him along and settling him into the cooler days of fall. It seemed as if his life had turned some imaginary corner. He spent a lot of time with Holly and Mason and, on his allotted days, with Grace, too. After that incredible first weekend when he and Holly had come together, Wyatt would stop by her house at the end of his workday. After a few days, when she discovered he existed on TV dinners, she began to cook for him. Once she learned how to make a crust, she made pies, too, such as apple, rhubarb, and pumpkin.
Wyatt hadn’t eaten that well in years.
He became attached to Mason, a happy little cherub of a boy who would laugh with delight when Wyatt put him in the saddle before him, anchoring the toddler to his belly with one arm, and let Troy meander along a trail across the pasture next to the Fisher house. It wasn’t long before Mason was shouting, “Hors-ey, hors-ey,” when Wyatt appeared at the fence line on Troy’s back.
When Wyatt began the renovation of his house with the guest bath, Holly wanted to help. He was reluctant to let her at first, but as it turned out, she was pretty good with a sledgehammer. It didn’t hurt that she wore a tight T-shirt and yoga pants that fit her butt like a glove when she worked. He liked admiring her as much as he appreciated the help.
Sometimes in the evenings Wyatt would play with Mason for an hour so that she could work on her music. She’d sit at the piano, her brows knitted in a thoughtful frown, erasing notes with a pencil and adding new ones. She had a quirky little habit of fluttering her fingers before she touched the keys, and when she played the guitar, she would slide her fingers along the strings before playing the first notes.
On weekends when Wyatt had Grace, the four of them piled into his good truck and headed to Austin, where they would do a little shopping for the week—Holly insisted he put more in his fridge besides beer—and take the kids to a coffee shop that Holly knew of that boasted an indoor toddler playground. While the kids played, Holly would check her e-mail and catch up with her friends, and he’d work on the daily crossword.
It might not have seemed like much to the average observer—he and Holly didn’t go out a lot, or dine at fine establishments, or catch movies—but it was everything to Wyatt. This was the sort of life he’d always imagined he’d have, and it was really nice after the deep hole he’d found himself in after Macy left him.
He was in such good spirits as the days moved toward the holidays, he was thinking of developing a strip of land he owned along Highway 281. It was the first time in more than a year he’d had a fire in his belly to make a deal.
He didn’t even mind Jesse’s nosy questions.
“Why do you always look like a choir girl about to sing her solo?” Jesse had asked Wyatt early on one afternoon as they were building an enclosed storage unit for hay. “You look like you could hit all the high notes.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wyatt had said congenially. “I’m just building a metal box here.”
“Bull,” Jesse had said, then put his gloved hands on his waist and had stared skeptically at Wyatt. “Honest to God, I haven’t seen you smile this much since you won that golf tournament a few years back.”
Wyatt hadn’t thought of that golf tournament in ages. He used to love to play and would be on a course every weekend. “What’d I shoot, Jesse?” he’d asked curiously. “Three under par? And what was the closest score to mine? Two over?” He laughed. “Good times.”
“Come on, what is up with you?” Jesse had demanded, and Wyatt had just laughed.
But Jesse was a determined cuss, and he’d leaned back against the truck, folding his arms. “I bet I can guess. I bet you’ve been mending some more fences down by the Fisher place.”
Wyatt had snorted. “What’s the number one rule, Jesse? As I recall, it’s no talking, just work.”
“She’s cute,” Jesse had said. “I would have thought you’d go for a more professional type, like a lawyer, but I like Holly. Good for you, Wyatt. It’s about time.”
“You think you know something you don’t know,” Wyatt had said.
“Well, then maybe you’ve taken to wearing bras under your shirt—I don’t know. I’m not a man to judge that sort of thing, but I sure hoped it belonged to Holly.”
Wyatt had straightened up then and looked curiously at Jesse. “What bra?”
Jesse had grinned. “A blue bra in your bathroom.”
Wyatt had suddenly remembered the bra in his bathroom and his gaze narrowed. “What were you doing in my bathroom?”
“What do you think I was doing? You busted up the other one, remember? Come on, pal, you can tell me,” Jesse had said.
Wyatt had sighed then, knowing he’d been discovered. He wasn’t going to hide it. “Okay. You’re right. I’ve been seeing her and I like her.”
“Praise be to Jesus!” Jesse had said dramatically, shaking his hands to the heavens. “I was starting to think you’d die alone out here. I can stop worrying about you now.”
“I still might die out here alone,” Wyatt had retorted. “And don’t make a big damn deal out of it. We’re just seeing each other.”
But Jesse had grinned. “Yet, you have bras hanging in your bathroom. Take my advice—”
“God, please, no, don’t give me advice,” Wyatt had said, and started for his truck.
>
“Spruce things up around here,” Jesse had blithely continued, following along behind Wyatt and Milo. “I like that you’ve started on the bathroom, but this place could use some paint, and you should definitely put some flowers on that patio. It’s as bare as a washed-out gully. And by the way, since you’ve been living like a hermit, I’ve got a couple of nice places you should take her.”
Wyatt had happily prayed for patience as he got in his old truck.
Jesse wasn’t the only one who had it figured out. A few days later Wyatt went into the office to sign checks, and Linda Gail pushed back so hard in her office chair that she rolled right into the filing cabinet. She folded her hands over her abundant midriff and glared at him.
“What?” Wyatt asked, thinking he’d forgotten to do something he’d promised.
“Were you going to tell me, or just let me hear it all over town?”
He knew right then he was in trouble. Linda Gail didn’t like being the last to know things. “Hear what?”
Linda Gail snorted. “Don’t do that, Wyatt. Everyone is talking about it. I had to hear it from Sam Delaney of all people, and she seemed a little smug about it.”
“So,” he said, folding his arms, too, “Cedar Springs is all atwitter at the prospect of Wyatt Clark having met someone?”
“I’d say that’s about the size of it,” Linda Gail agreed.
“Now listen here, Linda Gail,” Wyatt said sternly. “I am not going to abide a lot of talk. I’ve had enough of that.” He started walking past all the plat maps and boxes of files that filled their little two-room office, ignoring Linda Gail and her impatient glare.
“Don’t go getting your back up with me, Wyatt Clark,” she shot right back. “We’re all rooting for you. Everyone in this two-bit town is rooting for you. Especially me!”
He paused at the door of his office and looked back at Linda Gail. She’d been with him for fifteen years, since he’d started as a cocky twenty-something with bigger ideas than sense or money. She’d been a housewife looking for some time away from three kids, and she knew how to work a computer. Linda Gail had been more than loyal. She’d stepped up and protected Wyatt and his interests when he had fallen apart after Macy left him. He’d be nowhere without Linda Gail.
“And if I was the only who’d heard something, I’d still want to know, because I care about you, you dumb-ass cowboy.”
Wyatt almost laughed. Linda Gail was like a bossy older sister, annoying and irresistible at once. “Well,” he said, leaning against the door frame, “I imagine you already know who she is.”
“I don’t know for sure,” Linda Gail said with a shrug. “One of the Fisher girls would be my guess.”
“That would be a good guess. The younger one. And that’s all we need to say about it, okay?” He grunted when Linda Gail whooped with glee.
Wyatt didn’t like the fact that the whole town seemed so interested in what he was doing, and under the normal circumstances of the last two years, it would have pushed him deeper into isolation. He’d been humiliated before all of Cedar Springs when Macy had left him for Finn. His own actions hadn’t helped him any—especially sleeping with Samantha Delaney—but for a man who valued his standing in the community, to have his personal hell be so public had been a huge blow.
But now he didn’t care. The only thing he cared about was what he and Holly were having for dinner that night, or when they were going to Austin again so that she could work with Quincy Crowe.
Holly often spoke about how worried she was that she couldn’t find time to work with Quincy because she didn’t have child care for Mason. She fretted aloud over it, talking more to herself than to him, which he was learning was a funny habit of hers. She worked whenever she managed to find the time, but Mason, cute little rascal that he was, was her biggest obstacle. He was an active toddler, into everything, and he, like Wyatt, craved Holly’s attention.
“I adore him, you know I do,” Holly had said one night when they lay in bed at her house. He had Grace for the weekend, and they’d spent the two days together playing with the kids while Holly experimented making dressing in preparation for Thanksgiving. It had been a great time. Holly had made lasagna and sautéed some fresh green beans she’d picked up in Cedar Springs. Wyatt could imagine coming home every night, to a pretty woman in his kitchen, to laughing babies, to a good home-cooked meal, to excellent sex. The hallmarks of a life well lived.
“I adore him but, man, he makes it hard to work,” Holly had sighed to the ceiling.
“I can fix that, you know,” Wyatt had said, and rolled onto his side to look at her. He’d traced his finger over her bare breast, laid his hand on the flat plane of her abdomen. She had a lush figure that made his mouth water. Curves in all the right spots; soft, fragrant skin. He had to say, the lovemaking had been fantastic. Holly had freed him from inhibition; he’d worried less about whether or not she was having a good time because Holly’s response to him was so lusty and real. With her mouth and hands and those green eyes shining down at him, she did that to him. It was all instinct, all very primal. Wyatt was a healthy man, and after two years of his spirit wasting away, he couldn’t seem to get enough of Holly and her body.
“How can you fix it?” she had asked. “Are you going to write my songs?”
“No. But I can take him a couple of afternoons a week so you can write them.”
Holly had laughed softly and shifted closer to kiss him, cupping his chin, brushing her fingers over the stubble of his beard. “Thanks, Wy … but you have a job, remember?”
“Jesse can cover for me a few hours a week. I could use a break from all that talking anyway.” In the light of the clear, starry night filtering in through the windows, Holly’s eyes had shone up at him.
“You’d do that for me?” she’d asked, sounding surprised.
“Of course I would. Haven’t you ever had a boyfriend before?”
“Yes, silly,” she’d giggled.
“Who?” he’d asked curiously.
“What do you mean, who? You don’t know them.”
“So tell me about them.”
“There’s nothing much to tell. I’ve had a couple, but not in a while. Musicians make for horrible boyfriends.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, for starters, they work at night, so you don’t see them as often as you might like. They go on the road and forget about you. They are surrounded by women who want to sleep with them, and sometimes they do …” Holly had shrugged. “See? Lousy boyfriends.”
“I see,” he’d said. “So there’s been no one besides a couple of musicians? No great love of your life?”
She’d pondered that a moment. “There was one—Po.” She had smiled. “Po was short for Poor Richard. He was a bass guitarist. I dated him for about two years.”
“So, what happened to Po?” Wyatt asked.
“Ah, Po,” she’d said, staring up at the ceiling. “He was a sweet guy, and he was a great musician. He really helped me develop my skills, I have to give him credit for that.”
“But?”
“But … he wasn’t the type to settle down. He liked drifting from gig to gig, and one day he sort of drifted out of my life,” she’d said, and made her fingers walk up Wyatt’s arm.
Wyatt had suddenly become very interested in Po. The thought of Holly loving someone was … disturbing in an abstract way. “Did you love him?”
“Yep,” she had said without hesitation. “I loved him. But I didn’t love how much work he was.” Then she had suddenly looked up at Wyatt. “So, are you my boyfriend, Wyatt?”
“I better be,” he’d said, and kissed her again, a slow, easy kiss that had stoked the fire in them once more.
That had been a memorable night. And it was how he’d come to be sitting at a table in an Austin bar in the middle of this afternoon, nursing a beer while Mason played with a truck at his feet. Quincy Crowe had arranged to use the Hole in the Wall bar down by the University of Texas campus early
one Monday afternoon for rehearsal.
This was the first time Wyatt met Quincy Crowe, and he had to admit, he felt a little like a fan boy. Quincy was a good-looking young man with a warm personality. Wyatt had to acknowledge a little twinge of jealousy at the easy way he and Holly bantered as they set up mikes and tuned their guitars. Quincy would have to be blind not to see how radiant Holly looked in the black skirt that flounced around her knees. Or her black and turquoise cowboy boots, or her denim jacket and scarf wrapped artfully around her neck. She’d put her shaggy strawberry blonde hair in a ponytail, but strands of it had worked their way free and danced around her face. She was about the most appealing thing on earth to Wyatt, aside from Grace.
The bantering stopped when Holly handed Quincy the second song she’d written and they began to go over it. Holly had been really proud to finish it, hopping from one foot to the other when Wyatt had come over one evening. He’d come through the door, and Mason, in his OshKosh B’Gosh overalls, had run for him. “Wy-wy!” he’d cried, and Wyatt had swept him up, tossing him a little and catching him again. “How’s the best boy in Texas?”
“Wyatt!” Holly had cried, and run out of the kitchen in jeans and a faded T-shirt that said Shady Grove across the back. “Look! I finished it. Only one more, and then Quincy goes to the recording studio!”
They’d both been so happy to see him, and Wyatt had felt so good that evening, like he really had a place to belong.
Quincy played the first few verses and the refrain, but Holly stopped him. “Ugh,” she said. “Let’s change key.”
“D?” Quincy asked.
“Hmmm … let’s try B minor,” Holly said, and they started again effortlessly in the new key, making a subtle change in the melody that—to Wyatt’s ears, anyway—was much better.
He watched with fascination as the two of them worked on that song. When Holly didn’t think the sound suited her on the piano, she’d pick up a guitar, and vice versa. She changed tempo and what she called the chord variations. She seemed to be lost in her own little world, listening to Quincy sing the song she’d written with the lyrics she’d penned, stopping him occasionally to suggest a different musical interpretation.