Sweet Mercy

by Jean Brashear

  Though Noah had hated the reaction as a kid, he’d progressed to taking full advantage of it as a man.

  “I’m serious, Gamble. Here are the keys to my car. I’ll catch a ride with Levi. You staying at your house or Mom’s?”

  Gamble tensed. “I don’t know.” Either place held too many memories. “I guess I’ll drive out to the cottage and check it out.”

  “You really going to sell it?”

  Memory squeezed his heart in a merciless fist. “I haven’t seen the offer.”

  Noah clapped one hand on his shoulder and stood. “All in good time. Get some sleep, bro. Everything will look different in the morning. Here’s my cell, so we can phone you if Levi gets any word. Don’t suppose a hermit has one.”

  “Nope.” Gamble accepted the phone as if he’d been asked to pet a rattler. “How do you use it?”

  Noah rolled his eyes. “One of these days, we’re going to drag you into this century.” Quickly, he demonstrated the rudiments.

  Gamble rose and drew Noah into a bear hug. “Thanks.” He clasped the keys and continued down the steps. He was exhausted but too wound up to sleep.

  Might as well face the cottage.

  As he exited the hospital, he noticed that the light was nearly gone. In the gathering shadows, he drove down tree-lined streets and out to the edge of town. He passed the closed-down Rialto movie theater and the old five-and-dime. A mile and a half down the main road, he turned at Ed’s Feed and Grain, then after another mile, crossed the slow, syrupy ribbon the locals called Honey Creek.

  Charlotte had loved its name. She’d requested a sign for their gate. Welcome To Honey Creek Cottage, it had proudly proclaimed. Her little haven in the woods.

  Once his haven, too.

  And someone now had the balls to try to buy it.

  He hadn’t even asked Levi how much was being offered. He should sell it, he knew. How could he ever live there again?

  But how could he give away Charlotte’s dream to a stranger? He stared at the landscape. The creek meandered along the southern boundary of the grand sum of seven acres he’d been able to afford. The red soil, more sand than clay, nurtured countless pines and shin oaks, sprinkled with native dogwoods here and there. Charlotte loved the fragile blossoms of the dogwood so much he’d planted them around the house, too, along with a couple of magnolias and too many azaleas to count. Both dogwoods and azaleas might be blooming already, he imagined.

  And, of course, there were her roses, as lush and flamboyant as she was frail. If life had treated her better, she would have been just as vibrant.

  But fate had given her no such chances, damn it all to hell.

  As he neared the bend where the house would become visible, Gamble jammed on the brakes, a visceral dread snaking through him.

  His breath came faster. He clutched the steering wheel with white-knuckled fingers and bowed his forehead against it.

  For a long moment, the sound of his heartbeat was so loud nothing else could intrude. A train wailed in the distance, and he wanted to be on it. To dodge all the feelings roaring toward him, unleashed in spite of the ruthless control he’d exerted to avoid ever plunging into that dark place again.

  A shred of self-preservation had him whipping the car around and racing in the opposite direction.

  He couldn’t face his mother’s home yet, either, and he didn’t want to talk to his siblings. There was one place that held no memories to drown him, an establishment he’d seldom entered, first because he was too young, then because he was already married to Charlotte and had no need to carouse.

  Skeeter’s Bar. He hardly ever drank. Had instinctively avoided it in the depths of mourning, unwilling to allow himself the escape of crawling into a bottle, never to emerge.

  But tonight he had nowhere else he could bear to go.

  * * *

  JEZEBEL NOTICED the tall, rugged stranger the second he entered. There was something unsettling about the way he stalked across the floor and snagged a shadowed booth in the back. A restlessness akin to anger crackled in the air around him.

  This was not a man who was comfortable inside his skin.

  But he was sure good-looking.

  Interest piqued, she moved to take his order.

  “We don’t know this guy, Jez. Be careful,” Darrell said, his bartender’s radar obviously picking up the same vibes.

  “Always am,” she replied as she passed him. Three Pines, Texas, had yet to throw anything at her to rock her confidence in her ability to handle the male of the species.

  “What can I get you tonight?”

  “A beer.” The stranger never took his eyes off the scarred tabletop. “And a shot,” he added.

  “Tap or bottle?”

  “Either.” One finger tapped a staccato on the surface.

  “Jack Black?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Anything to eat with that?”

  “Nope.”

  She paused, then thought better of the urge to ask what was wrong. Most drinkers cared about the selection. He was either caught in a craving or had little experience. Either way, he’d warrant watching. “Coming up.”

  When she returned, she laid down a coaster and set the mug atop it with the shot glass beside it.

  “Fancy for Skeeter’s,” he observed. Then, as if he regretted the impulse, he clamped his mouth shut.

  “I made a few changes.”

  “Why?” His gaze slid upward.

  “Skeeter asked me to run the place.” She prepared herself for the usual leer.

  Instead, he stared right through her. “Where is he?”

  “Is he a friend?”

  “No. I didn’t come around here.” The impassive gaze darkened.

  “Why not?”

  He didn’t answer, but his grip tightened on the mug.

  “Sorry. Occupational hazard. You get used to people telling you their stories.”

  “I’ll spare you mine.” A brush-off if ever she’d heard one.

  Hardly the usual masculine reaction to her. Not that she was complaining. “Your call.” She shrugged. “Want me to start you a tab?”

  He was silent so long she wondered if she should repeat the question.

  Then he peered up at her, eyes sharp with pain before they quickly shuttered. “Yeah.”

  She nearly offered to sit down and listen to whatever was wrong, but just then, she heard the unmistakable sounds of an argument beginning at the pool table.

  “I’ll check back.” Preferring to handle the fracas herself before Darrell had to crack heads, she made her way toward the source of the trouble.

  * * *

  SKEETER HAD HIM a looker in charge, didn’t he? Gamble watched the bombshell’s progress across the bar. Not his type, but there was no question she could make a man drool. He’d bet she neared six feet in those boots, and the body beneath the curve-hugging jeans and tight red tank was lush and ripe. Sex-goddess hot, even before you took in the black curls tumbling down her back. And her legs were endless.

  Then there was that voice—wet-dream, phone-sex husky. What the hell was someone like that doing in Three Pines, running Skeeter’s bar?

  He picked up the shot and drained it, then chased it with the beer.

  And scowled. Neither beverage was likely to ease the itch under his skin that had him wanting to get back in Noah’s jazzy car and drive as far and fast as he could to escape what being in this town did to him.

  “Aw, Jezebel, goddammit, he started it,” one man complained.

  “That’s four dollars, Chappy. Want to go for eight?”

  Jezebel. Of course that would be her name. He had no difficulty seeing men dropping left and right at her feet, felled by a siren.

  But at the moment, the two who’d been ready to cross pool cues and charge into battle had their heads hanging like scolded pups.

  Gamble frowned and followed the direction she was pointing. The bartender shoved a jar across the bar, and Chappy Martinez, who’d worked at
the butane dealership since Gamble was a kid, scuffed his way toward it, then stuffed the bills inside.

  “You, too, Joe Mack,” she continued. “I heard what you said. Your first offense of the night, and I’d just love for you to go for two.” No queen was ever more imperious.

  Gamble speculated on what might be written on the jar’s label. Maybe he’d ask the next time she came over.

  A fast scan around showed that the place had changed in other ways. The floor no longer was caked with grime, and the cheap paneling had been painted. Much was left as he remembered it, but the general air of seediness had been dispelled.

  Then his jaw dropped. Oh, man. There was a fern hanging in the corner. Skeeter must surely be dead. If not, the old reprobate would be, once he learned that she was making a fern bar out of the most disreputable joint in three counties.

  He drained his beer and realized he was a little dizzy. He’d better eat after all. Before he could summon her, though, she materialized with a refill in her hands, balanced alongside a set of onion rings. “You said you weren’t hungry, but it’s starting to rain, and I’m not sending anyone home drunk. You should put something in your stomach.”

  “Is this a bar or a day care? And where the hell is Skeeter? Besides, how do you know I haven’t already eaten?”

  One eyebrow lifted, and she sighed. “You’re new, so I’ll give you a pass this one time.”

  “For what?”

  She nodded toward the jar. “No profanity. First offense, you pay a dollar. Doubles each time after that. Each night you get a reset to zero. I believe in rehabilitation.”

  Stunned to speechlessness, he reared back and stared at her.

  She lifted one shoulder. The big gold hoops at her ears bobbed. “Those’re the rules.”

  A rusty chuckle erupted, surprising them both. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “Or what?”

  “You have to leave. Pay up or get out.”

  “That’s highway robbery.”

  Pure mischief glittered in eyes that were as emerald a green as he’d ever seen. “My place, my rules.”

  “Skeeter must be rolling over in his grave.”

  “He’s not dead.” But sorrow shifted in her expression.

  “Where are you hiding him, and is he aware that you’re ruining his bar?”

  “He trusts my judgment.”

  “But you’ve—” Gamble gestured around the room. “Cleaned up. Hung a damn fern,” he spluttered.

  “The place needs it.” She proffered a palm. “That’ll be a dollar.”

  “I’ll run a tab.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Sorry—jar doesn’t extend credit.”

  “Bet you don’t get much in the way of tips with an attitude like that.”

  She drew in a breath with that magnificent chest and placed one hand on a hip his fingers had an urge to sample. “You’d be wrong.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement.

  Another laugh rumbled out of his throat. When was the last time he’d felt like laughing? He reached for his wallet, extracted a bill and prepared to rise.

  She plucked it from his hand. “I’ll do it for you on my way to order your hamburger. Medium rare, I’m guessing.”

  “I’m not—” He glanced at the plate he didn’t recall emptying. Hungry. “You are one scary woman.”

  “You betcha. Medium-rare hamburger, Darrell,” she hollered as she sauntered back across the room.

  Gamble’s mouth watered, and he wasn’t at all sure the food was responsible.

  * * *

  JEZEBEL SMILED to herself as she bantered with the regulars.

  Misery had dug claws into that man before he’d ever walked in the door, yet she had managed to make him laugh.

  Sexy and sad…was there ever a more potent combination?

  And if that’s not a fool’s game, Jezebel, I can’t imagine what is. He’s got a heartbreaker’s eyes and a sinner’s mouth. You are just looking for trouble.

  Probably so, but she could keep it to a harmless flirtation. Fun for her, and much needed, she sensed, for him.

  Wouldn’t do to let herself get out of practice, now would it? And when again was such eye candy likely to walk through her door?

  “Food’s ready,” Darrell called out from the kitchen.

  She went after it.

  “I’ll take it to him,” Darrell offered.

  “Darrell, I don’t need a keeper.”

  “You might.” He scowled in the stranger’s direction.

  “He’s just lonely.”

  “And you aren’t?”

  Her eyes widened. “Of course not.”

  “I don’t pry, Jez, but you been here nearly a year and still no one knows much about you, where you come from or such. Not anybody’s business, but it hasn’t escaped me that I never see you with a soul outside this bar.”

  “I visit Skeeter.”

  “Don’t be dense.”

  “Men aren’t part of the picture for now. Not that I should have to explain.”

  “Goes without saying. Tell me anyway.”

  “This burger will get cold.”

  He stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Chappy recognizes him, I think, and Louie, too. I’m going to check him out.”

  She shook her head, absurdly warmed. “Darrell, I have no use for a daddy. I’m not running away with the man—I’m just serving him supper.”

  “And I’ll be watching him, every step.” His jaw set. Darrell was easygoing for the most part, but he could be extremely stubborn when provoked.

  She smiled. “You’re a good friend. Thanks for worrying over me.” She turned to leave. “You ask me, though, I believe someone in this kitchen could use an uninterrupted night’s sleep. Why don’t you take off early. I can handle the cleanup by myself.”

  “Maybe. If that man ain’t still hangin’ around.”

  “Sugar, if he’s not, I’ve lost my touch.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  FOR TWO HOURS NOW, Gamble had barely budged from the booth, as he settled back on the cushions while letting his mind slip into neutral between visits from the puzzling Jezebel. When things slowed now and again, she sat with him and entertained him with stories about the locals, interspersed with some of the most deft flirting he’d ever experienced.

  Her zest for life had relentlessly brushed away his gloom, sweeping it out the door and leaving a surprising lightness behind. He’d kept to himself in Manhattan, maintaining a ruthless grip on the emotions that had nearly destroyed him after Charlotte died; he didn’t kid himself that he was fit company for anyone. He was holding himself together by sheer will, stumbling his way without grace into living again while wondering, most of the time, why he bothered. Only understanding what losing him would do to his family had made him try, and he’d had to get out of Three Pines to stand a chance.

  Painting was his lone outlet, the sole occasion on which he allowed color into his bare-bones existence, but even then, it was almost as though he watched a stranger, possessed by the scouring whip of tenderness lost and hungers turned feral, create them.

  The only emotions he felt anymore were the dark ones. This visit from the alien lighter side baffled him.

  As did the increasing appetite no hamburger could satisfy. Her tongue had a way of slicking over one corner of her upper lip that drained all the blood from his head. She wasn’t even aware she was doing it, he didn’t think.

  Or was she? With a mouth designed for seduction as much as the rest of her flagrant curves, how could she not be?

  But he was grateful, whatever her intent, for the way she’d yanked his mind right out of his troubles.

  He’d talked to Levi, who’d promised again to call him, should anything change. Just to be sure, though, he’d phoned the hospital himself. His mother’s vitals still looked positive, and they’d upgraded her condition. He’d been advised to get a good night’s sleep—but that was the problem.

  He had no desire to go e
ither to the cottage or to his mother’s house. He could bunk at Levi’s, but his brother the vet had a stacked schedule of appointments; Gamble didn’t want to risk waking him. And Three Pines didn’t possess even a kissing cousin to a motel.

  So Gamble stayed in his booth as the crowd thinned.

  Chappy, one of the stragglers still present, stopped by. “Heard about your mama. How’s she doing?”

  “She’s holding her own.”

  “She’s a great lady.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me.”

  Chappy shifted on his feet as if he was tempted to say more, but finally he simply nodded. “Well, better to be getting on home. Nice to see you, Gamble.”

  “You, too, Chappy.” Gamble nearly followed as the restlessness seized him again. He’d grown accustomed to the anonymity of Manhattan and the constant activity available to serve as distraction. He wasn’t ready to deal with all the memories, both his and others’, that lay waiting around every corner.

  Gone crazy, would have been the town’s verdict. Man done lost his mind.

  If so, they weren’t wrong. He still felt half-insane at times. The ache might have lost some of its bite, but it was far from vanquished, as the contretemps with Helen had made clear.

  No reason he should have ease. Charlotte was the one love of his life, and she’d died thinking he was still angry. A man didn’t deserve to find peace after that.

  Gamble glanced around and realized that nearly everyone was gone. The burly bartender had one very inebriated customer in hand and was escorting him out to the parking lot. Jezebel toted a full tray of empties toward the bar.

  Just then, a man arrayed in excessive leather and chains emerged from the hall leading to the bathrooms and made a beeline for her. Intent on her burden, she didn’t spot the guy until he’d crowded her against the bar.

  Gamble couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he didn’t like the man’s body language or the fact that he outweighed Jezebel by a good fifty pounds, even if much of it was beer belly.

  He rose just as the man’s beefy arm snaked around Jezebel’s waist. Saw her shy away, but she had nowhere to retreat.