Rogue's Reform

by Marilyn Pappano

  If asked to place his bets, he’d say odds were better than even that he was falling for Grace. In a perfect world—where she would welcome him into her life, where shame and embarrassment and disreputable backgrounds played no part—that would be fine. In his all-too-imperfect world, it could be good…or bad. It could mean the difference between living honestly and happily for the next fifty years and spending the rest of his life feeling like the worst failure the James family ever produced.

  It could also mean a lifetime of heartache. He’d already had more heartache than any one man should have to bear. He didn’t think he could take much more.

  He’d risen from the booth and pulled his wallet from his pocket when the bell over the door rang. He would have recognized the man who walked in anywhere, even if Shay hadn’t greeted him with the sort of blatantly sensual kiss she reserved for her husband, Easy. He was fifteen years older than the last time Ethan had seen him, and he moved with a lot more care than he had back then. His limp was pronounced, and the scars that marred the right side of his face were eye-catching. He gave up the rodeo last spring, Shay had said. It looked more as if the rodeo had given him up and kicked him, head over heels, right out of the arena.

  Shay turned him toward Ethan, and Easy gave him a speculative look. “Ethan.”

  Ethan closed the distance between them and offered his hand. “Easy.”

  For a moment, Easy just looked at his hand. As the seconds mounted, so did the heat, creeping up Ethan’s neck. Even with all the ill will he’d inspired, he’d never before encountered anyone who’d refused to shake his hand. Of course, this was the first time in fifteen years that he’d faced Guthrie’s best friend.

  Slowly Easy stretched out his gloved hand, and Ethan’s fingers closed around empty leather. Startled, he stopped himself from snatching his hand away, but he couldn’t keep the dismay from flashing across his face.

  Easy didn’t appear to notice. “I don’t shake hands too often these days. Not since I left three fingers in the wreckage of my truck in New Mexico last year.”

  “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t—didn’t know.”

  “If you came home more often, you would have,” Easy said dryly. “It’s okay. I can get around without my cane now, and I can still ride my horses.”

  “As long as you can do what’s important,” Ethan said, feeling awkward and hearing it in his voice.

  Easy and Shay exchanged the sort of look that Guthrie and Olivia were always sharing—intimate, eloquent, silently communicating. It made Ethan feel left out, made him wonder if Grace could ever be persuaded to look at him that way. It would be his loss, he knew instinctively, if she couldn’t.

  “I haven’t had any complaints yet,” Easy replied with a grin that actually made Shay blush. “Be neighborly. Stop by the house sometime.”

  “Sure,” Ethan replied, hiding his surprise at the invitation. Like Shay, Easy had merely tolerated him when they were growing up. He’d never expected anything more from him.

  He tried to pay his tab, but Shay waved his money away. “Consider it a welcome-home dinner. Put your money to better use.” Her smile was nothing but friendly innocence, but he knew from the gleam in her eyes what better use she was referring to. He would gladly spend every dime he had, and every one he might ever get, on Grace and the baby if it would make her trust him, but money wasn’t the way to Grace’s heart. Decency was. Honor. Respectability. Reliability.

  Trust couldn’t be given freely, not to someone like him, who’d betrayed everyone who’d ever had a bit of faith in him. He was lucky Grace was willing to give him the time of day. Asking for a place in her life just might be out of the question.

  After saying his goodbyes, he left the café for the truck and headed in the direction of home. He hadn’t gone far, though, when, on impulse, he turned off the gravel road onto a narrower dirt lane. There was only one destination ahead—the cemetery, where generations of Harrises and a James or two were buried. He drove through the arched gate, then stopped in the middle and simply sat there.

  It was nearly eight o’clock at night, dark, cold, with a stiff breeze blowing out of the northwest, a poor time for visiting graves that he hadn’t seen in ten years or more. But he climbed out of the truck, anyway, and followed a cracked sidewalk to a familiar headstone. It stood upright, a slab of granite with the surname carved on one side, the full names and dates on the other. Crouching, he drew his fingertips over the cold, smooth letters of his mother’s name.

  The day of her funeral was one of the clearest in his memory. The entire county had turned out, gathering around Guthrie, offering their support, while watching Ethan as if he were an unwelcome interloper. They’d whispered about what a disappointment he’d been to Nadine, how marrying Gordon James had been the biggest mistake she’d ever made, how fortunate she was to have had Guthrie, as if one good son offset the bad one. They’d commented on the fact that Guthrie had been there through Nadine’s slow, lingering death, while Ethan had been sitting in jail down around San Antonio. They’d been scandalized that he’d waited until an hour before the funeral to show up at Guthrie’s house, and had snidely remarked on the fact that he’d had no more respect for his mother than to come to her funeral hungover.

  No one had ever known that he’d spent the day and a half before the funeral in a motel in Buffalo Plains, trying to work up the courage to face his brother. They’d never guessed that his bloodshot eyes and unsteadiness had had everything to do with grief and nothing to do with booze. They had assumed the worst, and he’d let them.

  He’d stood three feet from Guthrie that day and listened to the pastor’s words, empty of comfort, and the prayers, and he’d wondered what in the world was left for him now that his mother was gone. The answer had been painfully clear that day—nothing. No relationship with his brother that was worthy of the name. No place to call home anymore. No one to give a damn what happened to him.

  For the first time in ten years, he’d gotten a different answer to the question. He had a baby to be responsible for, and maybe the baby’s mother. Maybe a place to call home, and someone to give a damn. Maybe even a family all his own. If only he didn’t ruin it the way he’d always ruined everything.

  Please, he thought as he got to his feet, unsure whether he was pleading with his mother, God or whatever other powers there might be. Please don’t let me screw it up.

  Chapter 9

  Sunday’s forecast called for snow, but when Grace got up that morning, the sun was shining brightly and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. She managed to shower, dress and brush her teeth without looking at herself in the mirror, then ate a bowl of oatmeal on the stairs while keeping one eye on the clock, the other on the door.

  Ethan had said he would pick her up at ten. Ginger had said she would come over at nine. Grace had wanted her there earlier, but Ginger had laughed and said there was no way she was getting out of bed that early on a Sunday for anyone less than Brad Pitt. Besides, she’d promised, she needed only thirty minutes to work her magic.

  Grace really wanted some magic.

  She was tapping her spoon against the empty bowl when footsteps sounded on the porch. With the doorbell echoing into silence, she crossed the few feet to open the door. “Thank heavens you’re here. I was starting to worry.”

  Ginger popped her gum as she walked inside. “Great place. This house has fabulous bones. You should let me redecorate it for you.” She grinned slyly. “I’d make it a wedding gift.”

  Not long ago, mention of a wedding for her would have struck Grace as an unkind reminder of one more thing she, unlike normal women her age, couldn’t have. This morning, it sent a spasm of pain through her, because she knew she could have it, if she could learn to trust Ethan. If she could have faith in him. If she could find a little faith in herself.

  Turning her attention from the house to Grace, Ginger gave her a measuring look. “Even without makeup, this is a major improvement. How do you like the hair?”

 
; Grace automatically reached to her shoulder and found only air. Self-consciously she smiled. “I don’t know. I’ve never had short hair before. I’m trying to get used to it.”

  “It looks great. Take my word for it. Where shall we get started?”

  Grace led the way upstairs to her soon-to-be-old room, where Ginger dumped her oversize straw bag on the bed. Out tumbled a hair dryer, curling iron, not one but three cosmetics cases and a half dozen brushes and combs, as well an assortment of perfumes, sprays and gels. “Let’s change your clothes first,” Ginger suggested.

  Grace looked down at her dress. It was, like all her clothes, a hand-me-down, fairly shapeless, large enough to cover her expanding stomach. That particular shade of green wasn’t her color, but the dress with its fine cotton weave was the nicest piece in her wardrobe. “I—I was planning to wear this.”

  “I was afraid of that. The dress is fine for working in the hardware store, but, girl, you’re going out with a handsome man for a day’s shopping and dining. You want something a little less—” Ginger gave the dress an offended once-over “—well, a little less.”

  “But I don’t have—”

  “Ah, but Fairy Godmother Ginger suspected you would say that. That’s why I brought an alternative.” From the bottom of her straw bag, she whipped out a plastic grocery bag, removed the items inside and held them against her own impossibly slender body for Grace’s perusal.

  Grace took the pants from her, held them up and burst out laughing. “You’ve got to be kidding. I’m pregnant, remember? There’s no way these will fit me.”

  “They will. Trust me. It’s the miracle of modern fibers. My sister wore these through her whole pregnancy, and at the end she was a whole lot bigger than you are.”

  Indigo-blue leggings, white T-shirt, blue chambray men’s shirt. Grace could see the potential for a darling out-fit—but she didn’t wear darling outfits. Put one on her, and Lord knows what she might do.

  The last time, she’d gotten pregnant.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse the outfit. She wasn’t the cute type. Frumpy and shapeless wasn’t just a description of her clothing, it was a description of her, and changing clothes couldn’t change that. Cutting her hair and asking Ginger to once again do her makeup was about as far as she had the courage to go. Making herself look like someone she wasn’t was not the way to make Ethan appreciate the person she was.

  But she wanted to look cute. She wanted to wear clothes that any normal twenty-five-year-old pregnant woman might wear. On her first trip to the city, her closest-she’d-ever-come-to-a-date, she wanted to give up frumpy and shapeless. She wanted people to see her with Ethan without wondering what in hell he saw in her.

  Miracle fibers or not, it took her a few minutes to maneuver into the leggings, then discard her dress for the loosely cut T-shirt and the chambray shirt. Ginger adjusted the collar, folded back the cuffs a time or two, then fastened the bottom few buttons.

  “There. That’s much better. Now sit down over here at the desk and take your glasses off.”

  Grace sat quietly, eyes closed, while Ginger worked her makeover magic. She used an astounding array of products and applicators, deftly applying, swabbing and blending, humming softly to herself. She gave an occasional command—“Pucker up, quit frowning, don’t squint”—then stepped back and fell silent for a moment. Finally, she spoke. “You can open your eyes now. You have good bones, too, Grace. You ever consider contacts?”

  “No.” Grace put her glasses on, felt them slip, then pushed them up again. “But I have considered glasses that fit.”

  “They have those one-hour eyeglasses places all over Tulsa. You could get a new pair today. Where’s a mirror?”

  “In my fath—my new room.” The new bedroom set had come with a cheval mirror that Ethan had placed in one corner. She had looked at it last night, had thought that maybe she would take it out again.

  Or maybe not, she thought as she faced her reflection.

  When she’d asked for Ginger’s help, she’d feared her friend might go overboard and turn her into Melissa again. She hadn’t. She was still Grace, only better. Softer, prettier. Not beautiful—she would never be beautiful—but prettier. Less plain. Less forgettable.

  Her hair was short, the style not too sleek but rather tousled. The rinse Ginger had put in it last night brightened the color, gave it shine. The clothing fit well and made her look less rounded, reminding her that all her weight gain had been in her stomach and her breasts. Everywhere else, she was still relatively slender and not the ungainly beached whale she felt like.

  She was a new-and-improved Grace, and she liked it a lot.

  “Thank you, Ginger—”

  The doorbell interrupted her. Ginger patted her arm. “My pleasure. Let me grab my stuff, then I’ll let your date in. Take your time about coming down. Let him anticipate the moment. And have fun in Tulsa.”

  Grace watched her leave, then let her gaze slide back to the mirror. She felt silly, admiring her own reflection, and yet she couldn’t help it. The face there was so familiar, and yet different.

  What would Ethan think? Would he like the new Grace better than the old? Or, since she was going to the trouble to change, would he prefer Melissa?

  She heard the murmur of voices as Ginger told him Grace would be right down, then the closing of the front door. Taking a deep breath, she started down the hall and the stairs. She was halfway down when a step creaked and he turned to look at her.

  His smile came slowly. “You cut your hair. I like it.”

  Self-consciously she tugged at a wisp of hair. “I—I’d had enough of ponytails and and braids.”

  “I like the clothes, too.”

  Her hand dropped to the shirt, her fingers plucking as if they could stretch the chambray a few inches longer. “I don’t— Do I look foolish?”

  “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

  “Because I’m trying to look like someone I’m not.”

  “You look like Grace Prescott, and unless I’m mistaken, that’s exactly who you are.” He met her at the foot of the stairs, touched her hair, let his hand slide down to her shoulder. “You look lovely, Grace.”

  She shook her head. “Not me. It’s the makeup….”

  “Sweetheart, makeup only enhances what’s already there. It doesn’t create beauty out of nothing. Now, let’s try this again. I’ll give you a compliment, and you’ll smile sweetly and say, ‘Thank you, Ethan.’ You look lovely, Grace.”

  She couldn’t help but obey him and smile. “Thank you, Ethan.”

  “Are you ready to go?”

  When she nodded, he took her coat from the coat tree and held it for her, then wrapped her scarf around her neck. He opened the door for her, and a minute later opened the truck door, helping her inside. She’d never seen her father hold a door for a woman in her life, had never seen him offer her mother any sort of assistance whatsoever. It gave her a warm, gee-this-is-special sort of feeling.

  Didn’t take much to impress her, did it?

  “I bought this truck while I was living in Louisiana,” Ethan said as he backed out of the driveway, “and the heater doesn’t take its job seriously. It’ll keep us from freezing, but you’re not going to have to worry about getting too warm.”

  “I’m fine,” she replied, and she was. She was dressed warmly enough. Besides, today it was the destination—and the company—that mattered.

  Once they crossed into the next county, Grace’s gaze kept moving from side to side. They weren’t far from Heartbreak, and the landscape looked the same, but somehow it felt different. Each passing minute put more miles between her and the home that had been more of a prison. She felt so free that she was giddy. She wanted to laugh out loud, but she settled for a deeply satisfied smile.

  “When is your slowest time at the store?”

  She glanced at Ethan before shifting to watch a herd of cattle disappear from view. “We don’t really have one. There’s alw
ays work to be done.”

  “Then let’s make one. Sometime next winter. We’ll take a vacation in Florida, where the sun is always shining and the air is always warm.”

  “Vacation…that’s a magic word to a woman who’s never been anywhere.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not what?”

  “Why didn’t you run away ten years ago?”

  “I was only fifteen.”

  “I was fifteen the first time I left home.”

  “Yes, but you were so much…more than me.” More mature, bolder, brasher, braver. He hadn’t been afraid of anything, while she had been afraid of everything. “I thought about running away. I used to lie in bed at night and make these elaborate plans about where I would go, what I would do and how I would live.”

  “But you never tried to carry them through.”

  She smiled faintly. “Oh, they weren’t real plans. They were dreams. Fantasies.”

  “Tell me your fantasies, and I’ll tell you mine,” he said with a sly grin.

  She would have brushed him off and gone back to staring wide-eyed at the countryside that wasn’t Heartbreak if she hadn’t wanted to hear his fantasies. Since she did want to, she sighed and shrugged. “Sometimes I dreamed that I would magically find my mother, and she would be so happy to see me and would want me to live with her. Mostly I dreamed that I would run away and make it to the next town or the next state or maybe even California, and I would meet somebody—the perfect mother and father who would want me for their own or, as I got older, Prince Charming. It would be love at first sight, and he would take me away to live happily ever after in a nice little house with nice little kids and a dog and a cat, and we’d do the scouting thing and the PTA and soccer. We’d have friends over for a barbecue on weekends and we’d take a vacation every summer and go to Disneyland or Six Flags or maybe just to the lake.” She made an apologetic gesture. “I never dreamed that I could leave and survive on my own. It just seemed impossible.”