He’d always heard that hard work was supposed to pay off, but all Bobby Ray could see in his future was more hard work and a constant, never-ending struggle. He supposed that’s why he’d turned to betting. When one five-dollar bet on the dogs had made him more money than he earned in a month, he’d imagined himself a professional gambler. His lips twisted with bitter humor.
And that was exactly what Uncle Mackie had wanted him to think.
Within two weeks he was down two grand and panicking. Mackie’s boys had roughed him up pretty good and had told him the next time they came back they wouldn’t be so “gentle.”
Bobby Ray had never been a saint and wouldn’t pretend otherwise. He’d spent more time kicked out of all the various schools he attended than in them, mostly for fighting. Kids were smarter than people typically gave them credit for and they had a talent for sniffing out the kind that was different from them.
Bobby Ray had always been different.
For starters, his eyes were two different colors. Add the Glasgow smile—twin scars that ran from his ears to the corners of his mouth and made him look as if he was always wearing an unnaturally wide grin—compliments of one of his father’s drunken rages, and he’d been an easy target. Life would have been a whole lot easier for him if he’d simply accepted the taunts and moved on, but Bobby Ray had never been able to do that.
He always fought. And he lost more often than he won.
Taking the first coin from Audwin Jefferson had been the most difficult thing Bobby Ray had ever done. Audwin hadn’t stared at his scars or his mismatched eyes and hadn’t cared if Bobby Ray hadn’t graduated high school. He’d looked at him and saw an able-bodied man willing to work and the pride that had come with that knowledge had been damned near indescribable.
He bitterly wished he’d never known about the coins, wished Audwin had never taken the little black pouch out of the drawer and laughingly called it his retirement fund. He’d shown him a variety of different coins—buffalo nickels, Confederate money, various pennies and silver dollars, even a gold piece from Nazi Germany that his grandfather had brought back from WWII.
Sweating with dread and sick to his stomach, Bobby Ray had snatched the first coin his fingers had come in contact with and, feeling more miserable by the minute, had taken it to a pawn shop on the other side of town. The broker had given him a thousand dollars for the coin and Bobby Ray had promptly turned it over to Uncle Mackie, but by that point his debt had quadrupled.
And Uncle Mackie had found another way to earn a buck.
Because he’d become irrationally terrified of getting caught, Bobby Ray had started slipping the coins into the butter molds so that they were never actually on his body and then marking the molds with a small X so he knew where to find them. When he left the dairy to make the deliveries, he’d simply pull over and retrieve the coin, then head directly to the pawn shop and then to Uncle Mackie. Every time he thought he was close to paying off his debt, Mackie would fabricate another “fee” and get him on the hook again.
Because a couple of customers had complained that he was delayed, Bobby Ray had been forced to alter his system and start making his deliveries first. And that’s when things had gone wrong. He’d set aside the mold he was certain held the coin, then belatedly discovered at the end of the day that it had somehow gotten swapped with a dud. By process of elimination he’d deduced that his coin had gone into Mariette’s shop and he’d been desperately trying to retrieve it ever since.
She’d caught him last night and he’d panicked and picked up the dough roller. He hadn’t meant to hit her with it—had only wanted to scare her away so that he could make a run for it—but she’d zigged when she should have zagged and it caught her on the back of the head.
She’d crumpled like a rag doll and he’d nearly been sick with fear. He’d dialed 911 from the shop phone, left the receiver on the kitchen counter and ran for it.
Because he needed to know how she was, Bobby Ray decided that he’d find a pay phone and start calling the local hospitals. The idea that he could have seriously wounded her—or worse—was eating him up inside. How had this happened? he wondered again, feeling the hopelessness close in around him. How had things gotten so completely out of his control? It was only a matter of time before Uncle Mackie turned up at the dairy, Bobby Ray thought.
And Audwin would fire him for sure then.
Dammit, he had to get that coin back. He had to.
“LISTEN, MARIETTE, I know that the guys have stomped in and taken over your protection and this case, but they mean well,” Charlie told her once the afternoon crowd thinned a bit. “They consider you a friend. In their own weird way they genuinely believe that they’re doing what’s best for you.”
“I know that,” Mariette said, feeling trapped and exasperated. With herself more than anyone. “And it’s not that I don’t appreciate it because I do.”
And that was true. She’d never had a father, or even a big brother for that matter, who’d had her back. It was odd having Payne insist on taking care of this problem because she’d always taken care of her own problems. Once she’d gotten over hearing so many orders fired at her regarding her house, her shop and her safety, she’d been able to stop and consider that and she’d found that, high-handedness aside, she rather liked that they wanted to protect her. That they thought enough of her to do that.
She’d just been so rattled this morning after the attack that she hadn’t been able to think clearly. Mariette had never been afraid before, especially here in her own space. To find that she was vulnerable had been more than a bit disconcerting. She’d spent three hours in the E.R. and, despite various protests from all sides, had come back to the shop to start work. She’d had to—she wasn’t just her own boss, she was also the boss of four employees and she did the bulk of the work.
If something got ruined or didn’t turn out right, it had an immediate impact on her bottom line. She couldn’t afford to just take off, not with dozens of pastries, cupcakes and cakes to make. Furthermore, if she’d gone upstairs and crawled into bed instead of continuing in her own routine… It felt too much like letting him win.
And that was simply unacceptable.
That said, despite the fact that she was equally dreading and anticipating Jack Martin taking over as her security guard tonight, Mariette had to admit that she was looking forward to being able to turn the watch over to him. She was dead on her feet and she could feel the hooks of exhaustion sinking in and tugging at her from all sides. She had a no-sleep headache on top of the headache the intruder had given her and would like nothing more than a warm cookie, a glass of milk and her bed.
With any luck, she’d be too tired by six o’clock to worry about lusting after Jack Martin.
Somehow, she doubted it.
Merely the thought of him made her nipples tingle and a heavy heat build low in her belly. She’d like to tell herself that the only reason she found him so irresistible was because she’d sworn off men for a while—sort of like the everything-looks-more-delicious-on-a-diet mentality—but she knew better.
Jack Martin was…different.
She’d felt it from the instant he’d walked into her store. A quickening, an awareness of sorts, that had tripped some sort of internal trigger, made her more conscious of him. She was equally unnerved and transfixed. Not a recipe for contentment.
“This is my brother’s first case for Ranger Security,” Charlie remarked as she straightened a tablecloth. “Since coming out of the military.” There was a strange undertone to her voice that Mariette couldn’t readily identify. Sadness, maybe? Regret, definitely.
Intrigued, she turned to look at her. “Oh?”
Charlie bit her lip. “I know that we’re not as close as you and Emma Payne are, and I really have no right to ask you this, but…” She hesitated, clea
rly torn.
“But what, Charlie?” Mariette wanted to know, genuinely curious.
“But could you take it easy on him, please?” she asked, her eyes softening with entreaty. “Don’t make Jack pay for Payne’s methods. My big brother has been through sheer hell the past six months and he needs to do this. He needs to help you. He needs to prove to them—and to himself—that he can.”
Wow. Mariette didn’t know what she’d expected Charlie to say, but that certainly wasn’t anything she would have imagined. Jack had been through hell? What sort of hell? What did she mean by that? Her heart immediately swelled with compassion and a matching lump inexplicably formed in her throat.
She knew from Emma that Payne, Flanagan and McCann had all come out of the military after the death of a good friend and formed their security company. Was that the sort of hell Charlie was referring to? Had Jack lost someone? A friend? Had he been injured? Had he come out because he’d wanted to? Or because he hadn’t had a choice?
Ultimately none of those questions were any of her business and yet she found herself desperately wanting to know the answers to them and so much more. It was hard to imagine a man as big and vital and alive as Jack Martin being anything other than formidable.
“His middle name is Oak,” Charlie remarked thoughtfully. “Like the tree.”
Mariette raised a brow. “That’s different.”
“It’s a family name,” she said. “I’ve always thought of him that way, too. Strong, rooted, weathering the storm, sheltering branches. When he came home he was…different. Not broken,” she said quietly. “But definitely bent.” She shook herself. “Sorry,” she said, blushing slightly. She rolled her eyes. “He’d throttle me if he knew I’d said anything. I just worry.”
“Of course you do,” Mariette assured her. “He’s your brother.”
And she’d certainly given Mariette a lot to think about.
A splash of color from the storefront snagged her attention and she turned in time to see a familiar round face smush against the window pane.
She smiled and nudged Charlie. “You want to see something that’ll melt your heart?” she asked her.
Charlie nodded.
She gestured toward the door and then to Livvie. “Watch this.”
“Dillon!” Livvie exclaimed, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, a smile wreathing her face. Dillon Melster, who also had Down syndrome, was Livvie’s absolute favorite person in the entire world, which she would tell you in a heartbeat.
Wearing his traditional red baseball hat and his leather bracelet with the silver spikes, Dillon waved from the door, a big smile on his round face. “Livvie! Guess what?”
Livvie went up on tiptoe and leaned against the counter. “What?”
“I’m going to the ’quarium on Saturday to see the whales and Mom said you could come if you wanted to. Do you want to, Livvie? We’ll get ice cream,” he told her, as though getting ice cream was the most important part of the trip.
“In a waffle cone?”
“Sure. Or in a bowl.”
“I like the waffle cone,” Livvie told him. “It’s more fun to lick. You can’t lick a bowl.”
Mariette smothered a grin. Livvie frequently licked the bowls in the back when there was leftover icing. Evidently, she’d forgotten that.
Dillon’s eyes widened and he beamed at her. “I’ve never thought of that before. You’re so smart, Livvie.”
Livvie blushed and ducked her head. “I got a new Hello Kitty necklace,” she said, pointing proudly to the one around her neck. “See? It’s got sparkles.”
Dillon leaned forward so that he could get a better look. “Oooh, that’s pretty. Where did you get it from?”
“Momma found it on the internet for me,” Livvie told him.
Mariette leaned over to Charlie and whispered low. “Livvie’s mother finds everything on the internet and if she doesn’t find it there, then she hits up the Home Shopping Network or QVC. Her family should buy stock in FedEx,” she said, laughing softly. “Try and recover a little of the money she spends.”
Charlie grinned. “I can’t say anything,” she said. “I did almost all of my Christmas shopping online last year.”
Mariette had bought a few things, as well, but still preferred being able to actually touch something before she bought it.
Charlie lifted her chin at Dillon and Livvie, a smile on her face. “They’re adorable,” she said. “They seem quite taken with one another.”
She nodded. They were, and something about the pair warmed Mariette’s heart. It was so pure, their affection. Uncomplicated.
She looked over and watched as Livvie showed him the newest picture of her cat, Piedmont. He was a fat orange-and-white tabby who, according to Livvie’s mother, brought bird-watching to a whole new level and had the patience of a saint when it came to Livvie. She was forever trying to dress him up in her Hello Kitty finery. In this latest picture, she’d pressed a pair of pink heart-shaped sunglasses on his face.
“He’s such a good kitty,” she heard Livvie tell Dillon. “He sleeps at the end of my bed and keeps my feet warm.”
“That’s nice,” Dillon said with a nod. “You see this?” he asked Livvie, pulling up his sleeve. “Bubba got me some ink.”
Both Mariette and Charlie leaned forward so that they could get a look at the ink, as well. Mickey Mouse graced Dillon’s forearm.
“Ink,” she breathed, suitably impressed. “Do you think he could get me some ink?”
Dillon straightened a bit and grinned at her. “My brother can get anything, Livvie. For reals.”
“I want a Hello Kitty ink,” she said. “I’ll put it on my arm just like you.”
He beamed at her. “I knew you would like it. ’Cause you’re cool like me.”
She laughed delightedly and bounced on tiptoe again. “You want me to get you some tea? I’ll put some cherries in there for you.”
“Sure. Can I get a cookie, too? The kind with the candy bars in them?”
She nodded. “Yes, you can.”
“Livvie, would you like to take your break now?” Mariette asked her and of course she said yes. She always took her break when Dillon came into the store.
Dillon’s mom, who’d been talking on her cell phone, ended the call and walked over to the counter. She was a pretty forty-something divorcée who lived and breathed her children. Sadly, her husband hadn’t shown the same devotion and had left shortly after Dillon’s birth. She’d never remarried and had no plans to do so. For whatever reason, it saddened Mariette.
“The usual?” Mariette asked her.
She nodded and glanced over at Dillon and Livvie, a rueful smile sliding over her lips. “If it was up to him, we’d be here every day. He counts the minutes until he can see her again.”
Mariette pulled a cranberry-orange muffin from the case and then poured her a cup of hot tea. She smiled. “He’s a sweet boy.”
“He is,” she said, obviously proud. “And has more kindness and capacity to love than any man I’ve ever known. The world could learn a lot from my boy,” she said.
Mariette watched as Dillon took one of the cherries out of his drink and popped it into Livvie’s.
And she wholeheartedly agreed.
4
JEFFERSON’S DAIRY WAS A mom-and-pop organic farm that had lost the mom part six months ago. Audwin Jefferson was coping like many men who’d lost a wife—by throwing himself into the work.
The older gentleman was in need of a haircut and an iron, based on the wrinkled state of his clothes. The office garbage can was filled with cheap TV dinners and snack-cake wrappers, which Jack found particularly odd given the man’s line of work. He believed in organic enough to make it and adhere to the strict
government codes, but not enough to eat it himself?
He followed Jack’s gaze and frowned. “Martha was the cook,” he said. “I can fry an egg, but that’s the extent of my culinary abilities and, now that I’m doing the books and the bulk of the work by myself, I don’t have the time or energy to learn.” He speared him with a direct look. “You married?”
Jack cleared his throat. “No, sir. I’m not.”
He harrumphed. “Can you cook?”
“Not well,” he admitted, feeling as though he were failing some sort of unspoken test.
“Well, if you’re not going to marry—and so many of you young fools don’t these days—then you’d best learn to cook.”
His gaze drifted over a photograph that was sitting on his desk. Him and Martha, Jack imagined. Jefferson’s hair was inky black, his shoulders wide and straight. Martha’s hand was curled against his chest and she was tucked protectively under his arm. She’d been a beauty—a dark brunette with a great pair of legs.
“That picture was taken in nineteen sixty-four. I was twenty. Martha was seventeen. We were married forty-eight years,” he said. His bushy brows tangled together in a frown. “It’s funny the things you miss. Bacon frying in the morning. Panty hose hanging over the shower rod. The sound of her singing at the clothesline. She liked show tunes,” he muttered, a fond smile on his lips. He looked up at Jack. “We weren’t designed to be alone. Male and female,” he said. “A matched set. And when you find the right one…” He drifted off. “Well, it’s an indescribable happiness. I’m not saying it’s all roses and sunshine—there has to be darkness to appreciate the light—but nothing is quite so wonderful as holding the hand of the woman you love.”
For whatever reason, it was all Jack could do not to squirm in his seat. Hell, he felt as though he’d been called on the carpet and soundly chastised and yet he knew that wasn’t at all what Mr. Jefferson had intended. He was merely mourning his wife and sharing it unashamedly with a stranger. There was honor in that, Jack knew, and had to respect it.
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