Lori Wilde - [Cupid, Texas 02]

by All Out of Love

“Then go home and cook one.”

  He threw back his head and laughed.

  “I’m late. Could you please move your truck?” She looked completely disinterested, but the pulse at the hollow of her throat was pumping blood through her veins hard and fast. She was feeling some kind of emotion toward him.

  “Got it. You don’t cook. All right then, how about I take you out to dinner?”

  “Honestly? You’re hitting on me?”

  “Just a nice dinner between two old friends.”

  “We were never friends. You barely gave me the time of day.”

  “A serious oversight I’m aiming to rectify.”

  “Aim somewhere else.”

  Why was he flirting with her when she was clearly not interested? Don’t play clueless. He knew precisely what he was doing. Enjoying the thrill of the chase. It had been a very long time since he had to make an effort to catch a woman’s eye. Be honest. You’ve never had to make an effort to win a woman. Usually, all he had to do was smile and wink.

  Lace’s sky blue eyes peered inquisitively at him through the lenses of her glasses, her face was flushed, and she was breathing just a little bit too hard. Ah, she was enjoying resisting as much as he was enjoying pursuing. But she probably wasn’t wondering how close they were to the nearest motel.

  “If you’ll excuse me.” She made shooing motions.

  “You mean it? You’re just going to drive off?”

  “I know it’s probably tough for this to sink through your arrogant hide, Pierce Hollister. Yes, once upon a time I was a silly young girl who had a crush on you. But I was a child and you were nothing but a fantasy. I’ve grown up and moved on. I have not been sitting here waiting for you to show up and sweep me off my feet. I appreciate you getting me into my car and getting it started, but surprise, surprise, I could have handled my car issues just fine on my own if you hadn’t insisted on butting in. I do not want you. I don’t even like you.” She finished her rant, eyes brighter, cheeks pinker, and her hands knotted in her lap.

  “Feel better now that you got that off your chest?” he asked mildly.

  “Argh!” she yelled, and bashed her forehead against the steering wheel.

  What was it that caused him to push his luck? The way things had been going lately he should respect the fact that luck wasn’t something you could count on. Yes, it had worked for him up until the last five months, but when good fortune hit the skids, it hit hard.

  “So there’s absolutely no chance you’d consider going out with me?”

  She raised her head, drilled a hole straight through him with those amazing blue eyes of hers. “Not if you were the last man on earth.”

  “Lace Bettingfield,” he said levelly, holding on to his calm against the barrage of endorphins lighting up his body. “I’m warning you right now.”

  She tilted up her sassy chin. “Warning me about what?”

  “Don’t issue me a challenge, woman.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I will surely take you up on it.” He hitched his fingers through his belt loops, turned, and walked away. Wished he had spurs on so he could hear them jangle.

  “Oh yeah?” she hollered at his back. “What do you intend on doing about it? Kill every man on the face of the earth?”

  A grin split across his face. Ha! A crack in her armor. He’d gotten to her. Pierce spun back around. “Sweetheart, that won’t be necessary. You’ll be begging me to take you to bed long before it comes to that.”

  “OF ALL THE egotistical, arrogant, cocky …” Lace was still muttering three hours later after she’d locked the iron gates of the botanical gardens. If she had a time machine, she would zoom back to 2001 and knock some sense into her fourteen-year-old self. Pierce Hollister had never been worthy of her hero worship.

  She went inside the research lab located at the back of the main building. The window faced the livery stable her parents owned. Here was where she worked on a pet project involving tracking down the existence of the fabled golden flame agave—a plant that bloomed only once at the end of its hundred-year lifespan. Most botanists believed the legend was absolute fiction, or if by some slight chance it was true, the cactus was long since extinct, but Lace disagreed. There were historical botanist journals, topographical maps of the Trans-Pecos, climate deviations for as far back as records had been kept and various soil samples arranged and cataloged in meticulous order. Her after-hours work was when she really got to dig in and play, and usually she couldn’t wait to get to it even after a full eight hours on the job.

  Except for today.

  She could already tell she wasn’t going to be able to concentrate on her research. Not when she was in such a stew. She might as well call it a day and head home.

  “Are you still fussin’ ’bout sumpthin’?”

  Lace jumped and spun around to find Shasta in the corner sweeping up a week’s worth of sand they’d tracked in. She’d been so busy cussing out Pierce Hollister that she hadn’t even noticed the girl when she’d come in.

  Shasta had put on a little weight in the month she’d worked for Lace, going from scrawny to merely skinny. She had carrot-colored hair she wore parted down the middle and plaited into a single braid that hung down her back. Her freckled skin burned instantly if she dared step outside without sunscreen and a hat.

  “You’ve been riled up ever since you got back from that meetin’. What did your kinfolks do to you?” she asked, bending over to sweep the debris into a yellow plastic dustpan.

  “It wasn’t them.” Lace sighed and dumped her purse on the wooden table with uneven legs, where she had textbooks and scholarly journals opened, paper clipped and highlighted.

  The passel of Cupid letters tumbled out of her handbag and hit the floor with a solid plunk. Hero Worshipper’s letter was right on top.

  There. That was the problem. Silly young women who put love on an impossible pedestal, making it the end-all, and be-all of their existence. Thinking about it lit a spark of anger inside her. Not at Hero Worshipper, but at herself and the foolish girl she used to be.

  That encounter with Pierce in the parking lot might have put her off her game when it came to research, but it fired her up in regard to answering the letters.

  Industriously, she snagged up the letters and sank down onto the utilitarian folding chair at the table. She took a pen from her purse and rolled the rubber band off the letters. It shot across the room to land in Shasta’s dustpan.

  “You couldn’t do that again twice if you tried,” Shasta said. “It must be some kinda sign.” Her assistant was big on seeing signs and patterns and omens in everything—clouds, toast, tea leaves, the way a duck’s tail curled.

  Scientific-minded Lace had been trained against the human tendency to find patterns where none exist, to evaluate evidence and identify true correlations between things. “It doesn’t mean anything except a rubber band landed in your dustpan.”

  Shasta dumped the contents of the dustpan into the trash can by the sink, propped it and the broom in the corner. “Might mean one of those letters is important.”

  “It doesn’t mean that.”

  “How do you know?” Shasta scratched her nose. Underneath the fluorescent lighting, her skin looked sallow. She wore a funky pair of bubble-gum pink coveralls, the color strangely complementing her orange hair, and a white blouse with puffy short sleeves and a Peter Pan collar. With her first paycheck, she had bought the clothes at Second Chances, the thrift store behind Greenwood’s Grocery.

  “Because a rubber band can’t prognosticate.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Predict the future.” From the top of the stack, Lace picked up the pink envelope that contained Hero Worshipper’s letter. The sharp-edged flap sliced her index finger. Ouch! A drop of blood appeared and she popped her finger into her mouth. “Frigging flytrap.”

  Shasta came over to perch on the old floral sofa that used to belong in Lace’s parents’ game room and was positioned sl
ightly behind the table where she was sitting. “What is it?”

  “Paper cut.”

  “See.” Shasta wagged a knowing finger. “The rubber band was trying to tell you sumpthin’.”

  “That notion goes against cause and effect. The envelope cut my finger. The fact that the rubber band landed in the dustpan has nothing to do with it.”

  Shasta shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

  “It’s not what I say, it’s what is.”

  “Uh-huh.” Shasta gave her a shrewd smile that said she knew a big secret Lace could never be privy to.

  Fine. She didn’t want to be controlled by superstition. Then again, who was she to judge Shasta? No telling what the poor girl had been through. In spite of being something of a social misfit, Lace was loved and supported by her close-knit family—even Carol Ann, who while annoying, meant well at heart—and she couldn’t imagine what it must be like to have no one you could count on. It would probably make her latch on to any outlandish belief that seemed to make life easier.

  Lace pushed her glasses up on her nose and unfolded the letter. The smell of strawberry-flavored gum wafted out.

  Dear Cupid,

  I found my Soulmate. He is magnef magnetif awesome and so handsum! But he don’t know I even eggist. See he’s famous. Real Famous!! If I tole you his name you wood know him. I tried to met him onct, but his Body Guards woodn’t let me near!!! I don’t know what to do!!!! I wrote him a letter onct and he sent me a pickture. I could tell his singnature was just a stamp!!!!! He prolly never saw my letter and some secreterry jest stamped it. But I sleep with his pickture under my pill low. How can I show him we are mint to be if I cain’t get close to him? Please Cupid tell me how to let him know I am here!!!!!!

  —Hero Worshipper

  Obviously, Hero Worshipper was either very young or uneducated or, most likely, both. She was tempted to write back: Snap out of it! Get over him! Forget the dude. Get on with your life. Don’t build your world on an illusion. It’ll never happen, not in a million years. Stay in—or go back—to school. Find someone real to love you.

  But this was a tender, aching heart. The progressive use of exclamation marks that multiplied the more she used them illustrated the letter writer’s growing despair.

  Hero Worshipper’s pain lodged in the center of Lace’s chest as big as the legendary Pecos Bill’s fist. Boy howdy, she’d been there. Knew how difficult it was to let go of a fantasy, and even though she’d learned the hard way that the quickest route to getting over a fantasy was to have life kick you in the teeth, she couldn’t bring herself to be the one to put on the hobnail boots.

  Organic fertilizer. Why had she agreed to answer the letter? She would just give it back to Carol Ann and tell her she couldn’t do it.

  She slid the letter, now smudged with a drop of her blood, back in the envelope, and tossed it aside.

  “Wait.” Shasta got up and retrieved the letter. “You’re not going to answer it?”

  “I’m going to give it to one of the other volunteers.”

  “How come?”

  “I’m not the right person to answer it.”

  Shasta opened the letter.

  “The Cupid letters are confidential.” Lace reached for the letter.

  “No they’re not,” Shasta countered, holding it away from her. “They print the letters in the greensheet.”

  What could she say to that? And why was she suddenly feeling possessive over the letter?

  Shasta started reading the letter, moving her lips as she silently sounded the words.

  Lace rubbed her fingers together in a “gimme” motion. “I changed my mind. I will answer it.”

  “Do you believe in soul mates?” Shasta asked, still holding the letter over her shoulder out of Lace’s reach.

  “No.”

  “Then how can you answer people’s letters to Cupid?”

  “I bring my own special skill to the table.”

  Shasta rubbed a palm across her mouth, clearly giving that some thought. “How is being good with plants gonna help you give this girl love advice?”

  “Because I know a little bit about what she is going through.”

  “Yeah?” Shasta canted her head, studied Lace a long moment.

  “Yes.”

  “How’s that?”

  She didn’t really want to get into it. “Let’s just say I’ve been where that girl has been.”

  “Loving someone who didn’t love you back?”

  “That’s right.”

  Shasta’s expression changed from skepticism to respect. “Do you still love him?”

  “Oh no. I put that crush behind me a long time ago.”

  “What are you going to tell her?”

  “That while the feelings she has for this man are very real, loving him might not be in her best interest.”

  “If someone had told you that about the guy you were in love with, would you a listened?”

  “No,” Lace admitted, holding her palm out.

  “I don’t think you should tell her that.” Shasta folded the letter.

  “What would you tell her?”

  “I’d tell her how she could meet the guy she loves.”

  “It wouldn’t be right to encourage her delusion.” Did Shasta herself have a crush on someone?

  “What if she’s not delusional? What if this guy really is her soul mate?”

  “Shasta, it’s a nice fantasy, but there really is no such thing as soul mates and hey, even if there were, it’s not always possible to be with the one you love.”

  Her assistant’s chin hardened. “If I was in love with someone nothing could keep me away from him.”

  “What if he was already married?”

  “Then he could get a divorce.”

  “What if he loved his wife and they had kids?”

  “It wouldn’t matter. Not if I was his soul mate.”

  “So you’d advocate breaking up a family just so you could have what you wanted?”

  Shasta paused, and then shook her head. “My mama always said love conquers all.”

  “You’re still young so you don’t understand that life is a lot more complicated than that.”

  “I may be young, but I bet I seen a whole lot more of life than you.” Shasta’s eyes glistened in the light, and in that moment, she looked decades older than her young age.

  “Since I don’t know what you’ve been through, I can’t comment on that.”

  “You don’t know what this girl’s been through neither.” Shasta tapped the letter.

  “You’re right.”

  “Know what I think?”

  “What’s that?”

  Shasta straightened her shoulders, slanted a sideways look down her nose at Lace. “You’re full of sour grapes ’cause your love affair didn’t turn out the way you wanted it to.”

  Lace swallowed and her heart skipped a beat. She had so much and this kid had nothing. Why not let her believe in her fantasies about love? Soon enough she’d learn the truth. “You might be right. I’ll take that into consideration when I answer the letter. Could I have it back please?”

  “Under one condition.”

  She tamped down her irritation. While she shouldn’t be negotiating with the girl, she couldn’t help admiring her spunk. “What’s that?”

  “Give her some kind of hope.”

  “Even if it’s false hope?”

  “You don’t know that,” Shasta said staunchly. “Besides, false hope is better than no hope.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “Hope is the only reason I’m standin’ here.”

  How could she argue with that? “All right, I’ll leave her with some hope.”

  “That’s all I ever wanted,” Shasta said, and placed the letter in Lace’s open palm.

  FOUR DAYS HAD passed since Pierce’s encounter with Lace in the hospital parking lot, but he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Several times, he’d taken the long way home from the hospital to
the Triple H, the route that went past the botanical gardens, hoping for a glimpse of Lace, but he hadn’t spied her. He was acting like a moony kid, and that was certainly not his style.

  What was it about her that stirred this compulsion in him? He dreamed of her every night and woke in the morning horny and drenched in sweat. It was damn unsettling. When was the last time a woman had roused him like this? Hell, had a woman ever roused him like this?

  The hospital sent his father home without a diagnosis. All the tests had come back clean. The doctor started Abe on a protein supplement drink, gave him a prescription for a drug to improve cognitive functioning, and ordered him to take daily high-potency B vitamins. Pierce had to admit that after his stay at Cupid General, Abe seemed to be getting better. His color had improved and his appetite had returned and his memory was more reliable.

  The first thing their father said when the three of them pulled into the driveway was, “Grub up some sweet taters, Malcolm, and have Hildy cook a batch for dinner and see if she’s got some of those little colored marshmallows to melt on top.”

  “The man loves his sweet potatoes,” Malcolm muttered. “I can’t stand the things.”

  “I never much cared for them either,” Pierce added.

  “They’re taters and they’re sweet.” Abe grunted. “What’s not to like? If Brussels sprouts came sweet, I’d eat them too.”

  “You eat so much of them I’m surprised you don’t have sugar diabetes,” Malcolm grumbled.

  “I’m just happy he’s hungry,” Pierce said. “I’ll grub up the potatoes. I noticed you moved the patch.”

  “Crop rotation. It’s a new spot. Nothing has ever been planted there.” Malcolm motioned to a patch of ground lying a few yards beyond the split rail fence where an old storage shed had once stood.

  “What happened to the shed?”

  “Boards were rotted out from desert termites and Dad wanted to plant his precious sweet potatoes closer to the house so he didn’t have to walk so far to dig them up.”

  “Boiled, baked, fried, mashed, grilled, roasted, I like sweet taters any way you cook them, though I like ’em best with Hildy’s colored marshmallows on top,” Abe expounded.

  Pierce went around to help his father get out of the car. He was careful to brace with his good leg. Abe paused and looked out over the field. “This ain’t a friendly country, boys. Not for farmers, nor ranchers much neither.”