by Pat Warren
Yeah, he was smart, Nick thought, not to have married just because he was lonely. And he was lonely, unafraid to admit it to himself. Oh, his job kept him in contact with lots of people daily and his big family was always there for him with weekend gatherings. But when he went home at the end of the day to the mobile home he was living in on a wooded mountainside acreage while he slowly built his dream house, he was damn lonely many a night.
There was no one to share his small victories with or confide his problems to. No one person who waited each evening for only him to come home to her. He’d stood up in all four of his siblings’ weddings and felt certain that one day he, too, would be waiting at the front of that long aisle for that special woman who would become his wife. He still believed it would happen one day. Nick was a patient man. And he’d make certain that he and his wife could talk to each other, to communicate.
Walking back to his desk and sitting down, a picture popped into his subconscious mind. She was a softly feminine woman with lovely auburn hair falling to her shoulders, mysterious green eyes that held secrets she would share only with him, and a mouth made for kissing. She was smiling, walking toward him, holding out her arms. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. He could see it on her beautiful face.
Then the picture began to fade and she disappeared, out of reach. Nick drew in a deep breath, wondering what in hell was wrong with him, daydreaming like a schoolboy.
Shuffling through the papers on his desk, he noticed a mes sage from his sister, Louise, reminding him that their father’s sixty-fifth birthday party was tonight at six at Handlebar Harry’s. He hadn’t forgotten, but this reminder gave him an idea. He’d been searching his mind trying to think of an excuse that Tate would accept to meet his family. This event was tailor-made.
Nick checked his watch and saw that it was only two, which meant that Tate should be at work. He dialed the number for Brennan’s Book Emporium. When he asked for Tate Monroe, he was put on hold. It was a full minute before her voice came on the line, the sound of it giving him that little jolt as he envisioned her.
“Hi, there. You sound out of breath. Did I catch you at a bad time?” He hadn’t identified himself on purpose, wondering if she’d recognize his voice.
Tate circled her desk in her tiny office at the back of the store and sat down, waiting for her pulse to settle. She hadn’t heard from Nick for a week and hadn’t thought of him more than a dozen times on any of those days. What did this man have that so many others who’d tried to get to her hadn’t had? Why was it that the mere sound of his voice sent her emotions into a tailspin, despite her best efforts to put him out of her mind?
“Nick, how are you?” she finally managed to say. “I’m out of breath because I just carried a large box from the storage room to my office.”
“Don’t you have some muscular young man over there to haul those boxes for you?”
“I’m stronger than I look, so I don’t ask.”
That independent streak that he both admired and disliked about her.
“Is there something new in the case?” Why else would he call?
“No, not yet. We couldn’t pick up any decent prints on the letter or the envelope.”
“I rather thought that’d be the case.” The man behind those threats was way too clever to get caught so obviously.
But the letter wasn’t his real reason for calling. “How’s Josh handling Little Miss and Mister?”
“Okay, most days. He’s not crazy about the structured environment, everything planned out, the whole day run by the clock. But he’s doing fine.” Nick seemed to honestly like her son. Was Josh the reason for his call?
“I imagine he’d much rather stay home with Maggie.”
“Yes, but her cast won’t be off for several months yet, although the rest of her injuries have healed remarkably well. She’s an amazing woman.”
“That she is.” His voice lowered, became more intimate. “How about you? How are you doing?”
His words warmed her like a caress. How could that be, a man she scarcely knew? This was dangerous, like walking in a minefield. “I’m fine. No more unexpected letters delivered. No more sightings of Mr. X, as we call him.” Of course, he was checking on the case, wondering about the man in the ponytail. She was foolish to make more of it.
“That’s good.” He paused, searching for the right words. “My dad’s sixty-fifth birthday is today and we’re having a little get-together for him. I’d like you and Josh to go with me, if you don’t have other plans.”
Tate straightened in her chair. This couldn’t be construed as anything but what it surely was. He was asking her out. Oh, he’d included her son, but nonetheless, it would be a date. And she hadn’t had a date in eight years.
“Isn’t it against the rules for a detective to keep company with someone who’s part of a case he’s investigating?”
“I’ve read the cop’s manual twice and there are no rules against it.” He leaned back, called up his most persuasive powers. “I’ve been wanting you to meet my family simply because they’re really nice people. I’ve been told you don’t go out much, so all the more reason you should now and then. I have a feeling Josh would fit in really well with my nieces and nephews. It’s only one evening out of your life. What can it hurt?”
One evening in a social atmosphere, in front of his family, with a man whose very voice sent her heart into orbit. What could it hurt? Plenty. Still, despite the kids he’d met at the day camp, Josh had few opportunities to mingle with kids his own age.
“I don’t know, Nick. I hate to leave Maggie in the evening since she’s alone all day.”
“We’ll take her, too. This place is a Western-style restaurant-bar, sawdust on the floor, steak and beans on the menu, a couple of guitars and a fiddle playing—good, clean fun. Maggie will love my mom.”
Tate was weakening and she knew it. “Won’t your family mind the intrusion of three strangers?”
“Are you kidding? There’ll be some other friends of the family there as well. When the Bennetts get together, there’s always a crowd. What time do you get off?”
He was assuming she was going. Well, why not? She wouldn’t have gone out with him alone, but there was safety in numbers. “I’m usually home by five-thirty.”
“Perfect. It’s very casual, jeans and Western shirts, boots if you can handle ’em. It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”
Fun. When was the last time she’d had fun? She couldn’t even remember. “If you’re sure it’s no trouble…”
“None whatsoever. See you about six.” Nick hung up before she changed her mind. Rising to go back to Ronda Philips, he realized he was wearing a satisfied smile.
In her office, Tate hung up the phone, surprised at how he’d convinced her so easily. But the evening would be fun for Maggie and Josh, she told herself. Reason enough to give in. She was going more to please them.
Frowning, Tate wondered when she’d begun to lie to herself.
The joint was jumping. Having lived all her life in Arizona, Tate knew there were all kinds of Western restaurant-bars all over the place. But not being a big fan of country music, and unable to afford to go out much, she’d never been to one.
That was why the first half hour at Handlebar Harry’s was like atmosphere overload. The main area consisted of one large room, sawdust on the floor, groupings of wooden tables and chairs placed all around a spacious dance floor where three musicians on a raised platform kept the sound loud and hardy. Just left of the big front door was a polished mahogany bar that ran clear to the back. And behind that bar was Handlebar Harry himself, wearing a checkered shirt and white apron wrapped around his ample middle, his bald head shiny under the colored lights. He was also sporting the largest handlebar mustache Tate had ever seen.
Maggie seemed to feel right at home since her late husband had often taken her to similar places, but Josh’s eyes were wide with excitement, trying to take it all in. Nick ushered them over to meet Harry first
thing, then guided them over to several large round tables side by side where the Bennett clan was holding court at ringside. An assortment of children of various ages hopped down from their chairs and rushed over to meet “Uncle Nickie,” making Tate aware of how popular the one single uncle was.
By the time Nick introduced the three of them to his two brothers and their wives, his two sisters and their husbands, his four nieces including six-month-old Mary Louise, and his three nephews, Tate’s mind was spinning trying to remember names. When next he took her to the head of the table and presented her to his parents, Anthony and Roseanne, she noticed the love and pride in his introduction. She felt an unexpected surge of envy for these people who knew who they were and where they belonged.
Roseanne Bennett stood up to her five-two height and hugged Tate, surprising her until she realized that this woman was undoubtedly warm and friendly with everyone she met. Then Anthony, the man of the hour whose birthday they were celebrating, a big man with broad shoulders and only a slight paunch, took both her hands into his and gazed at her with the same gray eyes his youngest son owned, she felt a nervous moment.
Finally, as if pronouncing approval, Anthony smiled. “Welcome, Tate Monroe. We’re glad you could come.”
“Happy birthday, Mr. Bennett,” Tate said, caught up in this generous family’s warmth.
His arm around Josh’s shoulders, Nick moved the boy forward. “Papa, this is Tate’s son, Josh.”
“What a handsome boy,” Anthony said, shaking hands with the boy, man to man.
Nick eased Maggie forward and introduced her to his parents, pleased when his mother made room beside her place and sat the older woman next to her. In moments, they were chatting like old friends. Next, Nick settled Josh with two of his nephews who were both around his age, then leaned down to the oldest one. “Josh has a Pokémon collection that’s awesome.” Strolling away, he heard the boys questioning Josh about which cards he had.
They found two empty chairs alongside Nick’s youngest sister, Louise, whose husband, Al, had his baby daughter on his knee while her mother fed her applesauce. Sitting down, Tate’s eyes were drawn to the six-month-old with the dark curls and the huge blue eyes. “She’s beautiful,” she said, intrigued by the little mouth that kept opening for another spoonful. It had been so long since she’d fed baby food to Josh.
“You’re beautiful,” Louise said, sounding sincere as she took a moment to look at Nick’s date. “How long have you known Nickie?”
“About a month,” Tate answered, her eyes still on the baby.
“Hey, Louise,” Nick said, placing his arm along the back of Tate’s chair and leaning forward, “I’m the only one allowed to interrogate, remember?” He stage-whispered an aside to Tate. “Louise is my nosy sister. She fancies herself a writer so she pesters everyone with endless questions.”
Tate recognized the affection in his voice. “One of my closest friends married a writer last year,” she said to Louise. “Have you heard of Devin Gray?”
Louise’s brows shot up. “Oh, sure. He writes Western mysteries. I’ve read him. He’s good.”
“What sort of writing do you do?”
“I’ve been working on this family saga for about three years, in my spare time. Since the baby arrived, I can’t seem to find much spare time.” She crammed more food into her daughter. “What do you do?”
“I manage a bookstore, Brennan’s.”
“How about those Diamondbacks, Nick?” Al, Louise’s husband spoke across the two women, asking about the Arizona baseball club.
Just then, the waiter arrived to take their orders, preventing more conversation for the moment. Nick pointed out some especially good items to Tate. Checking them out, she noticed that each one was larger than the last.
“This seems like an awful lot of food,” she told him.
“Try the petite steak, maybe,” he suggested.
She did and it was so tender she could cut it with a fork. Seated alongside Nick, she let the conversation at the table swirl around her as the close-knit family kidded one another, argued about the home team’s chances and laughed a lot. She hadn’t seen so much laughter and genuine feelings of enjoyment at just being together in…well, maybe never.
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw, much to her surprise, that her son had caught the contagious laughter while hang ing on to a hamburger so big he had to hold it with two hands. Josh seemed relaxed and happy.
This is what it would have been like, Tate thought. If she’d have chosen his father with more care, if either of them had come from the kind of loving family that embraced each member with unconditional acceptance. She sighed, pushing the guilt back where it belonged. No one could change the past, but they could learn from it and try not to mess up the future.
Tate glanced over to where Maggie and Roseanne Bennett had their heads together. What was it that Nick’s mother was showing Maggie, something that looked like a pillow slip?
“Mom crochets,” Nick explained, following her gaze. “She rarely goes anywhere without her sewing bag. All of my pillowcases have crochet work on them. Very macho.”
Tate laughed. “I’ll bet you look really cute snuggled down into a pink pillow with crocheted flowers along its edges.” Suddenly realizing how quickly the picture of him in bed formed in her mind, she felt heat move into her face. What must he think of such a bold remark? “I mean…I didn’t…”
Nick took her hand, smiling at her unease. “I know what you meant.” He noticed that she’d eaten barely half her dinner. “Are you glad you came?”
“Josh and Maggie are having a good time, and I’m glad.” She felt his fingers toying with hers, seemingly unwilling to let go.
“No, I mean you. Are you glad you came with me?” He captured her eyes with his intense gaze, wouldn’t let her look away.
The warmth of his hand entwined with hers, the heat of his gaze, had her heart suddenly pounding and her voice thickening. “Yes,” she answered so softly he had to lean closer to hear. “Thank you for asking us.”
She was still thinking in the plural, Nick realized, but it was a start. The waiters were busily clearing the huge plat terlike plates and serving more iced tea or pouring coffee. The guitars were once more tuning up after a break and the fiddle was lively. Folks were streaming onto the dance floor in twos and fours.
“Do you like swing dancing?” Nick asked her.
Tate couldn’t remember the last time she’d danced to anything. Had to be at least ten years ago. “I’m not much of a dancer.”
“Come on, there’s nothing to it.” He rose, still holding her hand, edging her out onto the floor.
“No, really, I don’t know how.” Slightly panicky, she watched as the dancers formed groupings of four and eight.
She’d taken his advice and dressed casually, a white shirt tucked into blue jeans and leather flats on her feet. Nick wished she wouldn’t always tie back her hair, but he didn’t feel comfortable mentioning that. Instead he stood with her as the dance began, watching. He saw that she was studying them closely, her attention riveted, so he slipped an arm around her waist and eased her closer to his side. Pleased that she didn’t resist, he drew in a deep breath, saturating his senses with the scent of her, by now as familiar as anything he’d ever smelled.
Something was happening here, Nick knew, and wondered if Tate felt it, too.
Swing dancing really didn’t look too difficult, Tate realized. Maybe she could…
“Come on, young lady,” a deep voice alongside her said. “Let’s show ’em how it’s done,” Anthony Bennett said, taking Tate’s hand.
She sent an anxious look in Nick’s direction, but he just grinned at her as he watched his father guide her onto the floor. Standing on the sidelines, he watched as Tate picked up the rhythm quickly, finally taking her eyes off her feet and giving his dad a shaky smile. God, she was beautiful. He saw her laugh at something Papa said and the laughter made those gorgeous green eyes crinkle at the corne
rs.
Behind him, his brother Sam spoke softly. “Nickie, you’ve been holding out on us.”
His eyes still on Tate, Nick smiled. “Wouldn’t you want to keep her a secret?”
Sam moved alongside his brother. “Her boy’s a good kid. Where’s the father?”
“Out of the picture,” Nick answered, quoting what both Tate and Maggie had told him. If only he believed them.
The number ended and the dancers cheered while those at the tables applauded their approval.
Sam and Nick watched their father bow in courtly fashion to Tate, then make his way back to his own table. Nick saw Tate turn, her eyes homing in on him as the musicians began a slow number. He felt his brother’s hand on his shoulder squeeze hard.
“Don’t let this one get away, little brother,” Sam said before walking away.
Nick heard Sam peripherally, but he had eyes only for Tate. She walked toward him unhurriedly, weaving her way through the chatting dancers who were pairing off, her gaze never wavering. As she came up to him, he held out his arms and she came into them as naturally as if she’d been doing it all her life.
A girl singer appeared at the microphone, something of a Patsy Cline lookalike, and began one of Patsy’s heartbreaking ballads about falling to pieces.
He held her loosely, his right hand at her back as her left rested on his shoulder while their eyes stayed locked together. He was feeling too much to smile, feelings he’d been struggling with since meeting her, wondering if those feelings were reflected on his face. She, too, gazed at him seriously, as if trying to see into his mind, his heart. She made him want, she made him tremble, she made him dream.
Nick knew if he spoke his thoughts aloud, his family would think him crazy and Tate would turn tail and run. But he was as sure as he’d ever been about anything. He was in love with Tate Monroe. Hadn’t he always believed he’d know when the right one came along? This was it, the real thing. She’s the one, his heart whispered to him. Don’t let her go.