Melissa sighed.
Tessa’s cheeks turned pink. “I—I mean—”
And nobody in that café, except for Steven and his architect that is, made any pretense of minding their own business.
“See?” Tom said to Melissa.
“Are you talking about—a date?” Tessa faltered.
“Probably wants you to go to the Grange Dance with him on Saturday night,” said that same helpful redneck who had spoken up before.
“Oh,” Tessa said.
Tom ears turned bright pink.
Tessa spoke again. “Tom Parker,” she said, “look at me.”
Surprised, Tom did as he was told.
Tessa leaned down, so that her nose was almost touching his, and said, “Now, say whatever it is you want to say. I want to hear it from you.”
A sunburst of a smile broke over Tom’s face, a mix of hope and cautious joy. “Will you go out with me? To the dance on Saturday night?”
Tessa straightened. Her face revealed nothing whatsoever.
Tom didn’t move.
Melissa didn’t breathe. If she’d thought for one moment that Tessa would turn Tom down, she wouldn’t have opened her big mouth in the first place.
“Yes,” Tessa said, at long last. “I think I will go to the dance with you.”
The whole place erupted in cheers and whistles then, and Tom went even redder than before.
Melissa let out her breath and sneaked a sidelong look at Steven. By then, even he was caught up in watching the saga unfold, just like everybody else in the café.
“That’s good, then,” Tom said. Now that he’d made his pitch, he seemed to be at a loss for titillating conversation. “That’s real good.”
Tessa smiled, her own color a little high, and turned to go behind the counter for the coffee order.
“Thanks for kicking me,” Tom said to Melissa. “I think you broke my shin.”
“She’s going to the dance with you!” Melissa whispered, thrilled that her good friend hadn’t been shot down, especially with the whole town looking on. It would have been her fault, at least in part, if that had happened.
“And you’re going to the dance with Creed,” Tom replied very quietly, grinning. “Not that I thought for one second that he’d turn you down.”
Melissa looked toward Steven, just to make sure he was still out of range and, seeing that her Saturday night date was busy shaking hands and exchanging parting words with Alex, turned back to Tom. Raised both her eyebrows. “What made you so sure?” she asked, under her breath.
Tom bent toward her. His eyes sparkled. “Because you’re already involved with him,” he said slowly, and with a note of cocky triumph. “That’s why.”
“Says who?”
“Says you. Do you think I can’t read simple body language, after all these years as a cop? Hell, Melissa, you might as well have hired a skywriter—the pulses in your throat and wrists are pounding so hard, they’re visible.” He paused, spread his hands in that way he had. “Case closed.”
“Oh, shut up,” Melissa said, just as Steven started toward their table.
She loved the way he walked, the way he moved, easy in his skin.
She loved the way he did a few other things, too, but that was beside the point.
He was trouble—the way they’d butted heads in Tom’s office that morning should have been proof enough for anybody, including her.
So what was she doing?
“I’ll be looking forward to Saturday,” Steven said, when he reached them.
“Me, too,” Melissa said, without intending to say anything of the kind. She definitely needed some space, a chance to figure things out, at least a little bit, but she also wanted to get up from that booth and follow him home.
Steven checked his watch. “Time to pick Matt up at school,” he said.
Melissa’s heart slowed and warmed at the thought of the little boy. “Tell him hi for me,” she said.
“I will,” Steven told her. Then he nodded to Tom and walked out into the midafternoon sunshine.
Melissa must have stared at the empty space where Steven had just been standing for a beat too long, because when she met Tom’s eyes again, he was grinning like a fool.
She made a face at him.
Tessa brought the coffee. Along with two slices of fresh peach pie and forks rolled up in napkins. She blushed when she set Tom’s down in front of him.
“Thanks,” he said, turning shy all over again.
Tessa turned and hurried away.
Melissa unwrapped her fork. She’d had a carton of designer yogurt for lunch and it wasn’t enough. Suddenly, she was starving.
GIVE HER SOME ROOM, warned a voice in Steven’s mind, as he walked around to the side parking lot and unlocked his truck with the key fob.
He wanted to turn on his boot heel and go right back inside the café, grab Melissa by the hand and take her home with him. Smooth over the awkward stuff. Hear her laugh. Watch the late afternoon sunlight glinting off her hair. And, yes, he wanted to make love to her again.
Steven sucked in a breath and got into the truck, started it up. Slow down, cowboy, he thought.
She was a complex woman, that was for sure. In bed, she’d been a tigress. Ditto that morning, when she’d showed up at the jail. And yet asking him to a country dance had made her turn pink from her collarbone to her hair.
Easing out of the lot and onto the street, Steven shook his head, marveling at the things that were going on inside him just then. Not that he could identify any of them—the fact was, he’d never felt quite this way before. Never wanted to know everything there was to know about a woman, and more besides.
He reached Creekside Academy within a couple of minutes, and Elaine Carpenter brought Matt out, holding his hand as they came down the front walk.
Matt, a big piece of drawing paper in his free hand, glanced in Steven’s direction then turned his attention back to Elaine.
Steven shut off the truck and went to meet them at the curb.
“I made a picture!” Matt crowed, as Steven leaned down to scoop the boy up.
Elaine smiled. “As first days go,” she said to Steven, “this one rated an A-plus.”
“Thanks,” Steven said to her.
“Don’t you wanna see the picture?” Matt all but shouted.
With a chuckle, Elaine turned and headed back into the school.
“Sure,” Steven told Matt, “but let’s get into the truck first.”
He carried the boy to the rig and buckled him into his safety seat. Matt waved the piece of paper in Steven’s face the whole time.
“All right, already,” Steven said, laughing. He took the paper and looked at it.
Three stick figures—man, woman, little boy. A stick dog and a stick horse stood with them, in front of some kind of building leaning hard to the right.
Something fluttered in Steven’s heart. It wasn’t sorrow, exactly, but it wasn’t happiness, either. If he’d had to put an adjective to the emotion, he would have said bittersweet.
“That’s you,” Matt said, stabbing an index finger into the chest of the stick man, but soon moving on to the woman. “And that’s Melissa.” He, of course, was the child, and the dog was Zeke. The horse was evidently there as a reminder.
“That’s—great,” Steven said, after a moment or two. He kept thinking he’d get used to things the boy said, but so far that hadn’t happened. A glimpse inside Matt’s mind always choked him up and, sometimes, like now, it made him afraid. He searched for the right words, a way to warn the little guy not to get his hopes up as far as Melissa was concerned without shooting down all that bright-eyed faith.
Nothing came to him.
“Next time I see Melissa, I’m going to give her this picture as a present,” Matt said, as Steven set him on his feet.
Steven’s throat ached, and he couldn’t quite look at the boy. “Matt—”
“I know, I know,” the five-year-old broke in sunnily, “you
and Melissa aren’t married yet, and I shouldn’t get carried away and make all kinds of plans—”
Steven could picture himself married to Melissa—though he hadn’t really tried before now—but there was no telling what her take on the matter might be.
Sure, they’d had a great time in bed together, but he hadn’t forgotten the hurt he’d seen in Melissa’s eyes, during the interlude between bouts of lovemaking, when they’d sat at his table eating take-out meat loaf. The last guy she cared about had done a serious number on her, and she wasn’t over it.
On top of that, she had a career, a house, a life, quite independent from his own. What would someone like Melissa O’Ballivan really have to gain by tying herself down at this point?
Sex? She didn’t need marriage for that, any more than he did.
“Dad?” Matt jolted him out of the thought tangle by tugging at the fabric of his shirt.
Steven blinked, looked down at his son. “What?”
Matt was pointing in the general direction of the ranch house. “Whose truck is that?”
Seeing that old beater was like taking a punch in the gut. The black Dodge, dented and scraped and still sporting Wile E. Coyote mud flaps, even after all these years, belonged to none other than Brody Creed.
“Stay here,” Steven told Matt, putting out a hand briefly to emphasize the point before striding off toward his cousin’s truck.
The kid might as well have been born a Creed as get adopted into the family, because he never listened. Steven got all the way to Brody’s truck, which sat in the high grass with its windows rolled down, before he realized that Matt was right behind him.
“Didn’t I tell you to stay put?” Steven asked the boy.
Matt folded his arms and looked up at him, that stubborn glint in his eyes. “You might need some help,” he pointed out manfully.
Steven sighed and shoved a hand through his hair in frustration. Then he stepped up onto the running board on the driver’s side and looked in.
Brody lay across the seats, his hat over his eyes and his knees drawn up.
Steven jerked the door open, causing it to give way under Brody’s booted feet, and he scrambled upright, ready to fight, as always. He shoved the hat back, so he could see, and an instant grin spread across his face.
“Dammit, Boston,” he said, “you scared the hell out of me.”
Steven was glad to see Brody—no question about it—but there was some anger there, too. The man disappeared for years at a time, with nothing but a ratty Christmas card, always arriving in mid-January, to indicate that he was still alive.
“You look just like Uncle Conner,” Matt marveled, his piping voice a much-needed reminder that there was a child present and that meant no more swearing and no landing a fist in the middle of Brody’s face. “But you’re not, are you?”
Brody got out of the truck, resituated his hat, which, like everything else he owned, had seen better days. “Nope,” he said, putting out a hand to Matt. “I’m his brother. Name’s Brody. And who might you be?”
“Matt Creed,” Matt responded, gazing wide-eyed up at Brody.
They shook hands solemnly.
“The rodeo,” Steven said, “is still three weeks away.”
Brody swung his ice-blue gaze to Steven. It was unnerving how much he looked like Conner, though it shouldn’t have been. They were identical twins, after all. “Don’t you worry, Boston,” he said, in a slow drawl, tucking in his shirt. “I’m not here to stay—just passin’ through.”
“How come he calls you ‘Boston,’ Dad?” Matt wanted to know.
“I’ll explain later,” Steven said, ruffling the boy’s hair and handing him the key ring. “You’d better go let Zeke out of the bus. He’s probably crossing his hind legs by now.”
Matt glanced once more at Brody, eyes full of curious interest, then dashed off toward the bus.
Once he and Steven were alone, Brody folded his arms. “Quite a spread you have here,” he said.
It might have been a jibe, considering the state of the house and barn, but Steven didn’t know for sure, so he let the comment pass with a quiet, “Thanks.”
“Look,” Brody said, rubbing his chin, which was bristly with dark gold stubble, “if you want me to hit the trail, just say so.”
Steven laid a hand on the front fender of the truck, and he smiled as youthful memories rose in his head, brightly colored and glowing around the edges. “You’re welcome here, Brody,” he replied, “and you damn well know it.”
Brody grinned again. “When did you get married?” he asked, with a gesture toward Matt, now bounding out of the bus behind the sheepdog-bullet that was Zeke.
“I didn’t,” Steven replied.
Brody arched one eyebrow, and his eyes danced. “I see.”
“No,” Steven told him, slapping him on the back to head him in the direction of the bus, “you don’t see. And where the hell have you been all this time?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MELISSA, JITTERY WITH SILLY, schoolgirl thoughts of what she would wear to the dance on Saturday night, decided as she left the office to steel herself and stop by the B&B to look in on the guests. Ashley would be back from Chicago soon, and Melissa wanted to be able to say she’d tended to business.
She smiled as she maneuvered the roadster out of the parking lot behind city hall. The breeze was fresh and the afternoon sunshine was glorious, and Melissa was glad she’d left the top down on the roadster that morning, even though the wind was playing havoc with her hair.
When she reached Ashley’s place, there was a familiar SUV parked in front of the garage door, and Melissa’s spirits rose even further at the sight of it. Ashley and Jack and little Katie were back from Chicago, at last.
Melissa parked hastily at the curb, maybe a shade too close to the fire hydrant, and barely remembered to grab her purse before dashing across the sidewalk, through the front gate and up the porch steps.
Ashley opened the screen door, grinning from ear to ear, two-year-old Katie balancing on one hip.
They were so different, Melissa and Ashley, that strangers were always surprised to learn that they were twins. Melissa’s hair was dark brown, and she preferred to dress for success, while Ashley, a delicate blonde, generally wore pastels, gauzy skirts and ruffled things.
Their eyes, though, marked them as sisters, because they were precisely the same shape and the same shade of blue.
They hugged, Ashley’s embrace one-armed because she was still holding Katie, and Melissa’s eyes burned with happy tears.
“You were gone way too long,” Melissa accused, when they were inside the entryway.
Katie, blond like her mother but with her dad’s dark eyes, strained toward Melissa, who gladly took her and planted a noisy kiss on one pudgy—and slightly sticky—little cheek.
“And that goes for you, too, Missy,” Melissa told her niece.
“We missed you, too,” Ashley said. She was barefoot, wearing white shorts and a matching top that showed off her light tan, and her hair was tumbling down from its Gibson-girl do in a way that was almost a signature. “Follow me to the kitchen,” she said, and turned.
Melissa followed, carrying Katie and looking around for Mr. Winthrop and the rest of them as they passed through the long, cool hallway between the big living room and the equally spacious dining room.
Ashley’s kitchen was the heart of the house, a welcoming place, cheerful and bright, always shining-clean and usually smelling of something delicious—as it did now.
Melissa sniffed. “Brownies?”
“Double Chocolate Death Brownies,” Ashley replied, twinkling as she turned, took her daughter from Melissa, and gently plunked the child down in her playpen. “And you’re going to have at least two, because you’ve lost weight since we’ve been gone.”
Ashley tended to mother Melissa. Also Brad and Olivia, when they allowed it. She was a born homemaker and a good businesswoman in the bargain.
“You, on the
other hand,” Melissa responded, tilting her head to one side as she looked her sister over, “are getting a tummy.”
Ashley patted her abdomen. “Of course I am,” she said happily. “I’m pregnant, remember?”
“Yes,” Melissa answered, letting her nose lead her to the counter, where the batch of brownies was cooling, “but I don’t have that excuse.”
“You’re too skinny,” Ashley said, filling the electric teakettle at the sink.
“I am not,” Melissa replied, good-natured bickering being pretty much their pattern. “And don’t think I’m going to gain weight to keep you company for the next six months, either.”
“We’re twins,” Ashley reasoned, hiding one of her sunshine-bright smiles. “The least you could do is pack on some sympathy pounds.”
“In your dreams,” Melissa said, but it was all she could do not to make quick work of that plate of brownies.
Ashley laughed, and inclined her head toward the table. “Sit down,” she said. “And tell me what’s been going on in Stone Creek over the last couple of weeks.”
“Where do I start?” Melissa said, only partly in jest. She scanned their immediate surroundings. “Are your guests around?”
“They’re in the backyard,” Ashley answered, with a twinkle. “Practicing the tango.”
Melissa shook her head. “I don’t hear any music.”
“They make their own music,” Ashley said.
“You can say that again,” Melissa retorted, recalling the nude croquet match. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to put the shock of it behind her.
Ashley sighed. It was a happy, contented sound that made Melissa feel both love and envy, all in the same moment. “I like them,” she said. “I wish they were staying longer. So does Jack.”
“Where is Jack, anyway?” Melissa asked, looking around. Ashley’s husband was one of those men who seem to fill a house with their presence, almost making the walls bulge.
Like Steven Creed.
“He went out to Brad and Meg’s to fetch Mrs. Wiggins,” Ashley said. “You know—our cat? The one you didn’t want to keep at your house because she makes you sneeze?”
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