by Tina Leonard
Cricket held her notepad close to her chest. Perhaps she was afraid he might take a bite out of her, a very tempting thought—but he was no Big Bad Wolf, contrary to his father’s opinion.
“If he doesn’t want to go back, you can’t make him.”
Jack smiled. “Maybe you could give me your best thoughts on where he might be. My brothers haven’t seen him, their wives haven’t seen him. The logical conclusion was that he’d had a yen to see the grandchildren. Then we figured he might be here. No luck.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry I can’t help.”
Thunder clapped outside and a slice of lightning cracked near the house.
“My word,” Cricket said, “that sounded close! If you’ll excuse me, I’ll take my measurements and let you get on with your search. I hope you find him, I really do.”
Jack let her go. She didn’t know where Pop was. Nobody had the faintest idea; no one even knew where all the properties he owned were. He could be anywhere in the United States. Pete had mentioned that he thought Pop had sold the knight’s templary in France, but Jack supposed Pop could just as well have left the country. “He is the most difficult man on the planet,” he muttered, along with a well-chosen expletive or three.
“Did you say something?” Cricket asked, madly scribbling numbers on her notepad.
“Nothing fit for the ears of present company.”
She turned back to what she was doing. “I can’t blame him, you know.”
“Blame him about what?”
“He didn’t want your kidney. He didn’t want anything from you at all. I polished your résumé, tried to make it seem like you were the kind of son who—”
“I heard the polishing.” Jack threw himself into his father’s recliner. “Pop didn’t believe any of that crap.”
Cricket sniffed, went back to ignoring him.
“Where’d you stay last night?”
“With Pete and Priscilla and the four babies.”
He watched her stretch to measure the length of the current rod, admiring her lean body as she moved. “Full house?”
“Yes,” Cricket said. “I love being there. They can use the extra pair of hands, and I enjoy the fun.” She stopped to look at him. “Have you even seen any of your nieces and nephews?”
“Deacon, look,” Jack said, “I haven’t seen my brothers or my father in years. Why on earth would I have seen their offspring, which, by the way, only became part of the family in the past few months?”
She stared at him. “Some people like to make up for lost time.”
Her words needled him. She knew nothing about his family, knew nothing about him. He really didn’t feel like he needed judgment from someone who was supposed to be fairly nonjudgmental.
“Nothing short of a wedding will bring your father back here,” Cricket said, and Jack blinked.
“You don’t have any children?” he asked.
“I most certainly do not.” She bent down to examine the bottom of the windowsill and he didn’t bother to avert his gaze from taking in a scrumptious eyeful of forbidden booty. “Anyway, what matters is whether you have any children. Your father lives for family.”
“Jeez, don’t rub it in.” Darn Pop for being so difficult. He was almost tired of being lectured by Cricket, yet the instrument of his conscience-picking was at least attractive. Rain suddenly slashed the windows, and Jack noted the room had gotten darker. “When you plan for drapes, maybe something heavy enough to keep out the cold in winter and the heat in summer would be nice,” he said, watching the rain run in rivulets down the wall of windows. “No sheer lacy things that just look pretty and serve little purpose.”
“Oh?” Cricket straightened, much to his disappointment. “Planning on living here?”
“I don’t think so,” he said softly. “I haven’t stayed in the same place for more than three nights in many, many years. That’s not likely to ever change for me.”
She looked at him, her gaze widening. It seemed to Jack that she reconsidered whatever she was about to say. Then she put away her things, allowing them to be swallowed by the enormous gypsy bag she carried, and said, “I’ll be going now. It was good to see you again.”
He laughed. “You are a gifted fibber.”
“Just because I have good manners does not make me a liar.”
“Whatever.”
“I’ll see myself to the front door.”
He nodded amiably. “You do that.”
She slipped past him, her carriage straight as a schoolteacher’s. Because she was tall and lean, she moved gracefully, a sight he’d probably always enjoy watching. He really liked the way her dark hair fell around her shoulders, lustrous and probably softer than…hell, he didn’t know what would be as soft as that woman’s hair must be. It just looked silky, and it probably smelled good, too.
This train of thought was taking him nowhere fast. He was behaving like an ass to Cricket, and Pop’s disappearance wasn’t her fault. Jack got up and followed her to the door, where she stood staring out at the rain-whipped blackness.
“You probably don’t have a raincoat in that suitcase-sized purse of yours.”
“I’ll be fine,” Cricket said. “You have enough to worry about without concerning yourself about me.”
“I didn’t say I was worried. But it didn’t escape my notice that your tires are fairly bald, and your car is a tad past old, and the roads will be a mess getting up to the highway. In other words, drive safely.”
She looked up at him. “My, aren’t we the gentleman suddenly?”
He scratched his head. “Tell me again which church you serve as a deacon?”
“I never told you at all.”
“That’s true. I’m just curious what congregation would put up with such a—”
“Jack,” Cricket said, “the only thing on your mind right now should be Josiah.”
“I suspect he’s not driving in this weather. Nor is he out in it,” Jack said.
Cricket hesitated.
“This isn’t going to be a popular theory,” Jack said, “but I’m betting that little Beetle of yours with the gummy tires doesn’t make it to the main road. You’ll be calling someone to hitch you out of the mud in less than five minutes. I’m sure my father would suggest you stay put until the rain passes.”
Cricket closed the door. “I’ll accept your father’s kind invitation.”
He nodded. “I bet if we poke around in the kitchen we’ll find something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry, thank you.”
That was too bad. He’d been hoping she’d be eager to show off some of her culinary skills. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”
“Let’s not make this personal,” Cricket said, making herself at home at the kitchen table while Jack checked out the contents of the fridge.
“Not me,” Jack said. “I’m Mr. Impersonal.”
“Wonder where he is, anyway?”
“You’d know better than me.” There was fresh turkey and cheese in the meat drawer, and Jack felt the evening was improving already.
“There’s a guesthouse on the ranch, right? A few barns?”
“I’ve searched everywhere.” Jack closed the door, leaving the food behind, suddenly lacking an appetite. He felt a confession coming on, and those were never very good for his gut.
Cricket watched him. “What are you doing?”
Jack took a deep breath, slid into the seat opposite Cricket’s. “See, here’s the deal. The old man was rough on us, me in particular. He wasn’t the kind of father who’d play ball with you, he wasn’t around much, he wore us out with his criticism. If I had a penny for every mean thing he said to me, I’d be a wealthy man, I promise. Me, more than any of my brothers, never measured up. And he hated what I loved most, which probably just made me love rodeo more. I didn’t have to be good enough for Pop when I was riding—it was just me and the bull and hanging on for the sake of winning.”
“So what happened?”
>
“He blamed me for a car accident my kid brothers had when they sneaked out to see me ride one night.” He looked at Cricket, the old, painful memories rushing over him. “The thing that ticked me off the most was that I was crazy about my brothers. We felt like all we had was each other, and I basically got to be the father, in a way. I loved them. I would never have hurt them. I had no idea they were sneaking out to watch me that night.” Still, the painful accusations cut. Remembering the beating his old man tried to give him hurt, too, but even more painful was the fact that he’d fought back. The two of them had gone at each other like prize-fighters, and Jack wasn’t proud of it. “I suppose in the end I let him beat me,” Jack said, “but I took skin from him before he did.”
“I am so sorry,” Cricket said, reaching across the table to pat his hands, which he noticed were splayed in front of him as if he needed the comfort. He moved his hands to his knees under the table, not wanting to appear as if he needed sympathy.
“I don’t even know why I’m here,” he murmured. But he did know, he knew he still loved his brothers, and Pop wanted those grandchildren, and if all it cost to make everybody happy—buy forgiveness—was a kidney, then that was cheap.
“Maybe you are a good man,” Cricket said. “Maybe you really want to do the right thing.”
He looked at her, then slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He would never be good enough to live in her world. Repairing the cracks of his relationship with his family would take more than anything he had in his soul. Thunder and lightning cracked and boomed over the house, snapping the lights off. The refrigerator stopped humming. He thought he heard one of the many pecan trees that bordered the property give a tired groan, a warning that much more wind would drive it to split. “The lights’ll come back on,” Jack said to soothe Cricket.
“I’m not afraid of the dark.”
Of course, she wouldn’t be. She’d probably produce a glow-in-the-dark Bible from her purse, lead a few prayers, invoke the heavenly spirits for safety, and it would never cross her mind that the thing she should be afraid of was him.
Chapter Four
“I remember there was a flashlight somewhere in the kitchen.” Cricket felt along the walls, wishing she could recall where she’d seen a plug-in flashlight. While she had to admit to a sneaky bit of excitement at being in total darkness with Jack, this was the type of thrill she didn’t need in her life. “Aha!” Pulling it from the wall, she turned it on, flashing the light right at Jack’s face. He was smiling, she saw, a sort of catlike grin.
“Feel better?” Jack asked.
“Since I don’t see in the dark, yes, I do.” How dare he pull on her heartstrings and then go alpha-jerk on her? He’d almost had her believing that he wasn’t the prodigal his father claimed he was. She set the flashlight on the kitchen table. “Find another one and we’ll each go our own way. I’ll take Suzy’s old room for the time being.”
“Suzy’s old room is where Pop was staying before he took off,” Jack said.
Cricket replied, “Just tell me where you want me. I’ll be up bright and early, as soon as the rains quit, and gone before you know it.” She wasn’t certain she’d actually sleep under the same roof with Jack, in fact, wouldn’t even consider it if the roads were better. “And this is a secret to be kept between you and me, if you don’t mind.”
He grinned. “Do I look like the kind of man who kisses and tells?”
She grabbed the flashlight. “If you have kissed me, it must not have been memorable. I’ll take one of the rooms that hasn’t been in use.”
He followed her as she went up the stairs. “I’ll sleep on the sofa downstairs. Feel free to yell out if you get scared. I’ll be close by enough—”
She stopped and turned on the staircase, not a hairs-breadth away from him since he’d been following her, his eyes on her rump, if she had Jack Morgan figured correctly. “I can’t see myself calling for you to rescue me from anything.”
“Not even a mouse?” he asked, his eyes dancing with mischief.
“Mice?” she repeated faintly. “Do you have them?”
He shrugged. “I can’t speak to the quality of the upkeep at the ranch. There were many months when no one was here, so I suppose there could be some furry residents.”
“You’re horrible,” she told him. “You’re trying to give me the shivers.”
“You wouldn’t be afraid of a tiny furry rodent, would you, Deacon?”
She snapped back around and marched up the last couple of stairs, heading into the first room she saw. It was empty except for a dresser and a bed, it had its own bathroom, and best of all, the door locked with a satisfying click when she shut it in Jack’s face. “Jerk,” she muttered. “What woman loves a mouse?”
“Good night,” he called through the door.
“Good riddance,” she replied, hugging the flashlight.
JACK WENT DOWNSTAIRS, moving around skillfully in the darkness, and clicked on the TV as he tossed himself into his father’s recliner. Then he realized the TV didn’t work at the moment. There was nothing for him to do, and that made him miss Cricket’s lively banter, even if she was a bit vinegary for his taste. He liked his women a bit more sweet and willing, and if they threw in a little hero worship, that was even better. Yet Cricket didn’t seem to feel any inclination to adore him, in spite of the fact he was willing to give his father a lifesaving kidney.
Cricket probably wouldn’t be easy to seduce at all. He could spend months wooing her and she’d likely remain cold to his advances.
Why was he even thinking about sex with the deacon? He had as much chance of that as…well, as finding Pop tonight.
He was forced to admit that he was worried about his father. The crusty old man was going to die for his independence. Secretly, Jack admired that. He understood the desire to go down fighting.
Suddenly there was a flashlight beam at his elbow and a tap on his shoulder. “Holy smokes!” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “Cricket! I didn’t hear you leave your room!” How she’d made it down the stairs without even a creak, he couldn’t imagine, but maybe thin frames like hers didn’t put pressure on the floor-boards like four rowdy boys could.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said.
He took a deep breath to calm his racing heartbeat and sat down in the chair again. “Is there something you need? If there are no towels in the bath, you can probably—”
“I want to apologize for my behavior,” Cricket said. “I’ve not been very nice to you, and you have a lot on your mind. I should be more considerate of your feelings.”
Great. Now he was a pansy. “I’m fine.”
“I think…I think I’d feel better if I sat down here with you for a while.”
“I was just kidding about the mouse,” Jack said, feeling bad for taunting her.
“I know. But if you wouldn’t mind company—”
“Oh, sure, sure.” Jack waved at the sofa. “Help yourself. Nothing good on TV, anyway.” He winced at his weak joke.
She hesitated, and then to his great surprise—astonishment—Cricket reached out a hand toward him, the hand not holding the flashlight. Was she going to conk him with it? Jack stared up at her, perplexed by her actions.
She didn’t say anything, just looked at him.
Then he got it.
Cricket wanted him. Or at least she didn’t seem to want to sleep alone.
He took half a second to consider whether he should do this to the deacon—perhaps she was afraid of the dark, lonely, having a bad-girl fantasy, whatever—then threw any guilt out of his mind. Pulling her down into his lap, Jack kissed her the way he rode bulls, full out and with every intention of staying in the saddle for as long as he possibly could.
WHEN CRICKET AWAKENED the next morning, she blushed at the memory of the wild night she’d shared with Jack. If anyone had ever told her that lovemaking was such a fabulous, heart-pounding, please-don’t-stop experience, maybe she wouldn’t hav
e waited so long. But she had, she’d always been waiting for Mr. Right. Last night, although she knew Jack was no Mr. Right, she’d decided she was tired of waiting for the prince who might never ride into her life.
It had been worth it. It could even be addictive, which was not a healthy thought. She slipped away from the sleeping cowboy on the floor in front of the fireplace. The fire had burned low now, mostly just embers, but outside, the sky was dawning clear and crisp. The roads, though still muddy, would be passable.
She tried to figure out how to escape without waking Jack. The last thing he would want was a girlfriend, and most people who made love together might assume there could be some kind of ongoing relationship. She didn’t relish him thinking that’s what she wanted from him. At least she’d accomplished her goal, which was to understand what other women who fell in love were so happy about. It was hard to understand the giddy excitement over men and sensual pleasures when she’d never experienced it. Now she had, and she totally understood why women could fall so hard for the wrong man, and also why they could love one man all their lives. If she could enjoy the giggling, the excitement, the tears of joy and rapture, the feeling of living outside of her body that she’d experienced with Jack, she’d love the man she married with devotion all her life, too.
So if she never saw Jack Morgan again, she’d be okay with that. A practical girl understood the cards she was dealt. She’d counseled plenty of women who’d had their hearts broken by Mr. Wrong, all the while hoping he was Mr. Right. Cricket would never fall victim to a lack of common sense.
Today it was back to her church for her, and no more mooning over the dashing cowboy who’d no doubt broken a hundred hearts. She gathered her clothes and crept into the hall to quickly dress, glancing back over her shoulder at Jack partially wrapped in the blanket. She prayed the front door would open and close without him hearing—it did—and ran to her VW. The car vroomed to life, and she headed toward Fort Wylie with only a slight regret that she wouldn’t see Jack again, at least not the way she’d seen him last night.
Last night’s indiscretion was the only time she was going to allow herself to live outside the bounds of good moral direction, she promised herself firmly.