As they reached the fence surrounding the pasture, she gratefully took shelter behind her camera and focused on a calf, who lifted his head to stare at her, his mouth moving occasionally to chew the grass he was eating. “Are they nice?”
“The Belties?” Dalton stood a few feet away, his hands resting on the top wire of the fence. “They’re even-tempered, though you could piss one off if you tried.”
“I could piss off Saint Paul himself if I tried.”
The comment surprised a laugh from him, though not much of one. He was facing the same problems everyone in the margarita club faced, though his might be even tougher. There were support groups for widows, but she didn’t know of any that included men. Women were expected to need help, to ask for it, while men were supposed to somehow muscle through.
But a startled laugh was a start. Did he realize the day would come when laughter, happiness, and smiles would be a daily part of his life again? When he would feel alive and hopeful again?
She’d seen it with Carly and Therese, with Lucy and Ilena and the others. She hoped someday she would experience it for herself.
“Belties are descended from an old Scottish breed and were bred for harsh climates, so they fit in fine with Oklahoma’s extremes. Their outer coat sheds rain, and the undercoat keeps them warm. They do well grazing in rough terrain and on grasses that other breeds won’t eat. Plus their beef is top-ranked for flavor, tenderness, and juiciness.”
Jessy had been taking pictures while he talked but stopped at that last sentence and lowered the camera to look at him. “Look at those faces. How could you…” With a shudder, she started framing shots again. “It’s enough to make a woman go vegan.”
“Yeah, I think that’s illegal in Oklahoma.”
Really, she loved a good hamburger or steak, and Lucy made a beef roast to die for, but Jessy’d never come eye to big brown cow eye before. Like she’d said earlier, when they were processed, packaged, and displayed in the refrigerator case at the commissary, they looked like dinner. Seeing them as sweet-natured big ol’ pets was disconcerting.
Dalton stood quietly while she exhausted the photo ops with the cows, then she turned the camera his way. Unaware, he continued to gaze at the animals, or across the pasture to the line of distant trees, or judging by the seriousness of his expression, maybe all the way off to Afghanistan. Her finger hovered above the shutter.
Other than her best friends, she didn’t like people in her pictures. They were clutter, distracting from the scene she wanted to preserve, messy and full of emotions. She had enough of that in real life. If she allowed them in her photographs, taking them would no longer be an escape.
Yet she took the shot anyway, then shifted the camera a few inches to the left and quickly snapped a few of the barn. At the first click, he looked at her, then away, obviously uncomfortable with the idea of being photographed. He didn’t have to know she’d done so, did he? “Other than the margarita club, I don’t take pictures of people,” she said carelessly.
“Why not?”
“People are the only subjects in the world who complain about the end result. The cows, the barn, Oz”—she clicked a picture of the dog—“couldn’t care less what the photo looks like. But people whine. Not my people, but people in general.”
If she was any judge, she’d say the information eased his discomfort enough that he didn’t pursue the matter. “The margarita club…They meet tonight, don’t they?”
Jessy tilted her head to one side. From what she knew, Dalton was pretty much a loner, preferring his animals and land over socializing in town. She’d bet he rarely heard gossip or listened to it when he did. “How do you know about the margarita club?”
“Dane told me.”
Her eyes widened. “You know Dane Clark?”
“He painted that fence over there.”
She spared a glance for the white boards around the corral. “Hm. He helped Carly paint her living room. He’s just a handy guy to have around, isn’t he?” Before he could respond, she went on. “He hasn’t even been at Fort Murphy that long. How did you meet him?”
Dalton started walking, and she fell in step beside him. “He likes palominos.”
“So…what? He went looking for someone who raised palominos?” That definitely didn’t fit with what she knew of Dane, especially in his first couple months in town. “No, I know: He was driving by, saw your horses, told you they were pretty, and you invited him back.”
“Pretty much.”
They reached the horse pasture, and she photographed the beautiful golden horses with their white manes and tails. In the right light, their coats would gleam like a new gold coin, giving them an almost knight-maiden-fantasy look. Jessy glanced at Dalton, wondering if she could invite herself back to catch that perfect light.
After a time, she lowered the camera and leaned on the board fence, keeping her gaze locked on the horses. “We’ve never had any guys come to the Tuesday Night Margarita Club, but…” It was hard to say the rest of the words. The margarita dolls were her best, only friends. They didn’t know that she was a drunk, or that she slept around, or that she wasn’t as good and honest and honorable as they were. Dalton knew, and what one knew, the others eventually found out.
Still, she forced herself to finish. “You would be welcome there.”
With anyone else, she would have said he was considering it, the way he grew thoughtful, his forehead furrowed, his gaze distant. But she had no doubt what his answer would be. He wasn’t the type to ask for help, certainly not from strangers, and women, no less. Cowboys didn’t show weakness.
And connecting with the club, when she was a member…Wasn’t gonna happen.
“No, thanks,” he said at last, and relief seeped through her even though she’d known he would refuse. As long as he didn’t tell Dane, her secrets were safe.
“I appreciate lunch and the photo ops, but you’ve got work to do and I’d better get back to town.”
They reached the house before he asked, “Did you quit the bank job?”
She stumbled over a step, and his fingers wrapped around her arm, holding her upright until she caught her balance. His hand was strong, callused, and spread heat all the way through her body. Flushed, heart racing, even a little light-headed, she attempted a laugh. “You’d think I’d do that when I’m wearing four-inch heels and have a lot less foot in contact with the ground.”
He stood a step below her, but she still had to look up to see his face, impassive as usual but with a tiny bit of something in his eyes. Attraction? Arousal? His nostrils flared slightly as he breathed in, like an animal catching scent of his prey…or his mate.
Jessy swallowed hard, willing all the little nerve endings in her body to go numb. She’d been with enough men to shame her, and she’d done so much more with this man than a simple touch. She was way too jaded to feel anything special in something so innocent.
At least, she should have been.
Slowly his fingers uncurled, but even after he let go, she still felt the shape of his hand in her very pores, and her lungs refused to accept more than the smallest of breaths. How long had it been since a man had left her breathless?
Holding on to the railing, she took the last few steps to the porch and politely waited for him to open the screen door. As they went inside and toward the kitchen, he asked again, “What about that job?”
Oh, yeah. The reason she’d tripped in the first place. She’d thought no one in her world besides LoLo Baxter knew she didn’t work at the bank anymore. She hadn’t exactly lied to LoLo, unless omission counted. She just hadn’t said the words: I got fired.
Now LoLo and Dalton knew something about her that her girls didn’t know. Discomfort crept along her spine, and with deliberation she turned the question back on Dalton. “How do you know I’m not working there?” Then: “Have you been checking up on me?”
His sun-dark skin reddened all the way to the tips of his ears. “I went in to take care of some
business, and some guy was at your desk. That’s all.”
Oh, God, he really had checked up on her. She’d just been teasing, but if he hadn’t, there’d be no reason for his whoops-got-caught reaction. He’d gone to the bank with the expectation of seeing her. Now her own skin was reddening, and she knew from experience that blushing wasn’t a good look for her. Suddenly anxious to jump in her car and drive like her hair were on fire, she fumbled with putting the camera in its bag and snatching up her purse.
“Life’s too short to work at a job you hate.” She flashed a smile that was as phony as she was and hastily started back the way they’d just come. “Like I said, I appreciate everything, but I’ve kept you long enough. If I got any fabulous pictures of your animals, I’ll let you know. Thanks for everything.”
He stopped at the porch—she felt the instant the distance between them widened—then waited until she was at her car to speak. “Hey, Jessy.”
Startled, she looked up. Was that the first time he’d used her name? Then the realist inside her spoke up. So what? It’s a name. Even that old hag of a supervisor, Mrs. Dauterive, called you by name. Doesn’t mean a damn thing.
Dalton shifted as if he regretted stopping her, dragged his fingers through his hair, then, with an almost belligerent tone, asked, “You want to have dinner tomorrow night?”
Realist Jessy: Oh, no no no. He knows you, Jessy, and you cannot handle a man who knows you. Even Aaron didn’t know the real you. Besides, he was a one-night stand like all the others. You go out on a date with a one-night stand, you’re looking at a relationship.
And after Aaron, she didn’t deserve a chance at another relationship.
But Dalton was awfully handsome, and she was a sucker for handsome. And he was lonely, and she related to that. And he was aware of her flaws—some, at least—and willing to see her again in spite of them.
Before she could say the right thing, she blurted out the totally wrong one. “Sure. Want to meet in town?”
“Six thirty?” He waited for her nod. “I’ll pick you up.”
“Okay.” She gave him her address with an unsteady smile, and her hand trembled as she waved before sliding into the car. That wasn’t anticipation twirling in her stomach. It wasn’t a bit of a thrill over the prospect of her first date since she and Aaron had gotten married, and it certainly wasn’t pleasure at the thought of seeing Dalton again.
She told herself that all the way back to the paved road, but she didn’t manage to believe it.
* * *
Ben shifted in the wicker chair. He’d been at the house longer than he’d intended and hadn’t come face to face with his mother yet. He couldn’t deny sitting on the porch with Lucy was a much more pleasant way to spend the day than listening to Patricia’s self-centered me me me. Granted, she had a reason now to lock in on herself, but she’d never needed one. In Patricia’s life, she came first.
When he turned around again, he caught a glimpse of a paper plate with dessert stuck behind the plant there. Lucy’s? Had she been uncomfortable about eating in front of him? With his schedule, he grabbed food whenever a few minutes opened up and ate it too quickly to properly appreciate it, whether it was chips from a vending machine or takeout from his favorite restaurant.
A phrase popped up in his memory, one Brianne had heard a lot: She’d be pretty if she’d lose weight. Or: She’s got such a pretty face. Too bad about that weight problem. Or worse: She’s really pretty, but damn, she’s fat. Brianne had gotten back at them all, though. She’d finished college, gotten a job, started eating healthy and being active, and she’d lost all that stressed-out, bad-diet weight. On top of that, the pretty girl had become damn near breathtaking as an adult. One big win for you, kid.
Lucy was pretty, too. She had brown hair that fell to her shoulders, natural, no additional colors streaked in. Her eyes were blue, her skin flawless, her smile even and also natural. Nothing posed about that smile. She had an unfortunate tendency to discount her own accomplishments, but people dealt with insecurity in different ways, and she was obviously very compassionate. He could see why Patricia wanted her for a friend.
“Will you be spending the night in town?” Lucy broke the quiet that had settled over them with the soft question. “I have a thing at six that I can’t miss, but I can fix dinner before I go, and I can come back when I’m done.”
It would be easy to say, Yes, come back. He’d brought a bag with everything he’d need for an overnight stay, just in case, but he’d much rather stay in a motel than at his mother’s house. He didn’t want to be a guest in her and George’s house, in her and George’s life.
But Lucy had already given up a lot of time, even taking off work, and Ben had come here to— To stop the phone calls from Lucy and Jessy? To do the right thing in his father’s eyes? To take the family responsibility so neither Brianne nor Sara would have to?
One answer was sure: not to rebuild some sort of relationship with Patricia.
Maybe he’d come for karma. As Lucy had said on the phone, If you show her compassion now, it’ll mean something to you later.
Beside him, she laughed. “I’d hate to ask you a difficult question if it takes you this long to answer a yes/no thing.”
He heaved a dramatic breath. “Yes, I’ll stay the night. No, you don’t need to fix dinner. I’m sure there’s enough food in the kitchen to feed the whole neighborhood. Just remember, though, if this goes really bad, I’m holding you responsible.”
Her second smile showed she didn’t take him seriously. “Trust me, no matter how it goes, you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing you tried—”
Behind her, the front door swung inward, the ribbons on its wreath drifting in the air. Ben’s gut tightened, his fingers gripping the chair arms as if trying to splinter them. This was a really bad idea, maybe the worst he’d ever had. He should have told Lucy no way in hell. He should have changed his name and his phone number and moved someplace where Patricia would never find him.
It took forever for her to step outside, and the first thing he noticed was her bare feet—also one of the earliest things he remembered about his mother. She’d loved kicking off her shoes, inside or out, and had even married his father in her fussy, girly white gown and bare feet.
Pointless memory.
“Oh, Lucy, I woke up and thought you were gone. I know I’m taking up way too much of your time, but you can’t imagine how much comfort it gives me, having you—” Finally Patricia noticed him, her words stopping midflow, her brow trying to wrinkle but failing. Botox.
It took a moment, but she finally reacted, clapping both hands over her mouth. “Ohh!” Another little squeak escaped her, making him wish he were anywhere but there. He’d lived twenty years with nothing but occasional calls and even rarer visits. He could easily live another twenty that way.
Lucy stood, and Ben did the same, but he didn’t move closer.
“Benjamin Richard Noble. Oh, my lord, you always resembled your daddy—all you kids did—but you’ve grown into the spitting image of him.” Patricia moved forward, bypassing Lucy, both hands reaching out. “You came. I prayed you would, but I didn’t think—”
She stopped before touching him, but not in time to keep him from shrinking back. Hurt crossed her face, and tears wet her eyes when she smiled. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again, and here you are. It’s all right. You can relax. I won’t grab you and give you kisses all over your face.” As if to prove it, she folded her arms across her stomach.
Another unwanted memory: the happy noises three kids could make when they were getting kisses all over their faces.
“Come in, please. I’ll fix you some food. You, too, Lucy. That nap made me feel so much better. I’ll wait on you for a change.” She loosened her arms and slid one around Lucy’s shoulders, guiding her toward the door.
Lucy didn’t shrink away at all, but then, she wasn’t the one Patricia had abandoned. She had a great relationship with her parents, he’d learned
during their conversation. With her sisters and brother, they were one big happy, if widespread, family.
He followed the two women into the house, gazing at stuffy paintings on the walls, antiques in the living room and the study, and furniture in off-white and pale yellow. Expensive Asian rugs, delicate lamps, and knickknacks everywhere added up to a house that was definitely not child-friendly.
The kitchen was big and airy, filled with granite, stainless, and wood. Along with the food offerings spread along the counters and the island, pieces of Frankoma pottery were displayed on the walls and the wide shelves of a peeling white-painted cabinet. Patricia had always been fond of the Oklahoma-made pottery with the prairie green glaze, but he and his sisters had chipped so many pieces she had resigned herself to packing away what survived.
She’d taken it with her when she’d left them behind.
Lucy sat on a stool at the island, then swiveled the next one around and patted the seat. “Sit.”
He obeyed. Ordinarily he would offer to help, but there was nothing ordinary about today, and rushing around seemed to help calm Patricia’s nerves. She fixed plates of cold fried chicken, potato salad, tabouli, and baked beans reheated in the microwave and poured glasses of iced tea strong enough to make a mug of black coffee run the other way. Once she’d pulled a stool around to the opposite side, she sat, bowed her head, and murmured a prayer.
His mother was saying the blessing. He’d never experienced that firsthand until he was in high school and having dinner at a friend’s house. When had Patricia found God? What did He think of her past actions?
They talked little during the meal, and most of that was Lucy. Her desire for him and Patricia to get along was obvious in her bigger smiles, her darting gaze, and her faster rate of speech. He was sorry to disappoint her, but he was only here so he could say he’d tried.
Too soon after the late lunch, Lucy checked the time, then slid to her feet. “I’ve got to go, Patricia.”
Patricia glanced at the wall clock and smiled faintly. “Of course. It’s Tuesday, and the margarita club never misses a Tues—” Her voice broke off, and a lone tear slid down each cheek. “I guess I’m eligible for membership now. I love you, Lucy, but I never, ever wanted—”
A Love to Call Her Own Page 6