The funeral director opened one door, then stepped outside to hold it for the women. Though they were too far away to hear, he lowered his voice even more. “How long have you felt this way, Bree?”
“Twenty years.”
Twenty—the entire time Patricia had been gone. “You never said…”
She laughed. “You and Sara always had very strong opinions of your own. I didn’t want to be the odd one out. Besides, with Daddy so sad…” With a breath, her voice strengthened. “Someday I’m going to get married, have babies. They’ll never know their grandpa, but maybe they can know Grandma. Maybe they can have one more person to love them and spoil them. You can never have too many of those, can you?”
His gaze settled on the subject of their conversation. She wore light green pants, a flowery shirt that matched, high-heeled sandals, and the full makeup routine. While waiting for the major to meet them, she’d fretted over her hair and nails, asking Lucy to remind her to make appointments for the weekend. As if realizing the issues were insignificant in the bigger picture, she’d smiled ruefully and said, George always appreciated me making the effort for him.
His dad had always appreciated her made up, dressed up, dressed down, in anything at all.
“You can’t hold that against me, Ben,” Brianne said, her stubborn intent clear in her voice. “I won’t let you. We’re all grown up. You get to choose for yourself. I get to choose for myself.”
“Of course I wouldn’t hold it against you,” he replied, using his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. Holding a grudge against Patricia was one thing, but Brianne…she was his little sister. Nothing could make him turn his back on her. “Listen, Bree, I’ve got to go. I guess I’ll see you Wednesday.”
“If not before. Take care of yourself.”
“Yeah, you, too.” Sliding the phone into his pocket, he started across the parking lot to his mother.
* * *
Jessy made it through Wednesday night, and she’d gotten through Thursday morning, too, without pulling one of the bottles out of the liquor cabinet, but by three thirty, she was holding on by her fingernails. She’d been pacing the apartment since lunch, getting one step closer to the kitchen every time, when it occurred to her that maybe pacing outside would help.
When was the last time she’d gone for a walk? Not a quick rush to the bank because she’d overslept or a hike across a parking lot because all the close spots were taken or walking to Three Amigos most Tuesday nights so she could drink and not drive afterward, but an actual walk. A stroll. Purely for pleasure.
She couldn’t remember.
A pair of practically new running shoes sat on a shelf in the closet. The girls had laughed when she brought them, cracking jokes about how they would dwarf the sandals and boots and strappy heels that spoke to her soul. They’d said she would never wear them again after the occasion she’d bought them for—one of their outings in March to Turner Falls—and they’d been right. All she’d done since was move them from one place to another to make room for something barely there and sexy.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she put on a pair of cute little socks that, sadly, weren’t meant to show, then laced the runners, grabbed her keys and cell, and headed downstairs. When she got outside, she wavered, unsure which way to turn. She never left the apartment without a destination in mind, even if it was only to get out of town. With a mental coin flip, she headed east.
She liked Tallgrass with its old brick and sandstone buildings, murals painted on walls, and quaint feel—and she meant quaint in the good way. It wasn’t fancy, though there were a bunch of houses that wouldn’t look out of place in the neighborhood she’d grown up in. It wasn’t just a town that existed to support the fort, either. If the Army closed Fort Murphy next week, Tallgrass would live on, smaller, less busy, with fewer options, but still a nice town.
Wishing she’d brought earbuds to give her a little music to stroll to, she passed a twenty-four-hour gym in a space that had once been a five-and-dime. Could intense exertion deliver enough feel-good endorphins to make any additional self-medication unnecessary? If it would, much as she hated sweating, she would willingly show up sixteen hours a day. Talk about buff then.
She took a left when she reached the last intersection before Buddy Watson’s. It was the most respectable of the downtown clubs, a place where businessmen ate lunch and stopped after work. It wasn’t her favorite, but it got a few points for its location. With her nerves on edge and her mouth watering, it could be her favorite for the next few hours.
No no no no. It had been three and a half days. Surely she could make it four. What kind of sorry-ass loser couldn’t make it four days?
Her gaze focused on the sidewalk ahead, she pushed on, one step after another. She didn’t let her mind wander to anything beyond those steps, the cracks in the sidewalk, the occasional car she had to let pass before crossing the street. She left businesses behind, passed a church and an elementary school, newly abandoned for the summer, and moved into a residential neighborhood. The trees were tall, established long ago, and the houses, some suffering neglect more than others, were firmly rooted in their yards.
Next time she would bring her camera and document them. The well-maintained ones would shine on their own. The shabbier ones, in stark black-and-white tones, would be poignant, faded memories of better times.
As she walked, the houses thinned, with shrinking footage on shrinking lots, until the final block: no structures at all, but sidewalks and concrete steps showing where they had once been. Alerted by barking, she raised her gaze to the view and saw she’d reached the end of the street, the dividing line between town and country.
The only thing ahead of her was a large building, constructed of tin siding over a sturdy metal frame, and the only thing gazing back was a dog behind a chain-link fence. His dignity should have been reduced to nothing thanks to the round plastic cone that encircled his head, but he didn’t cower or try to hide. He simply stood there and stared.
Jessy’s clunky shoes crunched on gravel as she crossed the parking lot and went to the fence. Signs posted every five feet warned against sticking fingers inside the fence—if a person needed the warning, wasn’t he likely too dumb to heed it?—and another sign, attached to the building, identified it as the Tallgrass Animal Shelter.
“Hey, puppy.”
Like her, the dog stood about three feet back from the chain-link. He wasn’t very big and lacked the giant paws that suggested he would get that way. In fact, he was very…elegant, even with the ridiculous cone. He deserved a better life than a shelter.
Didn’t they all.
“I never knew you guys lived here. I should get out more often.”
He cocked his head to one side, looking as if he was listening intently. He probably was, for the magic words: cookie, treat, walk, go for a ride. Though it was pointless, Jessy checked her pockets. Still just keys and cell phone. She hadn’t even brought her debit card, thinking it might lead her into temptation, while knowing for a fact what she’d told Dalton last night: She could get a drink. She just wouldn’t have to pay.
Slowly more dogs approached, rousing themselves from the shady enclosure next to the building, others coming from around back. They were every color, size, and breed, yippy and silent, curious and wary. They all had one thing in common: Their families hadn’t wanted them.
“I can so relate, puppies,” she said dryly.
“I’m glad I’m not the only one who carries on conversations with them when no one’s around.” A woman coming from the direction of the front door offered Jessy one of the two bottles of cold water she carried, then drank down half of her own. Her hair was blond on the ends, dark gold where the roots were soaked with sweat. Her clothes were stained and dirty, and her work boots looked better suited to a roofer on top of a newly built house, but her manicure was damn near perfect, the coral polish popping against the drabness of everything else.
“I figure they hav
e to understand at least as much as most men I know,” Jessy replied before taking a drink of water. It was incredibly just-shy-of-frozen cold and made her throat tingle on the way down. Of all the things she’d drunk—and hadn’t drunk—the past week, it truly was refreshing. She should buy this brand.
“Isn’t that true.” The woman offered her right hand. “I’m Angela, the director here. Are you interested in a new pet, or have you come about the ad?”
Jessy blinked. She’d been meaning all week to pick up the local paper for a job search, but it kept slipping her mind. It was as if she had more important things to think about. Like Dalton.
And staying sober.
A job at the animal shelter would probably include duties like poopy-scooping, de-fleaing, de-ticking, and bathing dogs who weren’t accustomed to a weekly spa day. She could easily imagine a half-dozen or so disasters awaiting to befall her if she said yes. But you’re facing disasters anyway, Jess, and at least you wouldn’t be dealing much with people. Wasn’t that what you wanted?
Mrs. Dauterive would say this was exactly where she belonged, with a lot of mangy unwanted animals. Julia and the rest of the bank staff would give her pitying looks. With the margarita club, if it made her happy, by God they would be happy.
“Yes,” she said cheerfully. “I’m here to apply for the job.”
She followed Angela inside and filled out an application that was as thorough as the bank’s. She didn’t mind. She’d be just as leery of some stranger taking care of her animals, if she had any, as she would of someone taking care of her money.
Angela skimmed the form, then gave Jessy a smile. “It’ll be tomorrow before I can check your references, then I’ll give you a call. I can tell you it looks good, sweetie, ’cause you’re the only one who’s applied so far.”
It hadn’t occurred to her that others might be vying for the job. How would it feel, being told she wasn’t good enough to shovel dog poop? Please, she prayed to whoever might be listening, don’t make me find out for myself.
Jessy allowed herself a flashy grin. “Some people have a talent for shoveling shit—I mean poop,” she hastily corrected, “and some don’t. I suspect I do.”
“Then you’ll fit in perfectly here,” Angela replied with a laugh. “I hate to chase you off, but I’ve got an appointment in town. Can I give you a ride?”
“Thanks, no. Exercise, you know.” Like she did it every day. Saying good-bye while Angela locked up, Jessy stopped at the fence, finding the same dog in the same spot, and said good-bye to him, lighthearted enough to give him a grin, too. Leaning forward, she conspiratorially whispered, “Next time I’ll bring treats.”
* * *
Showered, shaved, and dressed in clean clothes, Dalton made it as far as the front door before Oz leaped from the recliner and trotted over, nosing the door as he waited impatiently.
“Not tonight, Oz. I already told you.”
The shepherd head-butted the door and whined.
“I know you had to stay home alone last night—like that was any big deal. When I came home, you were asleep in the same place as when I’d left.”
Oz looked up at him, unblinking. The mutt actually succeeded in making Dalton feel a little…Not guilty. Manipulated. “No. Last time. Back off.” Then he rolled his eyes. “Crap, I’m explaining myself to a dog. What the hell?”
He nudged the dog aside, ordered him to stay, then went out the door. Oz followed his progress from one window to the next, whining, barking little squeaks of displeasure. “By the time I back out, he’ll be curled up on his chair,” Dalton muttered, then rolled his eyes again. “Talking to myself now. Is that one step up from the dog or down?”
Down, he was pretty sure. Maybe more than one step.
He hadn’t planned to leave the ranch today, until the phone call around lunchtime. It was Dane Clark, inviting him to dinner to meet his fiancée, Carly. His first impulse had been to make an excuse, but he’d been following bad impulses for a long time and they hadn’t made anything better.
No more.
So here he was, headed into Tallgrass early on a Thursday evening. Hell, he’d done it enough times this week that his truck could make the trip on autopilot. He was going to Dane’s house, and he was going to do his best to be the polite, sociable person his mother had raised him to be. He was out of practice—not so much now, thanks to Jessy, as he’d been a week ago—but he could do it. He needed to do it. Starting that day back in March, she’d made him want more from life.
When the dirt road bisected the highway, he sat for a moment at the stop sign, recalling the sight of Jessy perched on the board fence or crouched at the edge of the ditch, so intent on what she saw through her camera that she hardly noticed anything else.
He had no talent with a camera. Even with the small digital he owned, things came out blurry, heads cut off, or just plain boring. When he needed photos of his stock, he hired someone to come in and take them.
Though he’d never seen her work, it was a fair bet that it was top-notch. The intensity in her expression, the comfort she felt with the equipment, her fingers moving fast and sure over the various adjustments…It was the way he worked, repeating actions he’d made ten thousand times over the years.
The miles into town passed quickly. His truck bumped over the railroad tracks that were a rough marker of city limits, and then he was passing the flower shop where he bought bouquets for Sandra’s grave. A block south of that, a figure on the east side of the street caught his attention. It was hard to miss such fiery red hair anytime, especially when the woman was the only one on the sidewalk for blocks in either direction. Especially when, from the back, she looked just like Jessy.
She wore blue shorts with lots of pockets and a white T-shirt that played up the gold of her skin. Her shoes were gray and pink, walking shoes like most women wore, but they seemed out of place, because Jessy preferred much more delicate shoes.
His hands gripped the steering wheel, his foot automatically shifting from the gas pedal to the brake, before he turned onto the next street. It was Jessy, looking girl-next-door, active, walking as if it were a breezy eighty degrees instead of a humid ninety-four. Jessy, her face red, her skin glistening with sweat, lost somewhere inside her head as she tapped an empty water bottle against her palm.
He stopped as soon as he made the turn, and she stopped as soon as she became aware of him. After a moment, she swiped one hand through her hair, slicking it back, then came toward him.
He’d never seen her looking quite so wholesome and sexy and sweet. Any makeup she’d put on had long since sweated away, and the pink tinge to the skin exposed by the rounded neck of her shirt suggested she’d been out longer than she was accustomed to. She wasn’t carrying a purse, though she could have hidden all its contents, including her camera, in those shorts pockets, and those shoes…
“What are you doing?” he asked when she was close enough.
“It’s called walking. It’s the oldest method of getting from here to there known to man. It tones your muscles, burns calories, and revs up your metabolism.”
“You’re exercising?” He appreciated her body—had appreciated it one day for a couple hours. Naked. But he just figured she had great genes, like she’d said. He couldn’t picture her working out. That was like Scarlett O’Hara in spandex and sweatband training for a 5K.
“Dear God, no. I’m taking a walk. You know, strolling aimlessly taking in the beauty around me?”
“You picked the wrong part of town. There’s not much beauty here.”
She didn’t bother to glance around, as if she was all too aware that these few blocks weren’t one of Tallgrass’s selling points. “Of course there is. There’s the sky. The clouds. The trees.” She gestured with both hands, then pointed to the ground. “Look at that flower. It’s beautiful.”
“It’s a dandelion.”
“A beautiful dandelion. I bet I could take a picture of it, print it, frame it, and it would be so incredibl
e that even you wouldn’t mind hanging it on your wall.”
He leaned back against the truck, the heat absorbing through his shirt into his skin. “Let’s say I agree so you don’t actually have to take the picture.”
Her snort reminded him of his most spoiled mare. “You mean, so you don’t have to actually hang it on your wall.”
His only response to that was a shrug before he gestured to her water bottle. “You went for a walk in this heat with only one small bottle of water?”
She studied the bottle before dropping it to her side. “Nope. I didn’t think to take any. The woman who runs the animal shelter gave it to me. Hey, it’s my first walk. Give me a break. Besides…” She ran her hand through her hair again, deep coppery red where it was wet. “I wasn’t exactly planning on walking so far. I learned the first lesson of going for a stroll today: However far you walk, that’s how far back you’ve gotta go.”
“Unless someone takes pity and offers you a ride.”
“Yeah.” She squinted at him. “Are you taking pity?”
He replied with a nod of his head toward the passenger door. She may have been hot and tired, but she hustled around the truck and climbed in in less time than it took Dalton to turn, open the door, and do the same.
Jessy turned the passenger’s air-conditioning vents directly on her, one on her face, the other on her body, then gave a low groan. “I love heat, I do, but damn, that cold feels good.”
He glanced at her, saw the tiny goose bumps rising on her arms, damp red hair fluttering back from her face, her nipples hardening under the thin fabric of her top. With a knot in his throat, he deliberately looked forward again while listening to the sounds of her seat belt fastening, and slowly pulled away from the curb. “So you walked all the way to the animal shelter, where they took pity on you and gave you water.”
She kicked off one shoe, then the other, and propped both feet on the dash. “Yeah, the dogs wouldn’t share theirs. Damn, do you know how hot these shoes are?”
A Love to Call Her Own Page 13