She was thinking maybe that was the problem. She and Moderation weren’t on a first-name basis.
The door opened behind Jessy, conversation and music spilling out, as Ilena and Therese returned from the bathroom. Ilena sank into her chair, blowing out her breath as if the trip had exhausted her. Grinning broadly, she looked around the table before her gaze settled on Jessy. “There’s a cowboy on the premises,” she said with delight.
“This is Tallgrass,” Marti replied, a chip with salsa halfway to her mouth. “There’s always cowboys— Oh!”
Jessy couldn’t help it. She automatically twisted around to look through the windows.
“In the bar,” Therese said helpfully. “With Dane and his friend, watching a soccer game.”
“I thought about joining them,” Ilena said. “Hector Junior’s going to play soccer—his daddy was a great soccer player—and I’m going to coach.”
Unable to locate Dalton from where she sat, Jessy turned her attention back to her friends, trying to minimize the whiplash she’d gotten from looking for him. “You’re planning to coach everything. Have you actually ever played any of those sports?”
Ilena made a dismissive gesture. “I’m not the fragile flower I appear to be.”
“You’re just a regular steel dandelion,” Carly said. “And you’d better quit calling our godson Hector before he gets here, or we’ll be calling him that forever. Say it with me now.”
Everyone around the table dutifully joined in. “John.” Then Ilena’s little voice: “Hector Junior.”
After a moment’s laughter, Lucy said, “So…Jessy. You went off and got a new job and started dating a hot-damn cowboy without sharing with us. What other secrets have you been keeping?”
Every woman at the table turned Jessy’s way, until she actually squirmed a bit in her chair. She hadn’t squirmed away from attention in a hell of a long time. Still minimizing: “The job wasn’t a secret. I just started Friday, and I told you all the next time I saw you.”
“And the cowboy?”
“It’s…complicated.”
Fia and Bennie had the audacity to snort. “He’s a good-looking man,” Bennie pointed out, “and you’re a damn hot woman. The air sizzles when you two get together. Nothing complicated about that.”
“Have you two…you know?” Lucy finished with her eyebrows reaching for her hairline.
“Yeah, please tell us Carly and Therese aren’t the only ones getting sex on a regular basis,” Marti added. “Give the rest of us something to hope for.”
Jessy’s entire body flushed. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe you guys, asking about my sex life! Would I ever poke and pry about what’s going on in your beds?”
More snorts. “You’re the first one to ask,” Carly reminded her.
“Oh. Yeah. Well.” Jessy huffed out a breath. “Jeez, I need a drink.”
“You’ve got one.”
Marti nudged the full glass a little closer, and in that instant the atmosphere changed. Carly and Therese exchanged glances. Fia’s gaze remained steadily locked on Jessy. The other women silently looked from those three to Jessy.
The silence inside Jessy grew and grew until she thought it might burst, scattering bits of her everywhere to be swept up or washed away by the rain. Her nerves stretched thinner, tauter, and a thousand little voices waited expectantly for something to break—for her to break—so they could end their silence and whisper, whimper, shriek, wail, or maybe just breathe a profound sigh of relief.
“I—” She picked up the margarita, smelled the lime, and swallowed back the need for just a sip. After a moment, she did something she’d never before done: she poured good liquor onto the pavement, where the water dripping from the roof rinsed it away.
When she set the glass down again, she risked a glance around the table. No one’s expression had changed, but something inside her had. Something felt…freer. Stronger. It gave her the courage to commit to her goal by saying the words out loud to her best friends.
They came haltingly, her voice shaky but strong. “I am doing my damnedest to give up drinking. Today is my ninth day.”
Silence dropped over the table, each woman registering a reaction for one frozen moment. It took all of Jessy’s courage to look at them: the worry, the relief, the awkwardness, a little surprise, a lot of pleasure. In her nightmares, she’d imagined horror, shock, or repulsion, but bless their hearts, she didn’t see any of that.
When the moment unfroze and their voices mingled into the lovely, treasured cacophony that was Margarita Girls, Usual Style, finally Jessy allowed herself to breathe. They congratulated her. They assured her she could do it, promised they were there for her. Underneath the table, Fia gave her hand a tight squeeze. They accepted her. They embraced her with their words and their arms and their hearts. Through all the conversation, the laughter, the funny tales, and the somber planning for the next day’s funeral, their words kept echoing in her head.
You can do this.
For the first time, she honestly, no fingers-crossed-behind-her-back thought she could.
Lucy broke up the evening first so she could stop by the funeral home for the colonel’s visitation. The others followed soon after, Fia pausing to hug Jessy. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispered.
Jessy went still and warm at the same time. Simple words that she couldn’t recall anyone ever saying to her before. Certainly not her parents, not her sisters, not even Aaron. He’d told her how much he loved her, missed her, wanted her, but never how proud he was of her.
I’m so proud of you. She would never forget the words, would always keep them tucked away to pull out when she needed encouragement in those alone times.
She said her good-byes, picked up her purse and umbrella—never let it be said that a little rain could keep Jessy Lawrence from her girls—then hesitated, wavering between the gate leading to the parking lot and the door going into the restaurant.
“Oh, no. You’re not gonna slip off while Dalton’s in there with Dane.” Carly slipped her arm through Jessy’s and pulled her inside. “You know he didn’t drive all the way into town just to watch the game with the guys.”
“He knows where I live.”
Carly grinned. “You suck at acting like the too-cool girl who doesn’t want to let on how excited she is.”
“Hey, doll, I’m not acting. I am too cool. Now, if you want to talk about all the things I suck at, better pull up a chair ’cause this will take a while.”
“You know what? My cousin—she’s a neuroscientist—does research on the power of words, specifically the impact of repeated words. Basically, that if you say or hear something often enough, good or bad, eventually you begin to believe it. Life is hard enough on us, Jessy. Don’t give it a hand by beating yourself up. Look at you. You’re healthy. You’ve got a new job and a new relationship with a gorgeous guy. You’re surrounded by people who love you, and you’re nine days sober. You’re blessed, sweetie. We all are.”
Blessed. Damn. That was a word Jessy never associated with herself. It seemed too…good. She was so used to focusing on the bad: the drinking, the regrets about Aaron, what should have been with her family. But she was surrounded by people who loved her. She loved her job—yep, even after only a day and a half, she knew that. She was going to be a godmother in another couple weeks. And there was Dalton.
Literally, sitting at a round table in the bar, the heels of his boots hooked over the lower rung of the stool, his hat hanging on a wall hook beside them. His jeans were faded, well worn, and his T-shirt looked new in comparison. Both hugged him like a seductive woman, smoothing over muscles and hard planes.
To quote Lucy, he was one hot-damn cowboy.
Carly lightly squeezed her shoulder. “Yes, ma’am, you are certainly blessed.” Then she let go and passed Dalton to sidle up to Dane and kiss his temple. He automatically slid his arm around her waist and pulled her near, giving her a look, just a look, that could have melted the polar ice cap. He
loved her and considered himself lucky to have her. All that was in his expression, in the way he touched her, the way he…treasured her.
A big message for a nonromantic like Jessy to translate from a little simple body language.
After they’d exchanged greetings, Carly asked, “You need a ride home, Jessy?”
“Thank you, but I’m going the way I came—walking.”
“What if we get lightning?”
“Then I’ll sprint.”
“I know your sentiments toward exercise,” Carly said dryly. “I happen to share them. Maybe you should accept a ride. Dalton will be going right by your place.”
Jessy looked at Dalton, who was unfazed by her volunteering him. “Let me take a look out and see. You guys have fun.” She fluttered her fingers in a wave, then turned toward the exit. A moment later, the stool scraped across the concrete, then boot falls thudded behind her.
As they stepped outside the restaurant, she let a slow smile spread through her. Carly was right. Dalton hadn’t come to town just to watch the game. It had been a long time since Jessy had felt this excited about a little time with a man, but tonight it was there, pushing past all the negatives, all shiny and blinky to catch her attention.
She was one lucky girl.
* * *
Dalton stood near Jessy under the bright-striped canopy, watching the rain fall as steadily as when it had started. It was a good rain. All over the ranch, the grass, the trees, and the creeks were drinking it up, always ready for a soaker, never knowing when the next one might come.
“You know, if I walk you home, I’m just gonna have to come back by myself to get the truck.”
She tilted her head to gaze up at him. “It’s just rain. You won’t melt.”
“Neither will you. That umbrella’s almost bigger than you are. You could use it for a weapon.”
Smiling, she took a stance and wielded it like a clumsy sword covered in yellow daisies and hot pink. “I never use the umbrella on the way home. The idea is to arrive to dinner looking fabulous. If I come back looking like a drenched cat, there’s no one to see.”
“So why don’t you ride home with me, put the umbrella up, then we can walk over to Java Dave’s for coffee.”
“It’s a deal,” she said with an expression that made him think she’d planned to agree all along. True to her word, she didn’t unfurl the umbrella, hustle to the truck, or try to shield herself using her purse. The air could have been dry as the most boring Sunday sermon for all the care she paid.
Inside the truck, it smelled like wet leather, clean rain, and delicately scented shampoo. Underneath those aromas was the staleness of dust and grit, plus just a whiff of a perfume that, like outstanding food, could damn near make his mouth water.
After he turned onto Main, he remarked, “Dane told me about the dignified transfer today.” Most of the margarita club had gathered outside her apartment, holding flags or their hands over their hearts as the processional passed. He had only dim memories of Sandra’s transfer. He’d been in shock, heartbroken, and angry. His parents and hers, her sisters and their families, and Noah had accompanied them to the airport. He didn’t remember saying a word to anyone, not even casket-side. There’d been no point when the only thing he’d wanted to know was why, and it was far too late for her to tell him that.
“How many of those have you seen make their way through town?” he went on, his voice a little thick.
“The first one was too many, and it wasn’t even Aaron’s.” She looked at him. “I remember them all. I always will. But sometimes I need to keep them in the back of my mind.”
He nodded. He’d witnessed one dignified transfer, one military funeral, and sometimes keeping them in the back of his mind was the only way he’d kept his sanity.
Within moments, he was parking in front of her building. “It’s convenient that you always have parking available.”
“It’s harder during the day when the businesses are open. But I have a private space in the alley out back.” She dipped one small hand into her oversized bag and came out with a key ring before opening the door. “Give me a minute to set the umbrella inside, then I’ll race you to the coffee shop.”
He shook his head, remembering Carly’s comment about Jessy and exercise. He shut off the engine, pocketed his own keys, and was opening the door when she streaked across the street in front of the truck, jumping puddles, splashing her way to the other side. “Damn,” he muttered, slamming the door, darting a look left and right, then running after her. For someone who boasted sedentary preferences, she was light and quick on her feet. She made it halfway to Java Dave’s before he got close enough to grab her hand and stop her.
“You forgot your hat,” she said, huffing out the words as she swiped her sodden hair from her face.
“You cheated. A race means we start at the same time.”
“You’re taller, in a lot better shape, and have longer legs. How would I win if I didn’t cheat?”
“I like your shape.” Her hair stood on end, her purple shirt looked as if it had shrunk two sizes, and her shorts had gone baggy, making her waist look narrower, her hips look curvier, in contrast. “It couldn’t get any better.”
Still holding hands, they started toward the shop. “Thank you,” she said airily, as if the compliment was nothing less than she expected. Dalton had seen that reaction enough to know it was a cover.
“When I was a kid, I prayed to the tooth fairies, the Christmas fairies, the ninja fairies, everyone, to please let me top five and a half feet. Everyone in my family was small, including the men. My friends used to call us the toy family. Sadly, the fairies and genetics let me down. I’d still like another six inches of height, but…” She stepped aside to let him open the door, then smiled breezily. “That’s what they make outrageous heels for.”
The air-conditioning inside hit like an arctic blast. Like before, they got their coffees to go, then walked back through the rain to the gazebo. Jessy settled on a bench, railing at her back, and drew her feet onto the seat before taking a tentative sip of whipped-cream-topped caffeine. “I love this place. I came here sometimes on my afternoon breaks from the bank. You know, hardly anyone ever takes the time to sit here and relax.”
“You don’t strike me as the take-time-and-relax kind.”
“Mostly with the bank, this was my release-steam-or-explode place. Whatever fool came up with the idea that the customer is always right was out of his freaking mind.” She shuddered, then took a long, appreciative sip of coffee. “I hated that job. Getting fired—” Breaking off, she darted her gaze his way, off to the street, then back again. Her slender shoulders rounded in a shrug as if she was acknowledging that the words couldn’t be recalled.
After a moment, she sighed. “One day, this girl came in—beautiful, dumber than dirt, bratty and snotty and smug. Her father was on the bank’s board, and after my patience wore thin from repeating the same information over and over, she threatened to have my job and I told her—”
“That she was too stupid to do it?” Dalton pressed his lips together to control the grin trying to break free.
“Pretty much. Sundrae—can you believe that name?—went to the boss, and I…got fired.” She stared at her coffee while doing another of those shoulder lifts-and-rolls that looked almost sensual. Granted, most everything she did was sensual.
Finally his grin escaped. “First time?”
“Yeah.” She looked at him again, her gaze narrowing, forehead wrinkling, before slowly her own smile started to edge out the frown. “I hated that job. Despised everything about it. Had to force myself out of bed every morning to go to it. But getting fired mortified me. It was just one more way I screwed up. I curled up in bed for a week, wanting it back at least long enough so I could quit on my own terms. How dumb is that?”
He’d never lost a job—not much of an accomplishment considering that he’d worked his whole life for his dad, then himself. But he could imagine the impact. Wi
th some people, being shown the door just rolled off their backs; Dillon automatically came to mind. Others, like Jessy, took it personally. Dalton figured he would have, too.
He figured she hadn’t told anyone, either, wanting to keep what she saw as her failure from her friends.
It meant something that she’d told him, even if it’d been by accident.
“How’s the new job?” There had been some surprise among her friends at the cookout, as if none of them had ever imagined her working with animals. After watching her with Oz and his stock, Dalton thought it seemed logical, even natural. When you’d been hurt enough, sometimes the best thing to do was surround yourself with animals. As a general rule, they were smarter, more loyal, and more compassionate than most people, and they couldn’t talk you to death with advice.
The last bit of embarrassment disappeared from her expression. “Aw, it’s great. Most of the dogs are sweethearts. Most of the cats think they’re royalty and I’m there to await their bidding. There are a few babies, though, who have some serious trust issues to work through.” Her face wrinkled into a frown as if thinking about those animals in particular troubled her, then she went on. “I’m taking pictures of them for the website and Facebook to see if it helps stir interest in them. Whatever else I’ve messed up—”
She broke off, and her gaze went distant. After a moment, she said, “I’m a good photographer. I take great pictures.”
“You never showed me any pictures of my stock,” he reminded her.
“That’s right, I didn’t.” She took another long drink of coffee, leaving a bit of whipped cream in the corner of her mouth. “When I invite you to my apartment, I’ll do that.”
The two of them alone in her apartment…There was an image to make a man want. He didn’t have a clue what the place looked like or how her tastes in furniture and colors ran, but he didn’t need one to picture the two of them in her bed or on her couch, the floor, any reasonably stable surface. The thought—the possibility—spread heat through him so quickly he was pretty sure he could hear the hissing of steam from his wet clothes.
A Love to Call Her Own Page 20