"Son of a bitch." Reading his friend like a book, Aaron punched Forbes in the arm.
"Hey! Coach Riggins will have both our asses if I show up to practice unable to make a pass."
"Apparently, making a pass has never been your problem. Who was the girl? How did it happen? And why the hell didn't you tell me you scored more than some salmon while in Alaska?"
"I don't brag." Forbes cut Aaron off before he could begin. "Even to you."
Nodding, Aaron didn't look happy. "It's one of your most annoying qualities. Living my celibate lifestyle would be so much easier if my best friend shared a few juicy details about his many, many, many conquests."
Forbes liked sex. A lot. It was right up there in his top two or three all-time favorite things. However, he hadn't become sexually active at an unreasonably early age. Sixteen. And a half. That added up to just under eighteen months. He wasn't ashamed to admit that he was counting. Eight different girls. One certified woman. The number of times he had sex with each? Forbes had lost count. Perhaps he was a bit of a dog after all.
"Would you stop grinning like a satisfied loon?" Aaron flopped onto a piece of patio furniture, the frame groaning under his considerable bulk. At almost three hundred pounds, he was one of the best in the state at stopping running backs before they crossed the line of scrimmage. "Since I started dating Cindy, I've been in a sexual drought. My hand doesn't cut it anymore."
Laughing when Aaron gripped the bottle in a graphic example of his masturbation skills, Forbes drained the last of his beer. He felt for his buddy. Honestly. But he knew Aaron well enough to know that he would regret letting Cindy go. And if she started dating somebody else? Nope. He didn't particularly care about the fool who was stupid enough to ask Cindy out. Forbes was worried about Aaron. He didn't want his best friend to spend his senior year of high school—plus the next twenty years—in prison for murder.
"You love Cindy. Yes, you do," Forbes said when Aaron would have protested. "That is the reason to give her a break."
"Jesus. When did you go all Oprah on me?"
Taking the jibe in the lighthearted vein it was meant, Forbes shot Aaron a grin. "She knows her shit, man."
"Maybe." Aaron let out a hefty sigh. He closed his eyes, running a hand through his already tousled dark hair. "I do love Cindy. My mom says it is only puppy love."
Aaron's mom believed in keeping the apron strings tight. Though for once, Forbes didn't think she was far off base. "At our age, what's the difference?"
"People get married right out of high school." The fact that Aaron was looking at the ground instead of at him told Forbes that this wasn't the first time the thought of marriage had popped into his head.
"Cindy is holding out for a trip down the aisle? I thought she was better than that. Unless…" Well, shit. "You want to get married? Seriously?"
"Not today," Aaron said defiantly. "When we graduate. Maybe. But if Cindy is the one, shouldn't I sow my wild oats right now? If we get hitched, that's it for me. No cheating."
So many things chased around in his mind, Forbes didn't know where to start. Aaron wasn't the most complicated guy in the world. He liked things simple and easy. Because they had been friends for so long, it wasn't difficult to boil the situation down to its bare essence.
"You want to break up with Cindy now. Screw around for the next five or six months. Then get back together with her in time for graduation and a summer wedding?"
Aaron perked up. "Exactly."
"You're an idiot."
Forbes headed back into the house. For a person of his size, Aaron was quick to his feet, trailing right behind.
"Why?"
"What about Cindy?" Forbes handed Aaron two large garbage bags loaded with empties and fast food wrappers.
"What about her?"
"She may not like the scenario you've painted. And if she does, do you think she'll stay home every night, waiting for your oats to get sown?"
"Sure." Outside by the garage, Aaron smashed his bags into the already full garbage can before opening its twin for Forbes. "What else would she do?"
"Date? Screw around?"
"Cindy?" Aaron found it hard to grasp the concept. "Get out of here."
"Your problem is that you think of Cindy as a sweet, innocent girl. Take another look. She's hot. Long blond hair. A curvy little figure. And those wide blue eyes? If you weren't my friend—and didn't think of her as a sister—I'd be tempted."
"You think she would cheat on me?"
"It wouldn't be cheating if you broke up with her—for the sole purpose of screwing around."
"Name one guy who would dare—"
"I could name a half dozen."
"But—"
"That's it." Forbes stopped Aaron's forward progress with a hand to the big guy's chest. The fact that he could spoke volumes about Forbes' strong, athletic legs, and Aaron's instinctively gentle nature. "The aspirin isn't working on my raging headache. There is still some cleaning to do before Maeve gets back from her sister's."
"And?"
"I love you, man. But one more word on the subject of your love life and I will personally set Cindy up with Rick Billingsley."
Just the idea of his sweet girlfriend in the hands of the most notorious horn dog at Cloverton High School was enough to shut Aaron up. At least temporarily.
Forbes was halfway through his second glass of water when Aaron asked sheepishly, "You wouldn't really? Would you?"
"No."
"Okay."
And just like that, the conversation was over. Forbes and Aaron worked the rest of the afternoon in relative silence. Stopping to raid the refrigerator once their stomachs could handle the thought of food. By then, Wylie Wilcox was back among the living. Though for the life of him, he couldn't remember much about the party—or how he had gotten there.
"Since your car isn't out front, somebody must have brought you." Noticing that Wylie was still a little unsteady on his feet, Aaron took his arm. "Come on. I'll give you a lift home."
"It's a good thing football season is starting. It won't hurt any of us to go on the wagon," Forbes said, holding open the door of Aaron's truck.
"I'm the manager," Wylie muttered.
"If we don't drink, you don't drink. Got it?"
Forbes was team captain. Voted on by his fellow players, he took the position seriously. From water boy to cheerleader. If they were involved with the Cloverton Cavaliers, they were his to watch out for.
"Yah, I got it." Wylie didn't sound sold on the idea, but Forbes was confident he would come around. Especially when all his drinking buddies were no longer available to party on Saturday night—or any other day of the week.
As the last of his guests drove away down the long driveway, Forbes walked to the gate, letting himself into the backyard.
"I know you're in here," he called out as soon as the latch was back in place. "Pouting won't solve anything. If you won't meet me face to face, how can I apologize properly?"
Knowing it wouldn't take long, Forbes waited. A few seconds later, a large, dark-brown flash of fur barreled around the corner of the house. The animal—a mixture of Labrador, Great Dane, and Lord knew what else—skidded to a halt a few feet away. Quivering, he didn't jump at Forbes, barely containing his natural instincts. Understanding how this went, Forbes crouched until they were eye to eye.
"I'm sorry, Bailey." Reaching out, Forbes ran his hand over the gentle giant's head. "My human friends are a little rowdy at these get-togethers. Add in alcohol, and I thought it best for you to stay back here. I know you can take care of yourself," Forbes assured his four-legged pal when the dog tilted his head in a questioning manner. "But if anything happened to you, I don't think I could take it."
Never one to hold a grudge, Bailey closed the gap between them until he pushed Forbes to the ground and, despite his considerable size, climbed onto his favorite person's lap. Happy to oblige, Forbes wrapped his arms around the dog,
burying his face in the familiar-smelling fur. Magically, the remaining fuzz cleared from his brain, his headache lowering to a bearable ping instead of an unearthly rattle.
Bailey had been a puppy when he became part of the Branson household. Abandoned, Forbes' mother found him on the side of the road, huddled in a ball during a raging rainstorm, leaving no question about bringing him home. Ella Branson had the softest heart in the county. She couldn't stand to see any living creature suffer. With plenty of room on the ranch, one more mouth to feed wouldn't matter—even if that mouth turned out to consume enough to feed a small army.
All it took was one look. Bailey belonged to Forbes, and he belonged to Bailey. Eight years later, that hadn't changed. A friend. A confidant who would lock anything Forbes shared in the deepest, most impenetrable vault.
However, if none of that were true, Bailey would always have a special place in Forbes' heart. The puppy was the last gift his mother gave him before her sudden death a few short weeks later. God damned drunk driver.
"I still miss her," Forbes said, his throat clogging with emotion.
Silently, Bailey commiserated. More than once, the dog had stood vigil while Forbes cried the tears he couldn't—wouldn't—show his grief-stricken father. It had been a dark, joyless time. Though things were better, the light had never fully returned. The spring was gone from his father's step, the happiness dimmed in his blue eyes.
"Dad needed some time away." Forbes got to his feet, brushing off the back of his jeans. "I hope he had a good time at the rancher's convention. Maybe I wasn't the only member of the family who got lucky this weekend."
On the way to the garage, Bailey sent Forbes a baleful look. "Sorry, fella. Having you fixed was the responsible thing to do. Blame Bob Barker, not me. Besides, unlike Dad, you never had sex. I suspect he's been with a few women in the past eight years, but not often enough for a man still in his prime."
"A man in his prime? Send him my way."
Forbes almost jumped a foot. And to his embarrassment, might have let out a sound reminiscent of a frightened little girl.
"Maeve. I didn't hear you arrive."
"Too busy sharing secrets with that horse masquerading as a dog." Bailey preened, certain he had received the finest of compliments. Laughing, Maeve took a large soup bone from the refrigerator. "Here you go, Mr. Ed."
Maeve Kincaid had been the Branson's housekeeper since before Forbes was born. Unapologetically vain about her looks, she kept a standing weekly appointment at the beauty parlor. Hair and nails. Without fail. Not a big believer in talking about her age, when pushed she would admit to fifty-five. Though sixty-five was more like it.
More than an employee, Maeve was part of the family. For years, she and Forbes' mother worked side by side, cooking for a rotating bevy of ranch hands, cleaning the big main house. Making it into a home. After Ella Branson died, Maeve stayed on. She took care of them.
For months, when Forbes' father was so wracked with grief he did nothing but work and sleep, Maeve was the rock Forbes leaned on. A boy missing his mother, she allowed him to grieve when he needed to. Consoled him when he would let her. Mostly, she was simply there. Carrying on when sometimes it seemed like nobody else could.
And? Maeve hands down made the best cookies in the world.
"How was the party?"
"Party?" Though acting wasn't his forte, Forbes did his best to pull off surprised and nonchalant. By the look on Maeve's face, he failed. Horribly.
With an indulgent smile, Maeve wiped her hands on a dishtowel, shaking her freshly coifed head. "You're seventeen. I'd be worried if you hadn't invited your friends over to kick up your heels."
"I'm eighteen," Forbes corrected. To him, it was an important point.
"Not until tomorrow, young man. Good Lord, where has the time gone." Lightly, with infinite affection, Maeve touched Forbes on the cheek. "What happened to that sweet little boy who constantly needed me to pull a sliver from his finger or bandage his knees?"
"I was never sweet." With a smile, Forbes popped a jam-filled butter cookie into his mouth.
"Rambunctious," Maeve admitted. "A scamp with so much energy your mother and I had to tag team each other to keep up."
That was another thing Forbes loved about Maeve. She was never hesitant to mention Ella Branson. Her references were casual. Natural. Delivered with gentle affection for a friend she would always miss and never left her heart. In stark contrast, his father never spoke of his wife. He held his grief—and his memories—close. Never sharing them with anybody. Not even his son.
Long ago, Forbes wished for his father to open up so he could do the same. It never happened, leaving an invisible wall that neither tried to breach for the simple reason that they didn't realize it was there.
"Time moves too slowly for my liking."
"You won't say that in twenty years. Or thirty." Maeve sighed. "Believe me. When you look back, it will seem like they went by in a blink."
Forbes dismissed Maeve's words with the blitheness of youth. He wasn't concerned about the future. Next week and football practice seemed like it was taking forever to get here. Beyond that, his senior year of high school, and picking the college he would attend, were as far ahead as he cared to look.
"Dad should be home this afternoon."
"I know." Standing in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, Maeve placed her hands on her ample hips. "You never did answer me about the party. I smell… Glade air freshener. Spring Morning, if I'm not mistaken." She took another sniff. "Stale beer, cheap booze, and a bit of vomit."
"Is it that bad?" Denial was useless at this point. Looking over the top of Maeve's much shorter head, Forbes tried to see the room from her perspective.
"No. You did a surprisingly good job of cleaning up." With efficient movements, Maeve straightened a few objects that only her expert eye could identify as out of place. "Who helped you? Besides Aaron?"
"Just him."
"Church?" When Forbes nodded, Maeve laughed. "Funny how devout some folks get when there's unpleasant work to be done. You should have held their lazy rumps over the fire and made them stay."
"It wasn't that bad." Maeve shot him a look that said she was unconvinced. "I covered the furniture before that party started. Locked some doors and restricted everybody to in here, the bathroom, and the kitchen. It worked. For the most part."
Forbes didn't see the point in telling Maeve about Jock Blanding using the vegetable bed as a urinal. What she didn't know wouldn't hurt her. Forbes, on the other hand, planned on taking a pass on zucchini for the rest of the summer.
"I won't ask you about the chores. I know you wouldn't let the animals go hungry."
"I had Mike and Jerry to take care of the horses before heading into town."
They lived on a working ranch. A successful one. The bunkhouse—renovated just last year—comfortably held four permanent cowhands. Depending on the season—winter was the only real downtime—there could be anywhere from ten to twenty on the payroll—not counting Forbes and his father.
Some were strictly cowboys, brought on to deal with the herds of cattle that ranged all over the far-stretching property. Branding. Vaccinations. Keeping the miles and miles of fence in working order. It was a never-ending cycle. Migratory, the men would travel wherever the work took them. The Branson Ranch had a well-earned reputation for treating workers with respect and proper compensation. Good pay. Good food. Good lodgings. By the end of fall, they always walked away with a nice chunk of money in the bank.
With the thoughtlessness of the typical teenager, Forbes didn't realize how lucky he was. His family had money. Though he loved riding horses and working cattle, he wasn't forced by necessity to be a slave to the life. Instead of having to rush home after school or spend his weekends rounding up strays, he was able to have an active social life that included playing football in the fall and baseball in the spring.
"Good boy." Satisfied that everyth
ing was just so, Maeve nodded. "The only reason we could talk your father into getting away was that he knew he could count on you not to burn the place down in his absence."
"I think I did a little better than that."
For all his carefree lifestyle, Forbes took what responsibilities he had seriously. Every morning since his father was away, he diligently did the chores. He worked side by side with the cowhands, whether riding the fence line or mucking out horse stalls. This was his summer job, and he did it gladly. One day, the ranch would be his. Learning the ins and outs was important. The men treated him as a friend, but if a decision needed to be made, they didn't hesitate to look to him.
Forbes had earned their respect—not by virtue of his position as the boss' son. He did it by pulling his weight. It was dirty, sweaty, sometimes bloody work. And he never shied away from doing his share.
Leaving Maeve to settle in, Forbes changed into his work clothes. Old, scuffed-up cowboy boots. Jeans that had been washed so many times, they were white around the rivets. The tear near the knee was new, caused by a run in with some barbed wire and an unruly steer.
Stuck in a mud hole the result of a sudden downpour, the animal stubbornly fought Forbes and his efforts to pull him to dry land. Finally, Forbes, a good, strong rope, and Chester—the best cow pony on the ranch—succeeded in extracting the four-hundred-pound animal. As a thank you, it butted Forbes into the fence. Hence, the torn denim.
"Ready to get some exercise?"
He didn't need to ask Bailey twice. He was game for anything Forbes threw his way. Always had been. Calling out to Maeve that he was headed to the barn, he and the dog set off down the road. Happy. With the warm Sunday afternoon. With their lives in general. And mostly, with the silence and each other's company.
CHAPTER THREE
"ALL OF THIS belongs to you?"
The wonder in Joy's voice seemed to make Newt's chest swell with pride.
With One More Look At You Page 3