Garth led off with “Don’t Rock the Jukebox,” and the crowd went insane. Mathias launched into the vocals and I marveled again at what a good sport he was, how extremely sexy he looked, powerful shoulders keeping time with the beat. The dance floor was elbow-to-elbow, and some people were actually line dancing. I felt as though I’d wandered into an old-time saloon.
“Doll, I hate to see you sitting here all alone,” said a male voice two feet from my elbow.
I looked to the left, startled, to see a tall, wiry older man with silver-rimmed glasses and a bushy gray mustache. He tipped the wide brim of his black hat and explained, “Those are my boys up there, Garth and Marsh. Two of them, anyhow, and Case is like my boy, too. May I join you?”
“Of course! Please, have a seat.”
“Clark Rawley,” he said, settling on an adjacent chair.
“Camille Gordon,” I said, reaching to shake his proffered hand. I’d been this close to saying “Camille Carter” instead. Clark Rawley took my fingertips and kissed my knuckles, reminiscent of his son.
“And that’s your man, up there singing?” he asked, indicating Mathias.
I nodded, flush with pleasure at the thought.
“Well, he’s damn good,” Clark observed. “He want a job?”
“I’m sure he would, if we weren’t just visiting,” I explained. “We’re from Minnesota.”
Clark nodded at this information, scratching his chin, studying me. “I don’t suppose you two-step, do you, doll?”
I grinned at him. “I’m a quick learner.”
Clark led me to the edge of the dancers, carefully steering clear of the flow of circulating couples, bowing politely before collecting my right hand in his left, his elbow gracefully elevated, right hand resting lightly against my waist. He was as lean and lanky as a scarecrow, dressed in a formal white shirt with a black string tie and faded jeans that fit like a second skin. He nodded at our feet, his in pointy-toed, western-style boots.
“I’ll teach you the basic steps,” he said. I moved awkwardly at first but Clark was patient and sweet; it took approximately two and a quarter songs before he deemed me knowledgeable enough to brave the swirling partners.
“I don’t have a hat,” I worried, feeling as if this was a large and un-seemly fashion error.
“Don’t fret,” Clark said, nearly twinkling with good humor, leading us smoothly. “It would be a shame to cover up such pretty hair like yours, anyhow. Aren’t I the lucky one? Loveliest girl in the whole place with an old geezer like me.”
“Thank you,” I giggled, and his eyes crinkled up at the corners, his mustache twitching as he returned my smile.
“Now, you said you’re Camille. What’s your feller’s name?” he asked, nodding at Mathias, who was holding the mic perpendicular to his lips, singing like nobody’s business, sweat trickling along his temples.
“Mathias Carter,” I told Clark.
“Carter, you say?” Clark said. “Of Minnesota, you said?”
“Yes, near Bemidji.”
“Will you two be in town long?”
“We planned to head over to Bozeman tomorrow,” I explained. “We’re here to see Mathias’s relatives.”
“Well, I’m right glad I came over to The Spoke this evening,” Clark said. “My wife, my Faye, passed a few years back, and our boys are always saying that I should get out of the house more often. I surely am delighted that I found the time tonight. Faye and I have five of our own, and we had a fair hand in raising the Spicer boys, too.”
We danced to one more song before Mathias passed the mic to Garth, who cupped his shoulder, grinning. They spoke for a moment and then Garth said into the mic, “I’m taking over on this one, folks, so grab your lover and get busy. Dancing, that is. Shee-it!”
Mathias hopped from the stage and came through the crowd with his eyes fixed on me; everyone seemed to want his attention, to compliment him, but he was a man on a mission. He caught me close and I wrapped my arms around his waist, kissing his jaw.
“You were wonderful,” I enthused. He was hot as a log in the fire, radiating with excitement.
“That was a rush, holy shit,” he said, and then remembered his manners, extending a hand to Clark. “Mathias Carter. Garth said you’re his dad.”
“That’s right, son. Clark Rawley. Good to know you. Thanks for letting me steal your lady for a few dances,” Clark said. “You are a lucky man.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Mathias grinned, holding me around the waist as the guys started up “Amazed” by Lonestar.
As Clark headed back to the table, I said, “I’m so glad we came here tonight. I don’t know how to explain it, but I know we were meant to. I swear I had the strangest sensation while you were up there singing.”
“How do you mean?”
“It was a good sensation. There was joy in it, a sense of belonging. I can’t explain exactly…” My eyes moved up and to the left, to visualize past events. “We—all of us, I mean, you and me, and those three—were sitting around a campfire. We were singing.”
“Kindred spirits,” he agreed as we continued dancing, staying in an embrace rather than a more traditional stance.
I kissed his chin. “You’re a natural up there. You should see yourself.”
“I thought I was about to puke before we started!”
“I could tell, I was really worried for a second there.”
“You know what could make this evening even better?” he asked. Before I could respond, he grinned and answered his own question. “You up on stage for the next set.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “No way. I sing for you at home, nowhere else!”
“And you’re really good. I need your Dolly to my Burt,” he said, grinning as he wheedled. “Or better yet, your June to my Johnny. We could sing ‘Jackson,’ Garth has the lyrics.”
“Thias, no way,” I said, eyeing the crowd of revelers.
“Please, honey? My sweet, sweet honey?”
“Maybe,” I hedged, caving a little, his favorite nickname for me pouring warmly over my skin, just like it sounded. “Maybe just one.” And then, a devil hopping on my shoulder for the second time today, I teased, “Only if I can be your sweet, sweet, sticky honey, you know, the kind you really have to lick off the spoon…”
His eyelids lowered and his dimple was deep enough for me to dive into, the gold in his eyes catching fire. He said in his throatiest voice, “Forget singing, let’s get out of here right now. This minute, I mean. Damn, I’m already hard.”
I shivered even as I giggled, pressing closer.
The song was ending. He murmured against my lips, “Please?”
“Please let’s leave, or please sing with you?”
“Sing first, make love all night later,” he promised. “I will lick every last drop of that honey, honey. You can count on it, but you have to sing with me first.”
His promise literally made my knees weak. I heard myself say, “I will.”
He grinned, taking my hand as he led the way through the crowd. Garth caught sight of us heading back to the stage and cried, “Give it up for Mathias Carter! Looks like he sweet-talked his woman into singing with him, so let’s also give Camille the warmest welcome you got, people!”
I could hardly breathe as Mathias tugged me onto the stage and I stared out over the crowd from this unfamiliar vantage point; there seemed to be ten thousand pairs of eyes. Someone gave a shrill wolf-whistle and Mathias laughed delightedly, catching me around the waist with one arm as Garth passed him back the mic.
Garth, Case, and Marshall were all drenched in sweat under the heat of the stage lights, grinning at me, Marshall twirling one of his drumsticks. Mathias announced, “Camille agreed to sing with me and I just want all of you to know that this woman makes me happier than I’ve ever been in my life.” There was a collective, rippling wave of awwws. Mathias curled his palm over the top of the mic and asked Garth, “You got those lyrics you mentioned?”
“Here, ho
n, I got those right here,” Case said to me, sidestepping cords to get over to us, pulling a tattered half-sheet out of his pocket. My hand was shaking so badly that I couldn’t grab the paper, but Mathias held it for us and he was so clearly elated that I was up here with him (I was, too, beneath the terror), that I felt a little of it drain away; he handed me the mic and curled his hand over mine, steadying it. Marshall tapped out the count with his drumsticks and it was now or never.
Mathias and I sang this song to each other all the time, to entertain Millie Jo at the breakfast table, or harmonizing in the shower either before or after we took care of other more pressing matters there, and so as a result I knew it well; it was just that I never sang in front of anyone else, other than my daughter and my little sisters. “Jackson” was also the song my own dad had been named for, once upon a time. I thought my heart might explode as our cue neared, and my voice wobbled before I lifted my chin and gave it my all. Dammit, how often would I have a chance like this again?
Mathias grinned as he recognized that I was all right, his voice rich and sweet; mine held pitch (mostly), and people were screaming for us, actually screaming, whistling and cheering, waving beer bottles and shots. I could hardly believe the reaction and for that moment felt like a star. I didn’t even need the lyrics.
This is so crazy, I told him with my eyes.
It’s crazy as shit, he agreed.
When we finished the song, I was hyper with laughter. Mathias was trying to say something to me but I couldn’t hear him over the screeching crowd. He gave up trying to speak and kissed me.
“How about one more?” Garth leaned near to ask. “Shit, you two are good luck. Netta told me people are calling their friends to get their asses downtown. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the place so packed. Pretty much all of Jalesville is here.”
We ended up singing for the next hour. Afterward, the crowd demanded an encore and the guys obliged, playing two more before begging off for good. We all but collapsed at the table where Clark Rawley was still waiting, grinning and delighted. He said, “You two are naturals.”
“Shit, tell me you’ll consider moving here,” Garth said, laughing and shaking his head before he downed a beer in about two gulps.
“What did we do without you two?” Case wondered aloud. “Jason is officially out!”
“Jason, who?” Garth agreed. “Carter, what’ll it take to get you to stay through the weekend? We’ll pay you. We have two more shows.”
Mathias said, “I wish we could. I’d love to, but we’re on a schedule.”
“You gotta get back to a job?” Case figured.
“That, and our daughter,” Mathias explained, and it was sweet that he would refer to Millie that way, without getting into the specifics. “She’s staying with Camille’s grandma while we’re away.”
“You got a baby girl?” Case asked, growing all mushy and doe-eyed. “Aw, I love little kids. I want a bunch of ’em but I haven’t found the right woman yet. Someday, though.”
“What’s her name?” Garth asked.
“Here, I’ve got a picture,” I said, fishing my wallet out of my purse. I noticed the green light on my phone blinking, undoubtedly with a wild array of responses to the text messages I’d sent my sisters, and Tina, Glenna, and Elaine. They were probably flipping out. I found the most recent photo, in which Tish and Ruthie were posing with Millie Jo on the dock, all of them grinning, dusted by the sunset glowing over Flickertail.
“Dang, you two have a lot of kids,” Garth teased, taking the picture from my hand. Case and Marshall crowded closer to look.
“Millie Jo is ours,” I explained, smiling, indicating her. “She’s two.”
“Holy shit, who’s the girl with the gorgeous eyes?” Case demanded, tracing a finger just above Tish’s face; his jaw had all but dropped open.
I giggled; despite hardly knowing him, I adored Case already. He was hilarious. In the picture Tish was smiling her exuberant, effortless grin, her eyes almost sparkling right off the photo. Her long, curly hair hung over one shoulder, perfectly gilded by the setting sun, and she wore a patterned halter top with jean shorts, which didn’t leave much of her considerable curves to the imagination. She and Ruthie would both die if they knew good-looking guys were checking out this picture right now. I could just hear them.
“Those are my little sisters,” I explained. “Tish and Ruthann.”
“Wait, what’s her name?” Case demanded, snatching the picture from Garth.
“Patricia,” I explained. “Tish is her nickname.”
“Is she eighteen?” Garth asked, clearly picking on Case, driving a shoulder against his friend’s side.
“I’ll wait, if not,” Case said with half-drunken determination, and we all laughed at his earnest expression. He cradled the picture and begged, “Can I keep this?” And then, with true reverence, repeated, “Patricia.”
“Yes, she’s eighteen, and no, you can’t keep it! My sisters would kill me.”
“Where you kids sleeping tonight?” Clark asked.
“Over at Green Springs,” Mathias said, naming the campground. “We walked over here to have supper.”
“Well, I’d be obliged if you’d consider staying the night with us instead,” Clark invited. “We’ll help you collect your gear and you can follow us out to the homestead.” When he saw our surprise at this invitation, he added, “I wouldn’t normally ask two strangers to my home, you’ll understand, but there’s something I would like to show you. I hadn’t thought of it in years, if you want to know the truth.”
All around us The Spoke was slowly emptying of revelers, the evening winding down. The women named Lee, Pam, and Netta were busy behind the bar, cleaning. A few last customers lingered there at the smooth wooden counter, laughing and rehashing the show.
Clark Rawley smoothed a finger and thumb over his mustache in a gesture seemingly to collect his thoughts, and elaborated, “When I heard your name, son, I thought of it. It’s not that Carter is so unusual, but it reminds me of something from way back, when I was just a kid. My granddad kept an old freighter trunk packed full of things from his own granddad, who fought in the Civil War, mind you. My brothers and me used to root in there like three pigs at a trough. There was a telegram, an old Western Union, from a man named Carter. Rung my bell when I heard the name.”
I froze. Mathias leaned on his forearms and asked intently, “Malcolm? Was the man named Malcolm Carter?”
“See, now that’s what I mean,” Clark said, and Garth and Marshall were studying Mathias now, their intent gazes darting between him and their father; Case was still mooning over Tish, oblivious to the rest of us. Clark asked quietly, “How in the world could you know that?”
Mathias said, “We can be ready in just a few minutes.”
Chapter Eleven
JUSTIN AND RAE GOT HOME ABOUT AN HOUR AFTER I’D finished eating supper with Jo at the cafe; I’d promised we’d meet her and Blythe back at Shore Leave around nine. I spent that hour cleaning the kitchen almost floor to ceiling. The dishwasher and the clothes dryer were both issuing muted rumbling, the air scented lightly with lemony bleach, when Rae hopped up the porch steps, all smiles.
“Hi, Mama!” she chirped. “Me and Daddy ate supper with Grandpa!”
“Hi, love,” I said, holding her close and kissing her forehead. Justin followed more slowly, his eyes somber upon me as he entered, and then surprise lifted his eyebrows as he observed the squeaky-clean state of our kitchen and dining room.
“Mama, I gotta go!” Rae announced, and scampered for the bathroom. I watched her disappear in a flash of flying ponytails and then turned to face my husband, who stood behind my chair at the table, one hand curled over the top of it.
“You all right?” he asked, and I saw the concern in his eyes. He was still wearing his black work t-shirt and faded jeans, his feet in worn socks, as he’d stepped out of his work boots at the door. His black hair was wild and appeared to have been roughed up numerous times
since this afternoon. Absolute need to be in his arms nearly took me to my knees, but I was still angry. And torn—my eyes flickered toward the counter, where my panties had been laid out this afternoon, and my heart seemed to cave inward. But I hadn’t the wherewithal to mention this, not yet.
You’re probably making something out of nothing anyway, I thought. Probably Rae was just playing around. How stupid does it sound to be afraid of your own underwear, huh?
I nodded in response to Justin’s question and sensed his intense desire for us to get over this fight. He remained in the same spot, the table between us, unconsciously caressing the back of my chair.
“Jo and Bly want to go to Eddie’s tonight, if that’s all right with you.”
“Oh yeah, Norm Olson’s band is in town, aren’t they?”
I nodded again. “You want to go?”
“Sure,” he said quietly. “Let me clean up first.”
We walked Rae over to Mom’s an hour later; normally we would have held hands but tonight we walked with an icky little distance between us, and I hated this. I wanted to tell him I was sorry, that I was being stubborn and that above all, I was scared, but the words kept sticking in my throat like chewed-up crackers. Like cotton wads. Rae, oblivious to any strain between her father and me, danced ahead, clutching her elephant and yelling at us to hurry up.
Justin looked damn good, and I had tried pretty hard myself, changing into my favorite maternity sundress, a rich copper color that highlighted both my tan and my cleavage. While Justin showered, I spent a few minutes accenting my lashes and lips and brushing out my hair. Justin was unable to keep the smoldering heat from his eyes when he emerged from the bathroom into our bedroom, all damp and fucking sexy as hell, his hips wrapped loosely in a well-worn towel just to torture me. He knew well how incredible he looked with his powerful muscles on display; more often than not when he appeared in our room fresh from the shower, I yanked that same towel from his body and demanded his immediate and absolute attention.
“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” he murmured, holding my gaze as I watched him in the mirror.
Wild Flower Page 20