by Ann Charles
“Nope.” But she could sure use something to take the edges off right about now—all of them. “Has anyone ever told you that your eyes are the color of a shot glass of Southern Comfort?”
He narrowed said peepers, leaning in through her window sniffing. “Have you been smoking pot?”
“Not since college.”
His gaze bounced around the cab, landing on her purse on the passenger side floor. “Where did you get all of that jewelry?”
“It’s mine. Don’t be fooled; none of it is worth diddly, unless you need to get laid.” She reached down and grabbed a handful of necklaces, bracelets, and earrings, holding them out toward him. “Give me thirty bucks and this is all yours.”
His face seemed to harden.
“The chandelier earrings are especially nice.”
His eyes nailed her over the top of his glasses. “Are you trying to bribe an officer of the law?”
“No, I’m trying to sell you cheap-assed jewelry to give to some chick named Mindy Lou. I hear she puts out for the fake stuff.”
A muscle in his jaw ticced. “Are you referring to Mindy Lou Harrison?”
“Yep, that’s her.” How many Mindy Lou’s could there be in this corner of the state? “She’s quite a catch from the sounds of it. But I’d wear a condom if I were you. How about it?” She shoved the handful of necklaces under his nose. “I’ll drop the price to twenty-five.”
“Mindy Lou is my niece.”
Ronnie noticed the tag on his right pocket bearing the same last name. “Oh. Oops.” She grimaced. “You may want to go arrest the guy behind the counter at the pawn shop then, because he’s going to try to coerce your niece into some lewd activities tonight, using my wedding set as bait.”
The officer’s lips tightened into a thin pink line. “Don’t move, ma’am. I’ll be right back.”
Watching him return to his cruiser, she figured any chance of getting out of a speeding ticket was now in the one-in-a-million range.
She looked down at the jewelry in her hand, shrugged, and tossed the bunch on the seat next to her. Scooping up her purse, she dug inside for her lip gloss, and then jerked the rearview mirror in her direction. A layer of shine on her lips made her feel more human. A fluff of her curls helped bolster her spirits even more. She was getting used to these shorter curls, especially since they were her natural brown instead of blonde.
Although she probably could have gotten more money out of that grease ball back at the pawn shop if she’d been blonde. Officer Hardass might have let her off at the toss of her bleached waves, too.
Her vision blurred, her thoughts straying from Officer Hardass. Now it all made sense, Lyle insisting she go blonde. The fake hair was a perfect match for the fake jewelry and fake marriage. Maybe she should write the asshole a letter, listing all of the fake orgasms she’d had during their five non-bliss-filled years.
A shadow blocked the sunlight shining through her window. “According to the South Dakota Division of Motor Vehicles, your eyes are supposed to be brown, not blue, Mrs. Jefferson.”
His use of her married name yanked her back to the present. She trained her blue-brown gaze on him. Somebody had been playing Sherlock while she’d been busy daydreaming about her nightmare past. Damned government records! Her new makeover could shield her only so much. She hoped it gave her enough time to escape a hit man’s detection.
“Wow, you’re good, Officer Hardass.”
His head cocked to the side. “What did you just call me, ma’am?”
“Officer Harris … son.” She felt a slow burn at the base of her throat and prayed it wouldn’t climb any higher.
“That’s what I thought I heard.” His lips twitched. “Ruby claims you’re her relative.” He handed her a piece of paper. “You should thank her.”
Ruby? Gramps’s Ruby?
“Why?” She took the paper from him.
“Because she saved you a trip to jail this afternoon for attempting to bribe the Sheriff of Cholla County.”
The Sheriff? As in the one lawman in charge of the whole damned county? Well, wasn’t it just her lucky day?
“I told you it wasn’t a bribe, Sheriff.” She frowned at the words on the paper, then looked up into his sunglasses. “What’s this?”
“That there, ma’am, is a speeding ticket from the state of Arizona.” He tipped the brim of his cowboy hat at her. “You have a nice day and drive safely.”
Chapter Three
Saturday, September 29th
By the time Mac Garner rolled into the Dancing Winnebagos R.V. Park late Saturday afternoon, his forearms were on fire from trying to bend the steering wheel with his bare hands for the last hundred miles. It was that or cram one of his work boots in Deborah Morgan’s big, fat mouth. An air horn blasted through a megaphone would be less grinding on his nerves than Claire’s mother’s relentless bitching.
He stopped in front of his Aunt Ruby’s General Store and killed the engine. “We’re here,” he said, staring straight ahead while willing her to get the hell out of his pickup.
Deborah peered out the window at the old two-story house that doubled as a store, her upper lip curling with a sneer. “Your aunt really needs to add a fresh coat of paint if she wants to impress customers. Something to make the place look less like a rundown sha—”
Mac slammed the pickup door on her words. His girlfriend’s mother or not, he’d had his fill of Deborah’s complaints about her father, her two younger daughters, and the state of Arizona in general. He suspected the only reason she’d bitten her forked tongue about Ruby most of the way to Jackrabbit Junction was because she’d known he’d have stopped and kicked her out of the pickup.
She was wrong, though—he wouldn’t have stopped, just opened the door and shoved her out. A firm foot to her ass would have done the trick, a washboard-rutted road somewhere down near Cochise Stronghold the perfect spot.
The General Store’s screen door swung open as he climbed the porch steps. His aunt walked out, wearing a faded denim shirt with a dishtowel draped over her shoulder.
“Hi, honey,” Ruby greeted him in her soft Oklahoma drawl and dropped a peck on his cheek. “I’d ask how you are, but that scary look in your eyes says plenty.”
“Only for you,” he said under his breath, pointing his thumb at where Deborah was climbing down from his pickup. “Not for anyone else in this world would I spend two hours in an enclosed space with that … that …”
“Watch what you say about my new stepdaughter,” Ruby whispered while barely moving her lips. “She may be your mother-in-law someday.”
The family dynamics resulting from his aunt marrying Claire’s grandpa often left him shaking his head. Deborah was now his step-cousin, making Claire not only his girlfriend but his first cousin once removed, and all of that was before he’d even figured out how to get Claire over her commitment phobia and agree to be his fiancée. Some days he felt like he’d walked onto the set of a western rendition of Li’l Abner. Right now his brain was craving some of Mammy Yokum’s Yokumberry Tonic.
“I need a beer.” He headed inside the store, noticing the strong odor of nail polish in the cool air.
Speaking of Claire, where was she? It’d been too long since he’d had her all to himself without one family member or another interrupting, interfering, and screwing up any chance of getting her alone and naked. With her older sister living under his roof for the last month, sleeping on the other side of the wall from his and Claire’s headboard, most of his nights had ended up with the only action under the covers involving Claire’s knee ramming into his thigh. He had half a mind to kidnap Claire and drag her to one of the rundown motels up the road in Yuccaville for some R-rated fun.
“Hi, Mac.” His cousin Jess sat on the stool behind the wooden counter, painting her toenails pink.
“Hey, kid.” He headed over to the wall of coolers and grabbed two cans of beer. Cracking one open, he chugged it down barely tasting the hops. He carried the empty soldier a
nd the second unopened can over to the counter, tossing a few bills down. “Where’s Claire?”
“Out back working on the new bathrooms. The roof is almost done.”
He should go help her finish it. “How’s Harley doing?”
“Okay but he’s pretty growly. I overheard him bitching at Mom last night to stop treating him like a baby when she asked if he was ready for his bath.”
According to Claire, her grandfather was more than growly. She’d used words on the phone this week like “pissy,” “impossible to live with,” and “ornery as hell.” Unfortunately, with Deborah on the premises, Mac had a feeling that Harley’s attitude would only get worse. Teddy Bear Chollas would be less prickly.
He opened the other can of beer. “Jess, I don’t think your mom would like you using the word bitching.”
“I’m sixteen now. That’s old enough to cuss.”
“I know you’re old enough.” He’d been swearing plenty by her age. “I’m just saying you probably shouldn’t practice it when your mom is within a one-mile radius.”
The door banged open. “Jessica!” Ruby’s face looked two shades angrier than when Mac had left her a moment ago. “Get out here and help me with Deborah’s luggage.”
“Why me? My toenails are wet. Can’t Mac do it?”
“I don’t give a darn tootin’ about your nails. Get your hiney out here right now.” Ruby’s green gaze flashed in Mac’s direction. “Mac, will you go find Harley and tell him that his daughter is here and fixin’ to have a fit if he doesn’t come to the house right now to greet her after she flew all of the way from South Dakota.”
Put more space between him and Deborah? No problem. With a nod, Mac grabbed his beer off the counter and pushed through the cigar smoke-filled green velvet curtain that divided the General Store from his aunt’s rec room.
He looked around the room and noticed Ruby had bought a new loveseat to replace the green sofa that had been left over from the disco decade. The orange shag carpet was still there, though, along with the faded picture of a ten-point buck that hung on the opposite wall. The long walnut bar shined with a layer of polish he hadn’t seen coating it in the five-plus years Ruby had lived in the house. She must have been busy preparing for Deborah’s white-glove inspection. Mac would bet his next paycheck that short of knocking down the walls and rebuilding the whole two-story house, no amount of sprucing would be good enough for Claire’s mom.
Mac headed out the back door to find Claire and her grandfather. His upper lip was sweating by the time he reached the back of the R.V. park where he found Harley and his two cronies sitting in lawn chairs drinking cheap beer. Henry, Claire’s least favorite beagle on earth, lay on his side next to his owner’s one dusty sneaker.
Where was Claire? There was no sign of life on the roof of the stud-framed building in front of the three troublemakers.
“What in the hell are you drinking, boy?” Chester said as a greeting. “That stuff won’t even put hair on your chest.”
“Yours seems to be adding a winter coat’s worth to your back,” Mac said, grinning at the bristly vet.
Manny chuckled and petted Chester’s hairy shoulder. “The women line up to brush his shiny fur these days.”
“At least they are lining up for me, Carrera. That caterpillar you wear on your upper lip keeps scaring them away.”
“How’s the leg?” Mac asked Claire’s grandfather.
Harley pierced him with a glare straight out of the old West. “Well, if it isn’t the Lone Ranger, here to take care of all our problems.”
What the hell? Harley must have his boxers on crooked. Mac ignored the crabby jab and delivered his aunt’s message. “Ruby sent me to tell you that your daughter is here.”
“Such a good boy,” Harley said, “always doing what your aunt asks you, aren’t you?”
Mac took a step back. “Are you drunk?”
Harley threw his empty beer can on the ground. “I wish. It would sure make my situation more palatable this afternoon.”
His situation? Did he mean his obnoxious daughter showing up for a few weeks or something else? Something to do with Claire or Ronnie or both?
He shot Mac a scowl. “I’m sure everyone will be all giddy now that you’re here, though.”
Mac had no idea what he’d done to get on Harley’s pissy side today, but after the two hours of hell on wheels thanks to the grouch’s daughter, he was in no mood to kiss anyone’s owies and make things all better.
“When you’re done sulking in your beer,” he told Harley, “you need to haul your butt to the store and deal with your daughter.”
“You’re here to save the day, you go deal with her.”
“I already did, all of the way from Tucson. Now it’s your turn.” Mac gulped the last of his beer and tossed the can in the paper bag at Manny’s feet. “And get off my ass while you’re at it. I’m not here to save anything. I just want to see your granddaughter.”
“Naked,” Manny added to the end of Mac’s sentence and then nudged Chester, who snickered along with him.
Naked would be great, but Mac wasn’t about to say that aloud and risk getting the jokes rolling about his and Claire’s sex life. He’d had enough ribbing over the last few months to last the rest of his days.
The gravel crunched behind him. He turned, hoping to see Claire, and ended up frowning at her older sister instead. When had she gotten her hair cut? With it brown now instead of blonde, he could see her resemblance to Claire even more. Only Claire was curvier, softer on the edges, whereas Ronnie seemed skinnier, her collarbone showing more than before.
“Hey, Mac.” Ronnie shot a worried-looking smile at him, and then focused on her grandfather. “Gramps, Mom is looking for you.”
Harley grunted and swore under his breath. Mac couldn’t agree more.
“Where is Claire?” she asked Mac.
“That’s the question of the hour,” Manny said.
“She and Natalie went to Yuccaville to get another drill,” Gramps answered. “Natalie’s died this morning.”
“It took both of them to go get another drill?” Ronnie’s voice held a dollop of disbelief. “I don’t think so. Claire’s just avoiding Mom.”
Mac couldn’t blame Claire, but damn it, he had been hoping she’d be here and feel like rewarding him for his pain and suffering. Alone. Some place where these cigar-smoking nosy Nellies and any other family members wouldn’t hear them.
Harley struggled to grab his crutches, batting away Ronnie’s attempt to help him. “I don’t know why your mom’s so bent on seeing me.”
“She expects you to help her get settled in.”
“What’s to settle? She’s sleeping with you.”
“No, she’s not.” Ronnie crossed her arms.
“Where is she going to sleep then?” Harley scooted to the edge of his seat. “In a tent? I don’t think so.”
“She can sleep in my rig,” Manny offered.
“You keep your mind and paws off my daughter, Carrera. The signatures are still wet on her divorce papers. She doesn’t need you messing with her head.”
“I’d offer my couch,” Chester said, “but she’ll scare off those two matching archaeologist babes. They’re coming over later to take a look at an ‘old bone’ in my bedroom.” His bushy eyebrows wiggled at the same time his fingers made invisible quote marks in the air.
Mac had to smile at Chester’s gumption. Storm or not, the old vet was always determined to find a port.
“Mom is sleeping in the spare room,” Ronnie said. “I’ll bunk in the R.V. with Claire.”
Harley grimaced. “I don’t think Claire is going to be happy about that.”
“Claire’s not the only one,” Mac said.
Ronnie’s chin lifted. “I’m not sleeping in the spare room with that woman.”
Her stubborn reaction seemed over the top. What was her beef with her mom? Ronnie had been acting more and more peculiar over the last couple of weeks. When Mac had asked
Claire about it, she’d shrugged as if it were no big deal, muttering something about Ronnie having a history of temporary insanity. That was all the more reason to get her out from under Mac’s roof sooner rather than later.
“Claire’s happiness is not my concern at the moment. I’m sleeping in the Skunkmobile.” Ronnie pointed at Mac. “And you can live a few more days without having sex with my sister.”
“A lack of blood flow can make a man’s willy fall right off,” Chester said. “I’m sure I read that somewhere.”
Manny nodded in agreement.
“Where’s Mac going to sleep then?” Gramps asked, shooting Mac another glare. “The rec room?”
Forget it. Between Deborah’s festering presence and Harley’s grumpy bear song and dance, Mac would rather sleep out under the stars with the snakes and porcupines.
“He can sleep with Chester or Manny.” Ronnie said as if she’d just solved the problem, end of story.
No, absolutely not. Cuddling up with a javelina sounded more appealing.
“I don’t think my bed’s big enough for both of us.” Manny grinned at Mac. “Unless you like spooning.”
Mac shuddered. There wasn’t enough whiskey at The Shaft to make him even consider spooning with Manny. “No thanks, I prefer the fork.”
“I’ll sleep on the table bed in Harley’s R.V.”
“I don’t like you sharing an R.V. with three of my granddaughters. It’s bad enough you already snookered one of them without putting a ring on her finger.”
Hold up just one damned second. First of all, he’d been sharing his house with two of them for over a month. Second, it was Claire who had “schnookered” him, not the other way around. Third, she was the one who still stuttered every time any talk of love came up. Mac didn’t even dare breathe the word marriage.
Chester slapped his hand on the aluminum arm of his lawn chair. “That settles it then, Mac. You and I will have a stag weekend in my pimp mobile.”
“I don’t—” Mac started.
“Sounds like a plan to me.” Harley crutched over to the golf cart he’d bought a month ago to get around the R.V. park.