Almost Home

by Barbara Freethy

  Running a finger around the corner square of the quilt, she studied the design with desperation, wondering if she would somehow find the answers to her questions in the material. A border of lilies wound its way around the outside squares of the quilt. The inside squares were a hodgepodge of different materials, some patterned, some plain, some silk, some linen, notes and dates and names that meant nothing to Katherine, at least not yet. But it was early. And she'd only just arrived in Paradise.

  Pushing the quilt back into the chest, Katherine stood up and walked to the window. Her room faced Main Street, which seemed to run about six blocks in both directions. Paradise wasn't exactly a thriving metropolis. From her vantage point she could see a drugstore, beauty parlor, stationery store, bank, post office, a couple of restaurants, and a craft shop.

  Her gaze lingered on the knitting needles etched on the sign hanging over the door across the street. It might be a good place to ask about her quilt. Tomorrow, she decided. She'd go there first thing. But tonight -- tonight she was going to Golden's.

  The bar and grill was located on a side street a few blocks away. Billy Dawson had pointed it out to her when they'd dropped her car off at the garage. She'd told herself she'd go once she got checked in, once she got settled, but here it was almost six o'clock at night, and she still hadn't made a move.

  "Coward," she said out loud. "Chicken."

  Unfortunately, not even self-inflicted insults could get her out the door. She didn't feel ready yet. Because she was afraid, her conscience repeated wearily, as if she were also a dimwit. Maybe she was a dimwit, tilting at windmills like Don Quixote on his impossible quest.

  She flung herself down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. She probably wouldn't have moved for another hour if someone hadn't knocked at her door.

  A sudden irrational thought that it might be Zach Tyler ran through her mind, sending her off the bed faster than any lecture from her conscience. Not that she wanted to see him again, she told herself firmly, taking a quick look in the mirror on her way to the door. He'd been rude, cocky, and definitely unsupportive.

  Still, she couldn't help the tingle that ran down her spine at the thought of him. His image was indelibly printed on her brain; his dark eyes, rugged face, and his hands. She'd never felt such strength in a man's hands, such power, such anger, such control. She had a feeling he could be incredibly rough -- and incredibly gentle. Her stomach turned over at the thought of his hands on her.

  Shaking that distracting thought out of her head, she moved to the door and said, "Who is it?"

  "Maggie Harper. I have some towels for you."

  A young woman stood in the hallway holding a stack of puffy blue towels. With her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and bright green eyes that showed barely a hint of life experience, she looked to be about nineteen.

  "Hi," she said with a pop of her chewing gum and a great big smile. "I'm Maggie. My mama and papa own this hotel, Caroline and Sean Harper. I'm their only daughter, the front desk clerk, the maid, and their slave seven days a week."

  Katherine smiled back at her. "You're multitalented then."

  "Oh, you wouldn't believe how many talents I have and how little I'm paid for them."

  "I'm Katherine Whitfield."

  "Sure. I saw your name in the register. Can I put these towels in the bathroom for you?"

  "The other ones aren't dirty."

  "Oh, that's all right. We change 'em every evening no matter what," Maggie said, strolling into the room. "I hear you had a run-in with Zach Tyler today."

  Now she knew why she was getting clean towels. "I had a little accident with my car."

  Maggie paused at the bathroom door. "He's trouble, you know."

  "I didn't know."

  "Well, I guess you wouldn't, seeing as how you're a stranger and all. But he don't come from good stock. As mama says, apples never fall far from the tree." Maggie disappeared into the bathroom, only to reappear a few seconds later with the old towels heaped in her arms. "He's awful cute, though," she said with a yearning youthful sigh. "Not that he spends much time in town since Crystal left him."

  "Crystal?"

  "His fiancé. Left him standing at the altar with his rented tuxedo and a church full of people."

  Although she didn't normally gossip, she found it impossible not to ask one more question. "That's awful. What did he do?”

  "Thanked the minister for coming and walked out."

  That sounded like the silent man she'd met earlier.

  "Most folks thought Zach deserved what he got. After all, his old man stole half the town's money some years back, and a lot of people thought Zach helped him do it. Not that there was any real proof of anything. It was one of those swindles that leaves everyone shaking their head. I was a kid at the time, but I remember all the hoopla. Crystal didn't know any of it, since she's not from around here, but I guess she found out about Zach before it was too late."

  She cleared her throat, not sure why she was feeling sorry for Zach. She didn't know the man at all, and from everything Maggie said, he wasn't going to win any awards for honesty, integrity, or general human kindness. Still, she couldn't forget that he'd stayed with her on the highway and helped her with her car when she was the one to blame for landing it in a ditch in the first place. Those hardly seemed the actions of a horrible man.

  "I have to go out," she said abruptly, feeling guilty for having listened to Maggie. She'd make her own decisions about Zach if and when she ever saw him again. "Maybe we can talk another time."

  "Oh sure," Maggie said with a cheerful nod. "I'll be cleaning your room every day. How long are you staying?"

  "That depends on when my car gets fixed. The mechanic said it might be a few days."

  "Oh, well, we have an extra car around here if you need to borrow it. Just stop in at the front desk and Mama or I will give you the keys."

  "Thanks." As she shut the door, she thought about what Maggie had told her. It seemed like people were judging Zach by the actions of his father. Good stock, bad stock. She'd never associated those words with people until just now.

  Zach's words came back into her head. This is horse country. Family, bloodlines, tradition, they're pretty damn important around here.

  Despite his warning, she couldn't leave Paradise. She was missing a big part of her life, her biological father, her background, her roots, her family history. Maybe she'd have the guts to stand up for who she was -- if she had any idea who she was. Even if she never spoke to her father, if she could find out his name, maybe see him at work or with his friends...

  Who was she kidding? She hadn't come halfway across the country to stare at some stranger from afar.

  She didn't know what she was going to do when she found him, but she'd leave that be for the moment. Right now she just wanted more information. She picked up her key and headed out the door to Golden's Grill.

  Maybe Golden's was where her parents had met, a secret meeting place for two young lovers. Katherine could almost imagine her mother holding hands with some handsome young man in the shadowy candlelight, stealing perhaps her first sip of wine, maybe leaning over now and then to share a kiss...

  Chapter Three

  Zach winced as the noise in Golden's grew louder. With most of the women at the weekly quilting, Wednesday nights had become old boys' night at Golden's. While the back half of Golden's, known as the grill, served up burgers and fries, the front half, the bar, offered plenty of beer and Kentucky bourbon. Over the bar, a television blared, the satellite dish outside picking up racetrack feeds from all over the country.

  Normally he avoided Golden's and all the other local hangouts where his father's name still lived on in infamy. Whoever said the sins of the father are visited on the son could have been talking him and his father, Jackson Tyler. No one in Paradise had ever been able to distinguish between the two.

  He took that back. One man had made the distinction -- Harry Stanton, owner of Stanton Farms, the man who ha
d given him a job and a home at sixteen and taught him everything there was to know about thoroughbred racehorses. Harry Stanton had seen something in Zach that Zach hadn't even seen in himself.

  That was why he'd come to Golden's tonight -- for Harry, to pick up the weekly report from the private investigator Harry had hired to do some work for him. Zach didn't know what Harry was investigating. Hell, it could have been himself for all Zach knew. It wasn't his job to ask questions.

  He simply had to meet Walter Simmons at Golden's every Wednesday night and take a manila envelope back to Harry. He'd been making the trip into town for the last six weeks. And each time Harry seemed to get more and more depressed by the contents of that envelope.

  Zach picked it up. It seemed lighter tonight. He wondered if that meant good or bad news, or if he should give Harry a little space tomorrow. Thursdays had become known as "black Thursday" around the farm, with Harry venting all over the place, leaving everyone wondering what the hell happened on Wednesday night to drive him into such a rage. He had a feeling the answer was right in front of him.

  His finger slid along the seal. He was itching to take a peek, but before he could break his promise to Harry, Justin Blakemore, the longtime bartender at Golden's, set a cold beer down in front of him.

  "How you doing, Zach?"

  "Not bad."

  "Long day?"

  "You could say that." And more. Ever since Katherine Whitfield had come careening around that corner, his life had turned upside down, and he still hadn't gotten it back right side up. He'd spent most of the afternoon thinking about her, remembering the softness of her skin under his hands, the sweet scent of perfume in her hair, and the blue, blue eyes that expressed every emotion.

  He'd been right to tell her to go home. No good could come from trying to find a man who didn't want to be found.

  Justin tipped his head to the television set where the results of the sixth race from Keeneland were being posted. "King Meadows likes the mud."

  "I saw that."

  "Rogue ran like the wind the other day. Too bad about that early slip."

  He nodded. He would have loved to win the Bluegrass Stakes. But Rogue hadn't broken well and ended up in second. At first he'd been disappointed, worried that he'd chosen the wrong race for Rogue to use as a warm-up for the Derby. He'd spent the last two days second-guessing himself, but he had to put all that aside. Rogue had won in the past and he would do so again. Maybe it was better this way. His odds would go up come Derby time. And Zach was far more used to running his horse as an underdog than a favorite.

  "What does Morgan think?”

  "He doesn't say much."

  "Probably why the two of you get along."

  He shrugged. He'd known Colin Morgan for almost six years, and while Morgan wasn't the top trainer in the country, Zach liked the way the Irish-bred trainer worked with Rogue. He also liked Colin's lack of pretensions. While Sam and Zach oversaw Rogue's training at Stanton Farms, Colin took over once Rogue got to the track.

  "Is Perdito going to ride Rogue in the Derby?" Justin asked.

  "I hope so. I wasn't impressed with Carmine's start."

  "I'll tell you something, Zach. I've watched you grow up," Justin said. "Been serving you beer since before you was legal, and my money's on you, kid."

  "Thanks." There weren't many in Paradise who saw him as a success. People outside the valley were starting to know him from his work at Stanton Farms, but the people in Paradise saw his father's face when they looked at him. Some days he thought he should leave, start over fresh, but that was too easy, and he'd be damned if he'd make life easy for the folks who blamed him for their own stupidity.

  "No thank you required," Justin said. "You're your own man. About time folks realized that. But I expect you'll be showing 'em real soon."

  "Show us what? That he doesn't know horseshit?" John Thomas Baker stumbled over the chair across from Zach, setting it aside with his big beefy fingers. "Maybe you do know horseshit. After all, you've cleaned up enough of it. But horses, racehorses, thoroughbreds... you don't know squat."

  Zach felt his body stiffen at the sudden attack. For a moment, he'd let himself get too comfortable. A big mistake. J.T. Baker was one of the good ole boys in Paradise. He ran Pederson Stud, and while it had once been a thriving horse farm, J.T. was steadily driving it into the ground. Two of his wealthier clients had recently moved their horses to Stanton Farms, and having lost one of his prize stallions the previous year, J.T. was not getting the roll of the dice that he wanted.

  Instead of trying to turn things around, J.T. had turned to bourbon. Not that anyone in Paradise would admit one of their most admired citizens had a hell of a drinking problem. No, they preferred to think that Zach was stealing J.T.'s business by some underhanded means.

  "I know what you're up to, Tyler," J.T. said. "You're just like your old man, trying to con Harry Stanton out of the farm he's sweated blood over the past forty years. Why he can't see it, I'll never know…”

  “That's enough, J.T.," Justin interrupted. "Harry Stanton knows his business, and if he wants Zach to run his farm, it's no business of yours."

  "You're sticking up for him? The son of the man who nearly put this entire town out of business?"

  "He's not his father."

  "That's what he'd like you to think, but I can see right through him. Now, get me another bourbon, straight up this time."

  Justin hesitated.

  "Go ahead, get his drink," Zach said, his gaze resting on J.T.'s bright red, bloodshot eyes. "Maybe if he gets drunk, he'll believe his own crap."

  "No fighting," Justin said to J.T., shaking his finger in his face.

  "I'm not going to fight this piece of shit."

  Zach silently counted to ten, feeling the familiar rage build within his body, tense his muscles, stiffen his face, making him feel like it would be so easy to hit someone. There had been a time when he'd let the fists fly, but no more. J.T. Baker was an ass, a drunken ass tonight, but the townsfolk would still take his side. J.T. was one of their own.

  Although he could hardly believe J.T. was accusing him of doing exactly what J.T. himself had done. Maybe John Thomas Baker hadn't conned a stud farm out from under the Pedersons, but he'd done the next best thing -- married the only daughter, the only heir, the beautiful, compliant, ever-suffering Mary Jo.

  "My hound dog has better bloodlines than that rogue horse of yours," J.T. said with a sneer. "You're an embarrassment, Tyler. No wonder Crystal MacIntyre left you standing at the altar. You tried to fool her, but it didn't work, did it?"

  Zach sent him a steady look.

  "Say something, dammit."

  He didn't even move a muscle, much less open his mouth, and he could see the fury build within J.T.'s eyes, his face growing redder, his pulse racing out of control. It was a pleasure to watch him go up in flames. J.T. was far better at self-destructing than anyone Zach had ever met.

  "Someone ought to teach you a lesson." J.T. made a futile grab at Zach's arm.

  Zach stood up so abruptly the chair fell over behind him. "Time for you to go home, J.T.”

  "Who's going to make me?"

  It was a wild, drunken challenge from a balding, paunchy forty-nine-year-old man who probably couldn't see straight enough to land his fist anywhere near Zach's face. But J.T. was itching for a fight, Zach realized. There was a wildness in J.T.'s eyes, the frantic, desperate look of a man trying to hang on to life by his fingertips.

  Justin stepped between them with a glass of bourbon. "This is it, J.T. And you can hand me your car keys."

  "You can stick your head in your ass."

  "No keys, no drink," Justin said evenly. "Why don't you go home to your wife? I'm sure Mary Jo is worried about you."

  "Why don't you mind your own business?”

  Justin didn't budge.

  "Oh, to hell with you, and to hell with your watered-down drinks." J.T. grabbed the glass from Justin's hand and threw the contents toward the wall.
Unfortunately, the door to the bar opened at the same time J.T. launched his attack, and the splash of bourbon hit Katherine Whitfield right in the face.

  * * *

  Everyone in the bar was stunned into silence. Zach was the first one to move. He walked over to Katherine, who had frozen in disbelief.

  "Are you all right?" he asked.

  She wiped her eyes with her hand. "What happened?"

  "You got hit by a shot of bourbon.”

  "Bourbon?" she echoed in confusion. "Maggie said you were trouble."

  His spine stiffened. He should have known somehow this would turn out to be his fault. "I didn't throw the drink at you, sweetheart."

  "You didn't?"

  "No." Zach glanced over at J.T., who seemed to be in shock. He was staring at Katherine and shaking his head, as if he had no idea what had happened.

  "I thought this was going to be a nice place," Katherine said with a sigh. "Golden's. It sounded so romantic."

  "Romantic? If you want romantic, you'd better get the hell out of Paradise," he said sharply. "Because this town isn't about nice -- it's about winning. And you just got in the way."

  "Are you all right, miss?" the bartender asked, handing her a dry towel.

  "Yes, I'm fine," Katherine said, wiping her eyes. Now that the shock had worn off, she was acutely embarrassed at being the center of attention. The entire room seemed to be filled with men -- big men, small men, hairy men, bald men. Katherine blinked her eyes a few times, trying to clear her vision. But there was no doubt that the half circle surrounding her was all male." Could I just sit down for a minute?"

  "Sure," the bartender said, pulling out a chair for her at a nearby table. "She's all right," he said to the crowd. "Go back to your seats. Show's over." He turned to Katherine, concern etched in his dark blue eyes. "Is there anything I can get for you?"

  "No, I'm fine. Who threw the drink at me?"

  The bartender tipped his head toward a man standing against the bar dressed in a gray plaid shirt and old blue jeans that were buckled under his protruding gut. "He did."

  "Was he aiming for me?"