To the One I Love: That Old Familiar FeelingAn Older ManCaught by a Cowboy

by Emilie Richards

  “And that bothers you,” Lacey concluded.

  “Wouldn’t it bother you? She didn’t think I could find a job on my own, so she arranged it.”

  “Honey, she was trying to make things a little easier for you.”

  “Why? You would have had a fit if she’d done that for you.” Lacey’s expression told Marti she was dead-on. She pushed to her feet and stepped around Deanna, to pace. “Don’t answer. I know why. We all know why. She didn’t think I could cut it on my own. You know Daddy still deposits money into my account every month? I overdrew my checking account one time three years ago, and he still doles out money to me as if I regularly screw up my account.”

  “Hey, he doesn’t give me money,” Deanna said, looking irritated.

  “He doesn’t think you can’t make it on your own, either,” Marti pointed out. “Be grateful for small mercies.”

  “I’d be grateful for some extra green every month,” Deanna countered. Then she smiled and hid a yawn behind her hand. “You’re making too much out of it, pipsqueak.”

  “I’m not a pipsqueak.”

  Deanna’s grin widened. “You’re barely five feet and a hundred pounds soaking wet. What else is that but a pipsqueak?”

  “I’m five foot two and over a hundred pounds, thank you very much.” Marti barely contained the urge to thump her bare foot on the floor.

  “I am so glad to be back,” Lacey said, grinning.

  Deanna and Marti both looked at her.

  “Well, I am,” she said, unrepentant. “I’ve missed you both. It’s been a long time since we’ve all been together, and I can’t help it if I’m enjoying it.”

  “You’re just enjoying Matt-the-stud Cavanaugh,” Deanna drawled. She looked back over at Marti. “And the question of Devlin Faulkner still goes unanswered.”

  Marti threw up her hands. “You’re like a dog with a bone.”

  Deanna shrugged, clearly undeterred. “The guy is your career fantasy, Marti. Admit it. What else would he have been here for if not because of some journalist-type gig? Oh, man, talk about a hot boss.”

  “Devlin Faulkner is not my boss, and will never be my boss.”

  “Then what—”

  “Drop it!”

  Lacey and Deanna both went still, looking at her with shock. Even Lacey seemed lost for words. Which was saying something, considering she was an attorney.

  Deanna recovered first. “Marti, you’re not interested in this man, are you?”

  “Of course she’s not. He’s old enough to be her father,” Lacey said immediately.

  “He’d have had to be pretty precocious.” Marti hid a cringe at her quick defense. She did not need to give her sisters fuel for their curiosity. “And I’m perfectly aware that he’s out of my league, so—”

  “There’s nobody who is out of a Colman’s league,” Lacey said quietly. “But you’ve obviously considered it, or you wouldn’t have said it.”

  “Oh, Lacey, relax.” Marti’s store of casualness ran dangerously thin.

  Deanna was looking speculative. “You don’t think he wrote the letter, do you? He did show up here a day later.”

  “No!” Marti sat down and snatched up the newspaper from Deanna’s side. “It was a coincidence, nothing more. Believe me, Devlin doesn’t love anyone, least of all me. It’s the furthest thing from his mind.” She snapped open the paper, determined to put all thoughts of Devlin back out of her mind. Though why she thought she’d find success in that when she hadn’t in the few days since he’d been there, she wasn’t sure.

  “But is it the furthest thing from yours?”

  “Don’t be so suspicious, Lacey,” Marti drawled as she skimmed the headlines without taking in one word. She flipped the page, accidentally tearing it. Huffing under her breath, she straightened it and pretended to focus again.

  “Speak of the devil,” Deanna said, craning her head to see the back side of the page Marti was pretending to read. “I guess he was in the area because of the funeral.”

  “What?” Marti hastily turned back a page. And there, large as life, was a grainy photograph of Devlin Faulkner. Pulitzer Winning Son Loses Pulitzer Winning Father.

  As she scanned the article, her heart sank. And her anger rose.

  “Did you know your boyfriend was Phillip Mason’s son?” Deanna perched over Marti’s shoulder, reading avidly.

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” Marti denied faintly. And no, she hadn’t known. “Mason died last week. His service is today in Tallahassee.”

  “Didn’t we meet Mason at one of Mother’s inaugurations?” Lacey scooted over to join them, looking at the newspaper. “He retired to Tallahassee years ago, as I recall.”

  Marti pushed the newspaper aside and rose. “I have to go.”

  “Where?” Deanna’s voice followed her as she hurried to the stairs.

  “A funeral.”

  The anger sustained Marti throughout the two-hour drive to Tallahassee. It should have taken her nearly three hours to get to the cemetery, but courtesy of the little sports car that had been an eighteenth birthday present from her parents, and the weight in her angry foot, she made record time. She knew there was no point in heading for the church, and her suspicion proved correct when she turned into the cemetery.

  She could see the crowd from the winding road leading into the cemetery, and had to park at the end of a long line of limos and other cars. She zipped between a BMW sedan and a Lincoln Town Car and tried to be subtle about running down the road toward the crowd.

  Nobody seemed to take note of her, however, and she slowed as she neared the crowd, smoothing down her plain black dress as she stepped onto the lush, well-groomed grass and walked more sedately the rest of the distance. There were half a dozen reporters present, with notepads and cameras at the ready. Marti ignored them and made her way toward one side of the crowd. She had no hope of seeing over them, and she listened closely to the muffled speaker. She didn’t recognize the voice; only knew that it wasn’t Devlin’s. His voice was deeper, huskier.

  She finally stopped, on the edge of the crowd, and spotted him.

  He was seated in front of the flower-draped casket, his profile unreadable in the shadows cast by the awning over the grave and short row of chairs. A blond-haired woman sat beside him, her face buried in the white hankie she held. Mason’s latest wife, most likely. The paper had briefly recounted five marriages.

  Marti had barely stopped long enough for the heels of her black pumps to begin sinking into the grass before the minister stopped speaking and stepped back, closing his bible. Devlin stood, his hand beneath the blonde’s arm as he helped her rise. Sobbing noisily, she dropped a long-stemmed rose on the casket then turned away. A cluster of women enfolded her and they, along with the rest of the mourners, moved as one away from the graveside.

  But not Devlin.

  Marti watched him stand next to the casket. He wore a charcoal-gray suit, the jacket parted, one hand shoved into his pocket. Among the retreating sea of black, his gray definitely stood out. Since he’d been to Colman Key, he’d cut his hair. It was smoothed back, the shaggy waves under the same rigid control as his tight jaw. He looked older. Weary.

  Her anger subsided. Her legs felt shaky. He may have lied to her, he may be playing with her feelings, but his father had died.

  The crowd had retreated as far as the vehicles snaking along the narrow roadway. The blonde was waiting, one hand on an opened door, looking back toward the graveside. Marti waited. But Devlin just stood there, looking so alone that her heart broke a little.

  She finally went to him, when she could see the blonde was pointing and sending someone back for him. “Devlin,” she said, slipping her hand through his arm. “They’re waiting for you.” Undoubtedly there would be a large reception. Probably at Phillip Mason’s palatial estate that had been described in the paper. The obit hadn’t included details of the reception, but she could make an educated assumption.

  He didn’t look her way. Hadn’t
even seemed surprised at her presence.

  “If I’d wanted you here,” he said, “I’d have told you about this.”

  She locked her knees as a wave of pain swept through her. But she was also aware that he hadn’t shrugged off her touch. “I wasn’t aware the service was private.”

  He didn’t respond.

  She moistened her lips. “I saw the notice in the newspaper. I wanted to pay my respects.”

  “Had you even met him?”

  “I—no. I think Lacey may have years ago. My parents, most certainly. They’re abroad, or they’d have probably been here themselves. Your father was a prominent member of society, here. I’m sorry for your loss, Devlin.” And she was, even though his attitude stung. She was still stunned that she hadn’t known Devlin was Mason’s son.

  His lips twisted. “Loss? My father and I hadn’t said two words to each other in over a decade.” He finally looked at her, then at the limo waiting for him. “The damned old man is still sticking it to me.”

  Her lips parted. “Devlin—”

  “What?” He eyed her. “Have I horrified your genteel sensibilities, Miz Colman?”

  He had fresh lines radiating from his eyes. Eyes that held unfamiliar shadows, but shadows that she realized had been there when he’d visited Colman Key.

  He’d lied that she was his reason for being in Florida. Even though her better sense had told her his words couldn’t have been true, it still hurt. But just then, she couldn’t rally the anger that had spurred her across the bridge and up the highway to Tallahassee. “Is there a reception?”

  “Isn’t there always?” He looked back at the casket. “Funerals. I’ve always found them sort of barbaric.”

  Marti wasn’t sure if she was shocked or not. Devlin had seen true barbarism up close and personal. And his international reporting had earned him a Pulitzer and helped prod the U.N. toward sanctions. “People need closure, Devlin. Even you.”

  “Closure comes with the presence of a coffin?” He shook his head and turned away. Then swore under his breath at the sight of the blond woman picking her way across the grass toward him. “And coming this way is more barbarism,” he said.

  “Your stepmother?”

  “One of many,” he said flatly. He tucked his hand beneath her elbow and headed her across the grass. “Go home, Marti. Nothing about this day will be pretty. Do you have a car hiding somewhere in that parking lot disguised as a street?”

  “I didn’t expect ‘pretty,’ Devlin. I came because I…felt badly about your loss.”

  “Then you should have saved your effort. I don’t feel badly, and I don’t feel a loss.”

  She almost believed him. His hard tone was more than convincing. “Devlin—”

  “Hell.” His curse was low in the moment before Phillip Mason’s widow caught up to them, her hand that clutched the hankie waving wildly. “Devlin, please don’t be difficult,” she cried out between noisy sobs. “You know I can’t bear to get through the day if you’re not there.” Her eyes—clear blue with nary a hint of the tears she was supposedly shedding—barely glanced at Marti. “Surely you can leave the groupies behind for one day.”

  “Groupies are more your speed, Tiffany, and Marti is hardly that. Her mother is Senator Colman. And she’s offered to drive me back to the house, so you can trot on back to the gaggle of Dad’s ex-wives. We both know you’d all prefer me to be two continents away from Tallahassee, so cut the act that you can’t manage without me.”

  The woman’s lips tightened. She glared at him for a long moment, then turned on her heel and strode back across the manicured lawn.

  “Devlin, she’s lost her husband. She’s suffering.”

  “Save your pity, cupcake.” He started across the grass. “Believe me, Tiff has been waiting for the day she could call herself Phillip Mason’s widow. There’s no grieving going on in her heart.”

  “And in yours?”

  Devlin eyed her. “My father despised me just as much as I despised him. Now, do you have a car here, or not?”

  She swallowed and finally nodded. Marti was fully aware that her parents weren’t the loving type—they’d gotten that sort of nurturing from Grammer—but she’d never doubted that they did love their daughters in their somewhat removed way. “It’s down around the curve by the pond,” she said. “Am I, uh, driving you back to your father’s place?”

  “There’s no place else for me to go.” His expression was dark. “He left the whole damned estate to me, and I have about three and a half weeks to get rid of it all.” Then he obviously decided he’d said enough, because he shoved his hands into his pockets and headed for the winding road, barely tempering his stride to allow for Marti’s considerably shorter one.

  At the car, she unlocked it then left him to adjust his seat, which helped little given his height.

  Taking pity on him, Marti put the convertible top down. It wouldn’t provide more leg room, of course, and she’d have a terrible time getting the top back up since there was something wrong with the mechanism that operated it, but at least the car would seem a little less confining. “Is that better?”

  He grunted. “Like a tin can with the lid off.”

  Marti started the engine. “This is a finely tuned performance machine,” she said.

  “A gift from Daddy, I suppose.”

  She craned her neck, watching for a break in the stream of departing vehicles. “And Mommy. Should I apologize for that? You’re the son of a wealthy man, too.”

  “Only because he knocked up my mom when she wasn’t even twenty years old.”

  Marti looked at him. “You know, I’ve learned more about you in the past ten minutes than I did in the four months we…dated.” It seemed a paltry word to describe the impact he’d had.

  He didn’t respond. A break in the traffic appeared. She put the car into gear and zipped into it. He didn’t speak again all the way to the Mason estate except to point out the turns. When they arrived, there were a half-dozen young men acting as valets. They all snapped to quicker attention when they noticed who was unfolding himself from her passenger seat when she stopped in front of the wide marbled entry. In a flash, one of them was at the side of her car, opening the door for her.

  She hesitated.

  “Give the guy your keys,” Devlin said.

  Her heart climbed into her throat. “You want me to, uh, to stay?”

  He shrugged out of his suit jacket and yanked at his tie, loosening it several inches. “There’s a ton of food inside. Might as well eat before you head back to the key.”

  Her pleased surprise deflated as rapidly as it had formed. She knew she should go back to Colman Key. There was nothing she could accomplish here. There was no point in confronting Devlin about the lie he’d told her. There was no future for them, so what did it matter?

  The valet was waiting, palm outstretched.

  Devlin was already heading up the steps. As she watched, he stopped in front of the massive doors. He shoved his hand through his hair. Then he pushed open the door and went inside.

  Knowing she was a fool, had been a fool all along where Devlin Faulkner was concerned, she took the valet’s hand and climbed from the car.

  Chapter 4

  “Marti? I thought it was you. How are you?”

  Marti turned at the voice, stifling down a sigh. For over an hour she’d been trying to make her way over to Devlin, but the crush of people continually arriving and departing had prevented it. If it weren’t for the typical conversational opener of “It was a lovely funeral service” a person would think it was a party, rather than a memorial reception.

  She focused on the latest interruption. “Bobby Ray. I saw your father earlier…he didn’t mention you were here.”

  Bobby Ray Caulfield, former high school quarterback to Marti’s head cheerleader, shrugged. “I didn’t come with Dad. He’s pushing me to follow in his political footsteps, so I’ve been avoiding him.” His bright blue gaze drifted over her. “You’re lo
oking fine, baby, real fine. Is that dress Carolina Herrera?”

  Marti laughed softly. Bobby Ray was as handsome as a movie star, knew more about women’s clothing than most women, and had never made any secret of his loathing for politics. “Good eye. So, your dad still thinks you’re going to be our generation’s governor?”

  Bobby Ray tucked his hand under Marti’s arm and herded her toward the buffet table. “Unfortunately. The man won’t face reality.”

  “So, what are you doing?” She watched him pick a plate and begin loading it with shrimp and little rolled pastries.

  “Well, after I quit law school and broke dear old dad’s heart for all of a week, I ended up joining Mom’s real estate firm. Got my license. Turns out I have a knack for talking people into buying properties.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Marti said truthfully. Bobby Ray had an honest sort of charm that was hard to resist. But she really didn’t want to get on the topic of real estate. Not when she had the demise of a For Sale sign still on her hands. Bobby Ray offered her a shrimp and she shook her head, wondering where Devlin had disappeared to. She’d lost sight of him behind the wall of Bobby Ray.

  “I hear your dad is selling the family digs out on Colman Key. It’ll seem weird when there are no Colmans there. Lot of changes going on, though. Lot of properties changing hands. Zoning.” He shook his head and dumped cocktail sauce on a corner of the plate.

  Marti quickly grabbed a napkin and caught the overflow, then handed him two more napkins for good measure. “Lou Cox—city council?—wants to replace the bridge.”

  Bobby Ray laughed. “That old thing? Not surprised.” His head lifted when somebody called his name. He waved. “Well, kiddo, gotta run. That’s a client over there. Give your grandmother my best, would you? If you’re in Tallahassee for a while, give me a call.”

  “You’re still living at home?”

  “Hell yeah. Cheaper.” He grinned and set off.

  Marti watched him go. She and Bobby Ray were the same age, but he didn’t seem to be burdened with any of the self-confidence pangs that afflicted her. He was the son of a former mayor, a man still actively involved in politics. Their parents were friends. When she and Bobby Ray were in high school, people had always tried to match them up. But there’d never been any zing.