by Anna Jeffrey
“I ran into something. Look, I’m going to make soup. I’ll be done in no time.”
Clova sat up and started to move from the bed. “Nope,” Joanna said, urging her back under the covers. “I don’t need your help. Stay right where you are.”
When she walked out of the bedroom into the hall, she crashed headlong into Dalton. His hands came out reflexively and grabbed her shoulders. Shaken by the collision, she stepped back, looking up at him. His hands dropped, but his eyes held hers until she blinked. “Were you eavesdropping?” she asked him.
“I cannot tell a lie.”
Arrogant asshole! Jaw clenched, she spun and stalked toward the kitchen. She heard him say behind her, “I’m going to the kitchen, Mom. I’ll be back in a minute to see if you need anything.”
Joanna was shaking with anger as she picked an onion and a potato from the dry vegetable bin under the counter. In the refrigerator amid multiple bottles of beer, she found carrots, celery and a package of ground meat. She unwrapped the meat and put it in a cast-iron frying pan to sear.
A minute later, Dalton showed up in the kitchen.
Knowing they were out of Clova’s hearing, Joanna turned on him. “It isn’t necessary for you to spy on me. If you want to know something, just ask me.”
Two feet away, in her space, he stood there, his hands on his hips, his dark eyes leveled on hers. “I think I already know what I need to.”
“Then why waste your valuable time listening at doors?”
Instead of answering her, his mouth curved into a one-sided smirk, he gave a one-shoulder shrug and sauntered to the refrigerator. He pulled out a longneck and tipped the top in her direction. “I don’t suppose you’d want a beer?”
She would have to be stupid not to hear the sarcasm in his tone. He was baiting her and she didn’t intend to stand for it. She pulled a knife from its storage slot in the wooden butcher block that sat in the center of the kitchen, placed the onion and whacked off the ends. “No. And don’t come in here and heckle me. I’m going to make this pot of soup for your mom, then I’m out of here. I can’t leave soon enough.”
Thinking of the computer on the dining table, another annoyance surfaced. It had been in the back of her mind since she entered the house and saw the laptop. Clova didn’t know the first thing about a computer, so Joanna felt almost certain she hadn’t bought it. That meant Dalton had. If he wanted to spend money, this ranch needed many things more than it needed a computer. “I’m wondering why you bought your mother a computer. I’m not aware she can use it.”
“I didn’t buy her a computer,” he said defensively. “That’s my laptop I brought with me. Although I’d buy her one if she wanted it.” He tilted his head back and swallowed a long swig of beer from the frosty bottle. “What I did buy is a few accessories, like a good monitor and a printer. Not that it’s any of your damn business, but I gotta get a little work done while I’m here.”
What kind of work? she wondered as she chopped the onion into small pieces. But she refused to give him the satisfaction of asking.
As if she had posed the question, he said, “I’ve got a deadline on my new book. Looks like I’m not gonna get back home quick as I thought. Somebody’s gotta start rebuilding that fence tomorrow. I’m thinking that somebody’s me.”
That explained the supplies she had seen in the dually’s bed. She knew enough about barbed-wire fences to surmise that fence building would be easier with more than one person working at it. “You’re going to work on the fence all by yourself?”
“Why not? When I was a kid, I built a million miles of fence without a damn bit of help from anybody. Who’s around to help me, anyway?” He raised the bottle and took another long swig.
Joanna forced herself not to watch. “Right,” she said peevishly.
Anyone with half a brain knew that working on a barbed-wire fence alone in a remote place could be dangerous. Barbed wire had a mind of its own. She had heard plenty of horror stories, had seen many scratches and gashes, even stitches. But hey, if he thought he was Superman, what difference did it make to her? She wondered whether he was a little drunk. She had seen him down two beers since she came and didn’t know how many he’d had before her arrival.
“Exactly what did the doctor say about Lane?” She scraped the chopped onion into a bowl and started peeling the potato. “Clova seems to think he’s permanently affected.”
“His left leg’s screwed up real bad. He lost some bone. He’s facing a long road back. But I’ve seen a helluva lot worse. I’ve seen plenty of fine kids lose a leg or an arm or both doing something considerably more noble than driving drunk. I hate Lane being hurt, but I have a hard time feeling sorry for him, even if he is my brother.”
At least they agreed on that much. “What about his other injuries?”
“He’ll be okay eventually. He can live without a spleen. I’m sure they’ll tell him his boozing days are over. He was lucky this time.”
“I knew it was bad. I was there that night—”
“Why am I not surprised?” His eyes narrowed and a look of suspicion came at her like a spear. “What did my mom do, adopt you or something?”
Joanna’s spine stiffened and she aimed a hard glare right back into his eyes. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“You seem to be right in the middle of everything that happens around here. That just strikes me as unusual.”
Joanna bridled at the implication. “You’ve already made that point loud and clear. Not that you could possibly understand the situation from thousands of miles away, but Lane’s been a mess for quite a while. He’s given your mother a lot of trouble and contributed damn little around here lately. Clova’s needed a friend, and I happened to be the one present and willing.”
He said nothing else with his mouth, but with a withering glare from his X-ray eyes, words were unnecessary. She felt those eyes scrutinize her every move. The meat in the skillet began to sizzle. She walked over to the stove and lowered the flame under the skillet.
He returned to the refrigerator, pulled out another beer and twisted off the cap. “Want me to help you? So you can get out of here sooner, I mean?”
Joanna drew in a deep breath and exhaled, trying to calm herself. Her insides were shaking and she still had carrots to slice. If she didn’t calm down, she could cut off a finger. “You can watch the meat. Don’t let it burn.”
She went back to the cutting board, but from the corner of her eye, she saw him assume a position in front of the stove, beer bottle in one hand, a spatula in the other. She went on slicing carrots, then moved to the celery. When she finished, she dumped the cutup vegetables, a couple of cans of tomato sauce, some spices and some water into a large pot and carried it to the stove. She came face-to-face with him in the aisle between the butcher block and the stove, and she could feel the uptick in her heartbeat. Their gazes locked for a few seconds before she backed away and set the pot on the burner. “That meat needs to go into this pot. But not the grease.”
With skill she hadn’t expected to see, he scooped the hamburger out of the pan with the spatula, let it drain for a few seconds, then dropped it into the pot. Between the two of them, they soon had vegetable-beef soup simmering on the stove, and he returned with his bottle of beer to the dining table and the computer.
As the house filled with aromatic smells of spices and tomatoes, she walked to the kitchen doorway, watching him as he deftly hooked devices to the laptop. Despite her confusion of emotions about him, she had to admit she had never seen a man so comfortable with who he was. He might be arrogant and blatant, but he seemed to like himself just fine. “I didn’t see the rental car when I drove up.”
“Turned it back in. No point paying for that piece o’ shit to stay parked in the driveway. I’d rather drive the work truck.”
“You’re planning on staying a while, then?”
Before he could answer, his cell phone chirped. He flipped it open and placed it to his ear. “Yo. It�
�s me, babe.” A big grin came over his face. “How are ya, sweetie?…Yeah, I had a couple of beers…” He walked out of the dining room and all the way outside, talking as he went.
Joanna’s jaw clenched. Babe, indeed.
Twenty minutes later, Joanna ladled soup into a crockery bowl, set it and some saltines on a tray and took it in to the bedroom. She found Clova sound asleep.
She carried the tray back to the dining room. Dalton had come back in. He had pushed the computer and its parts toward the center of the table and was eating a bowl of soup. “What’s up now?” he asked.
Joanna set the tray down on the table. “Clova’s asleep. She must be feeling really bad. I’ve never seen her just go to bed like this.”
Dalton looked at her, his spoon poised in the air, then returned to eating.
Joanna cocked her head and gave him a pointed scowl. “Aren’t you worried about her?”
He put down his spoon and opened his palms. “What is it you think I should be doing?”
Joanna opened her mouth to scold him but stopped herself. There wasn’t much to be done, by him or anyone else. Clova probably just needed a good rest. “I suppose you should keep an eye on her.”
“I will.” He shrugged. “If she’s not okay in the morning, I’ll take her into town to see a doc. If that’s what she wants.”
If he suggested that Clova see a doctor, she probably would. Satisfied, Joanna picked up the tray. “You should make her go.”
“Soup’s good,” he said, changing the subject and making it obvious he didn’t want her advice or recommendation. “We did a pretty good job cooking it. Why don’t you have some?”
Joanna gave him a wary glance. He had done another about-face in attitude. What was he up to now? “I need to get home.”
“Oh, yeah. Saturday night. Got a hot date?”
She huffed a laugh. “Only with my Tempur-Pedic mattress.”
The minute the words came out of her mouth, a tiny lurch zipped through Joanna’s middle. She turned her back and walked into the kitchen carrying the tray. And wishing she had said yes, she did have a hot date. In her distraction, she banged the edge of the tray against the counter, clattering dishes and spilling soup on the linoleum floor. “Shit.”
She grabbed some paper towels, dropped to her knees and began mopping up the mess. Fortunately, the soup was no longer hot.
Dalton came up behind her, tore off more paper towels and knelt beside her. His arm and hands touched hers as together they wiped up the soup and heaped the soggy paper towels onto the tray. He made no attempt not to touch her, and every time his skin brushed hers, a new wave of nervousness washed over her.
When they finished, he stood up and placed a hand under her elbow, aiding her getting to her feet. For some weird reason, she felt a new desire to get along with him. “Thanks for helping out,” she said.
He gave her a smile that made her knees tremble. “Least I could do for the cook.”
Firmly shaking off that weakness, she managed to smile back. “It would be a mistake to call me a cook.”
They stood only inches apart. He braced a hand on the counter no more than two feet away, those eyes drilling her, his mouth still tipped into that smile. “How about hot?” he asked in a soft rasp. “Can I call you that?”
And speaking of heat, they were close enough for her to feel his body heat. She could smell his breath, yeasty and warm, and she could see the dark late-day stubble on his jaw. An odd tension traveled through her lower belly. “I wish you wouldn’t. I wasn’t impressed when you said it last night.”
“Why not? Don’t like guys, huh?”
The words drove away the seductive moment. “Oh, please,” she snapped and moved back a couple of steps.
His eyes widened and he opened his palms. “Hey, look, what do you expect me to think? Mom says you’re not married. Says you don’t go out.”
Joanna winced inside, wondering just how thoroughly Clova had discussed her with him.
“You don’t have any roosters in that flock of chickens,” he went on. “Is that symbolic of something? Without a little sex, how do you keep all those hens content?”
She made a tiny sigh of indignation. “The hens don’t care about sex.”
His brow arched again. “How do you know? Does that blue-egg-laying chicken whisper it in your ear?”
She hesitated a few seconds, stumped for a reply. “I’m sure we’d disagree on what’s important to chickens.”
She might not know what he was up to, but she knew she shouldn’t encourage him. He had a predatory gleam in his eye that, for some damned reason, she found alluring. So alluring, in fact, that if she wasn’t careful, he would be sharing her Tempur-Pedic with her faster than she could change the sheets. She turned away, picked up the tray and raked the wet towels into the trash. “You’ve had too many beers. For your information, roosters cause trouble and try to dominate the flock.” Just like men, she thought. “They’re worthless for egg production.”
“Is that a fact? I have to admit, I’ve never seen chicken sex. Actually, I’ve never been interested in looking for it, but I know it goes on.”
Joanna’s stomach lurched again. “Really.”
“Yep. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be any new chickens. And no eggs. Common sense. It’s the same with everything and everybody, darlin’. Even chickens. Takes two to tango.”
“And you’re an expert.”
He grinned. “I know a little about sex, yeah.”
Joanna couldn’t look into his face. Determined not to react to his goading, she began to stack the soiled dishes. “I don’t know you well enough to be discussing sex with you.”
“But you do, darlin’. Hell, you’ve taken over my mother and this whole damn place. I’ll bet you know me better than I even think you do. You might even know me better than I know myself.”
Enough was enough. She straightened, picked up a dish towel and began to dry her hands. “You know, I’ve had a long day. I’ve cooked the soup. Why don’t you do the dishes?…And I’m not your darling, so don’t call me that.”
She threw the dish towel onto the counter in a heap and walked out of the kitchen and through the dining room, then the living room, forcing herself to keep a steady step and not look back.
Dalton stood on the front porch watching Joanna Walsh walk to her truck and climb in. Yep, a body like an athlete. Sleek as a gazelle. Nice. Very nice. Imagining those finely toned thighs hugging his hips sent a tightening straight to his lower belly. Shit. The beast in his pants had never been able to tell the difference between a smart-ass who was dangerous and an empty-headed bimbo who just liked to screw.
He couldn’t keep from wondering, despite what Miss Uptight said about going home to her mattress, what she might really have planned for a Saturday night in a small Texas burg. From what he remembered, a night on the town in Hatlow could be a trip to the Dairy Queen.
He would lay money that she kept herself off-limits, but he had no doubt most of the horny dudes around Hatlow had tried with a woman who owned a body like hers. An image formed in his mind of her and some local yokel humping in a fancy bed. For some reason, he found that perplexing.
Her truck engine fired, her lights came on and just as she had left the kitchen without looking back at him, she drove toward the highway, also without looking back.
Aw, to hell with it, he told himself. While he would like some female company during what looked more and more like an extended stay, even if he wanted to spend the time playing games with Miss Uptight or try to coax her into bed, he couldn’t. She was his mother’s friend.
Chapter 11
Dalton watched until her truck turned onto the highway and disappeared. Then he walked back into the house, to his mother’s bedroom door. He eased the door open, looked in and saw her sleeping. He stood there a few seconds, studying her. She looked frail and small buried beneath an old quilt. He had never thought of her as being a vulnerable person. In truth, he had never known what to
think of her. Even now, after all these years, she was an enigma, a wheel within a wheel. He gently closed the door and returned to the dining room.
Cool air from the open windows had chased the day’s heat from the house. Fall was like that in West Texas. Hotter than a furnace in the daytime and cold as a desert grave at night. He could hear the steady tick of the old mahogany mantel clock, the mellow sound emphasizing its age and the silence that stole through the house like some friggin’ ghost.
Tick…tick…tick.
The unrelenting sound, an echo from childhood, brought back a thousand memories.
The old timepiece had sat there on the mantel ticking away forever. It had been ticking the night he realized he had become his own man. He was seventeen and had taken the work truck to town to see a girl whose name he no longer remembered. When he returned home, he met his stepfather, drunk and raging, waiting for him in the living room with his belt in hand. The old clock ticked through the fight that ensued.
You got no goddamn right to use that fuckin’ truck for anything. I’m gonna whip your ass.
Before the son of a bitch could land a blow with the belt, Dalton doubled him over with a belly punch, then flattened him with a right to the jaw. Then he walked out, climbed back into the truck and returned to town. He had slept in the truck in the city park, and Cherry had carried a facial bruise for weeks.
Through his youth, Dalton had borne the brunt of many of Cherry’s fits of violence, but from that night forward, Cherry hadn’t hit him again or even threatened him. Until the day Dalton left home for boot camp, a forced and chilly truce prevailed whenever he and the hateful bastard happened to be in the same room.
The old clock had been ticking the night two football scouts from Texas Tech appeared at the door and were turned away by Cherry. Later Dalton came to realize he could have dealt with them himself, but by then he was in the marines and far away from Hatlow. He had liked that better than playing football.
The thing that had been stuck in his craw all these years was that through all of it—the tantrums, the beatings, the meanness—his mother had rarely raised a voice in his defense. For a few years, he spent a lot of his time wondering why, but he never found an answer. He came to believe that she had been glad to see him leave. And he had thought, if that was what she wanted, then that was what she could have.