“My parents believe in family, and your insults don’t change the situation. We had an agreement. I didn’t want you to know, really. But I told the owner of the Silver Boots and Booty because he knows a lot of the locals and has connections all over Texas. I told Lillie Mae because—” He paused, thinking of the octogenarian ranch owner. Tía claimed to be Truth’s communal aunt, but Lillie Mae owned the town. “Everyone answers to Lillie Mae. You were one of my sister’s favorite people, Tía. She genuinely loved you, though I don’t know why. So I told you. You three are the only people who know—and the only people in town who can know. Don’t forget I covered one of your bank notes—no one else asked me for anything, Tía.”
She shrugged. “You offered. I haven’t said anything.”
He snorted. “If I remember, the offer began with something like ‘I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine.’ And you said it, I didn’t. I won’t be blackmailed.” He frowned. “And I can’t loan you the money you asked for, either.”
She walked over to him, her hips swaying. “Sure you could, Rafa.” She ran a hand up his arm. “You just won’t.”
“True.” He pulled her hand off his arm and dropped it unceremoniously. “You know how you said you tried to help Cody, but she couldn’t help herself? That’s how I see you, Tía. Scheming and manipulative and addicted to things you can’t have.”
She didn’t answer for a moment, then simply moved past him. “I won’t tell anyone about your idiotic plan,” she agreed. “But we still have the deal?”
“Yes,” he acknowledged, keeping his voice level in spite of the anger gnawing into his soul. “Lillie Mae and Brockton were insulted that I offered, but if you find an appropriate applicant, and she takes the job, I’ll give you an additional ten thousand. As long as no one knows about it.”
“No one will know. And I’m bound to think of someone. Lock my office when you leave, Rafa.”
“I’m right behind you,” he muttered, and followed her out.
• • •
Esme stopped at what appeared to be the only fair-sized grocery store in town, determined to provide for herself. Her aunt’s initial reaction still troubled her. But then again, her mother had reacted that way when her own sister dropped in uninvited.
“You’d think Tina would realize she’s another mouth to feed, not to mention more work for everyone,” Adriana would mutter uncharitably. Then she’d sigh heavily and glare at her husband Eduardo as if he were to blame. “But she is family,” she’d add. “We’re obligated.”
Her brother Beto, three years older, despised Tía, and would hurl epithets around that a child shouldn’t know. Beto’s behavior was never corrected, because he was the adored oldest son of the household. Some of Esme’s friends complained of their brothers being favored, but Esme couldn’t imagine that anyone could be as cruel and degrading as Beto was, even then. She’d been away from home for years, but thinking of Beto still made her shiver with revulsion. And remembering her mother’s words about another mouth to feed seemed indelibly etched into her soul. Even now, Esmeralda preferred being her own woman, independent and in control—of finances, food, friendships—everything. So she’d buy her own food and try to make as small a footprint in her aunt’s life as she could. She smiled. Maybe the problem was that she was her aunt, personality-wise, and Tía didn’t know that yet.
By the time she finished loading up the car and arrived at her aunt’s place, she found herself dragging. She drove down Cattle Court Road at a crawl, too aware of all the deer she’d seen grazing along the sides of the road. The Hill Country seemed like wilderness compared to Rose Creek’s plowed and planted fields.
She pulled up to a neatly kept two-story rock house before darkness cloaked her aunt’s property and spotted Andy immediately. A spry, older man was sitting on the tailgate of a battered blue truck, legs swinging with barely contained energy, his thin shoulders moving rhythmically from side to side. At first she puzzled over so much movement when he was sitting, but then she noticed the thin cord running from his waist to an ear.
She slid out of her own truck, stretching and smiling as he came over, reluctantly pulling out his device and turning it off, then putting it and the cord back in a pocket.
“Ms. Salinas,” he greeted, in a voice devoid of warmth. He nodded, but didn’t smile, and when Esmeralda offered her hand, he took it for the briefest of seconds.
“I unlocked the door,” he told her. “If you have a lot of stuff . . . ”
“I bought some groceries and have a few suitcases.” She didn’t wait for an offer to help, just scooped up the nearest two bags and headed up the stone walk to the house. She thought she’d have to set the bags down to try the door, but he bounded up at the last minute and pulled the door open. “Kitchen’s to the right, just go through the dining room. And your room’s the one at the end of the upstairs hall.” And he was gone, leaving her to haul the rest of her stuff in alone. So the handyman/watchman didn’t like her? She refused to worry. At least he’d kept his gun in his pocket. She yawned into her arm and shuffled into the kitchen to get rid of the bags. She was on her way out to the truck for the next load when she realized that in most small, tranquil communities, even business owners didn’t need armed guards.
• • •
There were no pictures of family on the walls or mantel in the living room, the dining room, or the spacious room Andy told her would be hers. Her aunt moved a lot, and she’d never been close to her sister. Esme toweled her hair as she walked around the room and wondered about the lack of photographs.
How deep had the rift between sisters been? Would she and her aunt get along? Did Tina even want her here, or had she just asked out of some sense of duty? Worried, she tossed the towel aside and padded out in the hall, decided to get a bottle of water, chug it down, and go to sleep. Somehow.
On her way down, Esme paused suddenly, glancing at the door nearest the stair landing. Was it her aunt’s room? Tía’s closed at two and it was only one-thirty, so she doubted Tina would be home yet. Feeling guilty, but almost possessed by the need to peek into the room, Esme gently opened the door.
The room was huge, painted in soft peach shades. A four-poster bed dominated one corner, and a nearby door opened, she supposed, onto the tiny balcony she remembered seeing as she drove up. A mammoth dresser took up most of one wall, with a desk and chair against the other. And over the desk, there were the photos. The memories of a life.
A life spent with others, not family. There were men, with their arms wrapped around a young, smiling Tía. Other women, clearly friends and companions, sharing drinks or hugs, laughing at the camera, forever young and perfectly groomed.
And then—Esme’s heart thudded. Her aunt stood next to a young woman, smiling up at her as if she were flesh and blood, one hand on the younger woman’s cheek in a caress the camera hadn’t missed. The tall, blond woman in the low-cut, high-slit gown was Cody Benton. And on her other side, head bent slightly as if listening to something, devastatingly handsome in a tailored tuxedo, stood Rafael Benton.
She stared at the picture for a long time before the last names hit her: Benton. Cody and Rafael . . . were married? Somehow, she couldn’t remember anything at all about Cody’s family. Her presence on the country stage had been explosively successful and tragically short. Try as Esme might, she couldn’t pull anything out of her memory about husbands, parents—anyone.
But she knew one thing: Cody Benton was dead. No matter what her relationship to Rafael, the last man she’d actively gone after had been a widow, grieving for a wife. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. She spun around and choked back a startled scream. Angel stood just inside the door, watching her with wary eyes.
“You startled me, Angel!” Esme swept a hand around the room. “Hope you and Tina don’t mind that I wandered into her room . . . ”
“My room.” Angela came into the room, moving a little stiffly, and patted her arm as she passed and went to sit on the bed. “
You’re always welcome in my room, Esmeralda.”
“I’m embarrassed,” Esme admitted, coloring slightly. “If I’d known it was your room . . . ” She waved at the walls. “I just felt drawn to come in, and when I saw the pictures, I assumed it was my aunt’s room.”
“No. Your aunt insisted I live with her when she gave me a job, back in Chicago. I’m . . . I guess you’d say I’m her assistant. Or companion.” She shrugged. “Sometimes we hate each other. Sometimes it’s love. But she’s always generous. Her room is much smaller than this.”
“I’m a little ashamed to tell you this, Angel, but I don’t know Tía very well. I grew up having this image of her as the most exciting, most beautiful woman in the world. I wanted to live with her since I was little. My mother and father always hated it when she came to visit, though.” Esmeralda looked around the room again. “You have so many pictures of her and her friends.”
“Your . . . ” Angel seemed to hesitate for a second, then continued, her tone weary. “Your aunt dislikes pictures. Clutter, she calls them, and she always says an uncluttered life is a free life.” Angel shook her head. “Well, she says that. Most of these pictures are hers, but she told me I should take care of them for her. She’s not easy to figure out, I’ll tell you that.”
“But freedom is important to her, isn’t it?” Esme folded her arms against her chest, warding off the chill of the air-conditioning humming softly in the background. “Even as a child, I remember she’d never stay.”
Angel nodded. “I’ve known her for over ten years now. She doesn’t stay anywhere. But she claims the club is her last stop.”
“Is she here, too?”
“No. She stayed talking to some customers who left a little late.” Angel pushed herself off the bed and walked over to place an oversized purse on the desk. “Her room is downstairs, the room Cody had built on to the original structure. Down the hall, beyond a study and bath. Cody always said a downstairs room was easier to get into and out of without being seen. Tía will probably come in and go straight to sleep. Don’t count on seeing her for breakfast, Esme. Anything else?”
Esme cast a final glance at the picture of her aunt with Cody and Rafael Benton. “Just . . . were they married?” she asked, indicating the picture with a gesture.
“Married? Heavens no, child! Rafael is—was—Cody’s brother.”
Stunned, Esme said goodnight and went back to her own room.
Chapter Four
The aroma of coffee percolated through the house, and Esmeralda’s eyes, heavy-lidded and unwilling, fought slowly open. Sighing, she pushed herself up on one elbow and glanced at the clock, surprised that she was up before nine after yesterday’s trials.
She wondered if Angel took care of her aunt’s needs in the morning, too. Apparently the woman was something more than an employee but less than a respected companion. She forced herself into action, determined not to slouch around if her aunt were actually up and busy so early.
Twenty minutes later she hurried downstairs, invigorated by a shower, her hair still damp, but caught up neatly in a ponytail. Maybe she could bring her visit up to her aunt and be sure she was welcome here, not just a relative who had to be taken in.
When she got to the kitchen however, Andy, not Angel, turned from the stove and nodded curtly.
“Your aunt said I should feed you,” he told her with hostility, shoveling eggs and sausage links onto a plate, then picking up a biscuit with his fingers and putting it on the side. “Sit down.”
“Andy, you clearly don’t want to feed me. After today, don’t bother. Today, I’ll eat this to save you and my aunt from any unpleasantness.” She walked over and snatched the plate away, leaving him gaping and scuffing the toe of his boot against the tiled floor as she sat down at the table, facing him.
“Andy, how dare you?” Tina’s voice crackled into the silence, and Andy straightened so quickly he backed into the stove. Esme dropped her forkful of eggs back to the plate.
“I expect courtesy to my guests, Andy. You understand that, right?”
The older man mumbled and left the room, and Esmeralda pushed her chair and stood up to greet her aunt.
“I really didn’t mind. He probably isn’t used to fixing breakfast for strangers.” Hesitantly, Esme kissed her aunt on the cheek, the greeting her mother would expect. She wasn’t sure Tina would appreciate it. She bit back a sigh, feeling more unsure than she had in years. But she accepted responsibility for the awkwardness, aware that she should have called. Surprises weren’t always the best options for family reunions.
Tina accepted the kiss without comment, and moved toward the stove, but Esme stopped her.
“I’ll get your plate, Tía,” she offered, carefully using the name she’d been told to use. “Juice or coffee?” she asked, as she spooned food onto the plate and set it in front of her aunt.
“Andy can’t make coffee. Just juice, and I’ll pick up coffee in town.”
Once Esme sat down again, Tina reached over suddenly and patted her wrist. “Might not be so bad having you here.”
“Tía, I don’t have to stay here. I can rent a place until I decide what my plans are,” Esme offered, again feeling that she wasn’t truly wanted as a houseguest. “We’ve spent so little time together. We can visit, if you want. I have a horse, and I want to figure out if I’m staying or not before I move her again.”
They ate in silence a few minutes. The ornate clock on the kitchen wall ticked off the day in loud increments.
Finally, her aunt lowered her fork and impaled Esme with a hard gaze. “Girl, are you running from something? From someone?”
“No!” Esme set her coffee cup down so hard some of the coffee sloshed over. She wiped it up with her napkin and frowned at her aunt. “Why would you think that?”
Her aunt shrugged and gave Esme a half smile. “I ran a lot. Almost always from bill collectors or men.” Her smile faded completely. “Usually I’d wind up at your mother’s, and I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised I was never welcome.”
“You can’t think . . . ” Esme struggled to defend her mother, but as always, found it a difficult task. “You two are sisters. She might not have always approved of you, but . . . she loves you.”
“You don’t even say it like you mean it,” Tina countered dryly. “But that’s not what I want, empty assurances from you. Adriana and I can hash out our own differences.” She reached across the table and caught Esme’s wrist unexpectedly. “So, there’s no husband? No boyfriend? No lover in your life right now?”
None of your business. The questions rankled—they sounded too much like an inquisition from her mother or brother. Or assorted acquaintances who called themselves friends and tried to dig up whatever dirt might lurk hidden under the surface of a very routine life. “No, no one.”
Her aunt’s fingers tightened slightly. “You’re sure? Because I just had this brilliant idea, but it only works if it doesn’t cause either of us any grief.”
She took a deep breath. “So, what’s up?”
Instead of answering, Tina released her wrist and shoved her chair away from the table and walked over to the sink to peer out the window. When she turned back, her eyes glittered with unshed tears.
“I might lose the club,” she said. “So long I wanted something to call my own, I had visions of just what I wanted to offer. But between the downturn in tourism here and the competition from that new bar, I’m not making it. Just a little sales boost and I could hold on until things pick up again.”
Esme stood up, too, hugging herself, wanting to reach out to her aunt, but feeling too awkward and unsure of what her aunt wanted. What she expected. “How can I help you?” she asked.
Tina rubbed one hand across her face, and lifted her chin. “Do you still sing?”
The question came out of left field, so totally not what she expected that she gaped and didn’t answer immediately. A request for a loan, a suggestion that she find somewhere else to live made sense,
but this?
She tilted her head? “Sing, Tía? I don’t sing, except with the radio.”
“Nonsense!” Tina walked over to her, this time catching both Esme’s hands and swinging them. “One of the times I was there, you won that singing contest, remember? And you could sing anything you wanted to. Your mom kept scolding you for making anyone who came to the house listen to you.” She arched her eyebrows. “In fact, didn’t you tell me you wanted to be a singer when you grew up?”
“I have a degree in child psychology, Tía. I never really considered music.”
“Probably just on account of your mother,” Tina muttered, letting her hands go and cupping her chin. “Come sing karaoke tonight. Tomorrow, too, if it goes well tonight.”
“How would that help you?”
Again, Tina shrugged emphatically. “The main thing is, how could it hurt? Do you know who Cody Benton was?”
“Of course.” To her annoyance, Esme felt goose bumps pebble her arms, and she forced herself not to shiver. “I loved her music. Too bad she’s gone, Tía, but . . . ”
“You should have seen my place when she dropped in,” her aunt continued, her gaze losing focus as she looked at something over Esme’s head. “She’d do karaoke or sing with some of the local musicians. Stay all night. No one could touch us when she’d drop in. She was golden.” Her eyes refocused on Esme, losing their far-off expression. “You can be golden.”
What? Singing karaoke? Esme shook her head. “Look, Tía, I wouldn’t mind singing if others were, but . . . it’s a stretch to think I can generate business.”
“You can be a hostess,” Tina went on, ignoring her protests. She grinned wickedly. “Fresh meat—the lifeline of any small town bar. Or small town, for that matter.”
Tina’s proposition seemed more bizarre by the minute. Esme frowned. She’d never considered herself either an introvert or a prude. But something about her aunt’s tone of voice made her uneasy. Why on earth would Tina expect her to be much help one way or another, if the club was really in trouble? Coupled with the questions about her love life, in fact, her aunt’s tone was almost offensive.
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