“Okay,” Esme repeated, hoping she wouldn’t be asked to stay with two people she didn’t know and whose daughter she didn’t really like.
Marie blushed. Bright red, for no apparent reason.
“There’s this guy,” she added.
Oh.
“He’s a country singer—Esmeralda, you have to see him! He’s gorgeous, and he’s got this voice . . . ”
“What’s his name?”
“You might not have heard of him. He’s just breaking in. He’s playing at the Silver Dollar tonight. That’s . . . ”
“I know. The place next to the Silver Boot and Booty and down the street from my aunt’s.”
“Anyway, Bounty Collins is playing there!” Marie almost squealed with excitement.
“Who?”
“You haven’t heard of him?” Her face fell. “You will soon. He’s been in Nashville but he’s making one last trip through Texas before he goes back for good.”
“Okay. And the favor?”
“Go with me tonight. I’ll buy you a drink or—whatever. We can grab dinner if you want. We can get to know each other.”
Esme considered the invitation. She didn’t think she could be friends with Marie. But if Marie was infatuated with some up and coming local singer, so much the better. Marie couldn’t moon over Rafael if she were mooning over someone named Bounty Collins. So she smiled. “My aunt won’t like me going there instead of Tía’s, but I’ll tell her I was checking out the competition. What time do you want to be there?”
“Nine. Would you like a burger or something first?”
“No, I’ll just meet you there, Marie. I need to run some errands first.”
“Thanks,” Marie repeated, her whole face glowing. “I’ll walk you back to your car. Did you know that Bounty writes songs, too?” She chattered on all the way back to the drive, and Esmeralda just sat in the quiet of the truck for a long moment before she turned it on, relishing the silence. She could only hope that Marie’s adulation for Bounty would strike her speechless while they were at the Silver Dollar. She wouldn’t be able to stay sane if she were subjected to such prattle.
Chapter Fifteen
Esme walked carefully over the floor of the Silver Dollar, aware that a number of male heads turned her way and the room was crowded enough that she might bump into someone if she weren’t careful. She finally spotted Marie at a table not too far away from the stage and waved. Marie beamed at her and jiggled in her chair, full of excitement.
Esme sat down at the table with a smile, amused at the transformation. Sober and professional in their former meetings, Marie looked years younger and years happier in her skin-tight mini-dress and stilettos. “You really like this guy Collins?” she asked, sitting down with Marie.
“I met Bounty last week! I actually met him. Can you believe he told me to come tonight?” Marie gushed. “What do you want to drink?”
Esme ordered a margarita and sat back, listening to the laughter and noise around her and thinking about Rafael. Would he have objected to her coming here? Surely not. She tried to focus on what Marie was saying, but every other word seemed to be Bounty, so the gist was, the girl was in love.
A burst of applause and Marie’s mouse-like squeak of excitement accompanied the bar owner, a former country singer himself, as he announced the appearance of “country’s next big star, Bounty Collins.” Applause and a few whistles greeted the introduction.
Esme turned her attention to the singer who walked out. Spangled, fitted western shirt and jeans with embroidered boots and a white cowboy hat. Blue-eyed and blond—the man she’d seen walk by the window that night she and Rafael had eaten at Rosita’s and she’d gone to Tía’s afterwards. The singer flaunted a bit of swagger and plenty of good looks. Good for Marie if she’d already met the guy. She probably hadn’t had much time for herself with the demands of taking care of invalid parents and earning a living.
Bounty strummed his guitar and sang a few bars of an Alan Jackson song, then introduced his band members. He played well enough, and his voice was okay. But the presence wasn’t there. He covered songs listlessly at times, and Esme didn’t think he showed any genius with a couple of songs he had written. Before his first break, she was ready to leave and head for Tía’s. Or home. Leaving Marie alone so quickly seemed rude, so Esme stayed, hoping that she’d be able to sound convincing if she had to compliment Marie’s crush.
While Bounty encouraged everyone to support the bar and have another round while the band took a break, Marie reached over and grasped her hand, squeezing it tightly. “Do you think he’ll come over . . . look . . . he is!”
Esme reached over to pat Marie’s hand, hoping that the woman wouldn’t pass out.
Bounty walked up, and this time he tipped his hat and nodded. “Marie, you look beautiful,” he told her, leaning over and pecking her cheek. “Thank you for coming to see me again. I know you told me it’s hard.”
Then he turned to Esmeralda. “Well, hello, gorgeous!” He leaned over and kissed her nearer the corner of her lips than her cheek, then pulled out a chair and straddled it. “Marie,” he said over his shoulder, “thank you, thank you!” Then he turned back to Esmeralda. “When and where?”
Esme saw Marie’s face freeze, then turn scarlet. Embarrassment and anger, probably, and she couldn’t blame the other woman a bit.
She pushed her chair back. “Thanks for the compliments, Cowboy, but I’m engaged.”
She saw Bounty glance at her finger. “The first ring wasn’t expensive enough,” she explained. “Marie, I’ve got to run now. Bounty, if it hadn’t been for Marie, I wouldn’t have had the pleasure. Better take care of your number one fan!” She waggled her fingers and walked out, furious at the way the singer had behaved with Marie. Now how would she mend fences with Rafael’s assistant?
She glanced back at them, and could tell they were arguing about something. That seemed odd. Did Marie have enough of a claim that she could reproach him over coming on to another woman? A country honkytonk probably wasn’t the best place to find a man who wasn’t a player. She frowned. She was sure Marie had said first that she didn’t know the man, that she just wanted a chance to meet him—and then Marie had mentioned that she already knew him. Maybe she’d just misunderstood. What possible reason would Marie have had to lie? Mentally shrugging it off, she decided to drop in to Tía’s.
She opened the door to see a trio of regular customers belting out “Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under” and doing Shania Twain a huge injustice. The poor woman would want at least an apology if she ever saw this. She waved at them as she walked over to claim a stool, looking around and seeing neither her aunt nor Angel.
“Where’s everyone, Tom?”
He didn’t answer, turning around to set three full beer mugs in front of their owners, then wiped his forehead with a bar towel and tossed it aside.
“We don’t even have that many customers and I can’t buy a break.” He peered at her. “Hey, can you serve drinks as well as you sing?”
“Oh, no.” Esme smiled at him. “Speaking of drinks, can I have a glass of water with lemon?”
“Wimping out?” He brought her the water before turning back to take an order from the waitress who came in some Saturdays.
“Yeah, but I only slept an hour or two last night. My aunt and Angel are both gone?”
“Tía didn’t come in again today. Angel called and talked to her, then she started feeling bad and . . . ” Tom shrugged. “I told her to go home, but she insisted she’d be back in a bit. She’s a hard worker and one good woman to have around.”
Tom’s tone expressed sincere admiration, and maybe a hint of something more. The idea of Angel and Tom being in love amused her, although probably they’d chosen their prospective romantic partners badly. Her smile faded away. She’d chosen hers for money. Not exactly, but certainly Truth would think so. If not now, when Rafael and she just turned and walked away from each other.
“You look glum,�
� Tom noted. “Hey, that’s not the look for a woman in love to be wearing.”
“You heard?”
Tom hooted. “If anyone in Truth hears, everyone hears. That’s why it’s called Truth.” He gave her a wink and turned to wait on new customers, and she climbed down from the stool, carrying her water, and wound up at a table by the window again.
The boisterous trio who had been singing up on the stage without benefit of Tom’s help suddenly came rushing over. “We wrote you in! Come on, girl!”
“Night off. Besides, I’m a married woman now.”
“Engaged,” one of them protested.
“And that’s the same thing. I’m spoken for, guys. Go away!”
“Aw, hell, Miss Esme. We’re not disrespectin’ you or your man. We just can’t hit those high notes like ol’ Billy Ray.”
“What’s he got to . . . oh, no. I will not—not—do ‘Achy Breaky Heart.’”
They didn’t listen, just caught her hand while the customers around who had heard her sing before started chanting, “Esme, Esme, Esme!”
“Someone will get my table—”
“I’ll watch it,” one of the clerks at the local grocery store said, grinning. She waved at the three other women with them, and they left their husbands to take over Esme’s table.
“One, and I finish my drink and go home.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Esme saw Angel, wan and preoccupied, come in and whisper something to Tom, then give him a gentle shove toward the karaoke machine. A few seconds into the song, Esme admitted to herself that she loved moving with the song while she sang, stomping and shaking and hitting the notes the men had complained about without any trouble. She almost gave in to the shouts for an encore, but when she glanced at the bar, Angel looked worse than before, and Tom had gone back to serving drinks to some much thirstier customers.
“Angel, are you all right?” she asked, and the older woman nodded. “Don’t worry. I think I just let my sugar and pressure get messed up. I’ll be fine. Once the crowd thins out, I’ll leave.”
“Have you heard from Tía?”
“She answered the phone at the house but just hung up on me.” Angel took a glass Tom handed her and took a sip, wrinkling her nose. “These kids don’t know how to make lemonade,” she muttered. “He’s more likely to kill me than cure me.”
“I think I’ll head home,” Esme said reluctantly. Facing her aunt tonight wasn’t something she wanted to do, but she hadn’t seen her all day. Hadn’t her aunt even wondered how the trip to Laredo with Rafael had gone? Or how her own sister was doing? The old hurts started winding their way up to strangle her heart and mind again, but she wouldn’t let them. More than ever, she’d make a go of her summer job. She could do it to help Tía and salve her own soul. Eventually, maybe she’d even try to understand her mother.
She walked over to finish her water.
“Hello, gorgeous,” Bounty Collins said, so close that his hot breath brushed past her ear.
The glass fell out of her hand, spilling its contents all over the laminated table top.
“Oh, man, I’m sorry.” Bounty stepped around her and swiped ineffectually at the ice and water spreading out to the edge. The ladies who had moved when Esme came back leaped up with handfuls of tissue and paper towel they dragged from their purses, and Tom came rushing over with a towel.
With everyone working on the table, Esme turned indignantly to Bounty. “How dare you? What made you think you could come in here to my aunt’s place and fall all over me when you treated Marie like you did?”
“Calm down, calm down.” He pulled a chair back. “Sit down for a little.” He smiled and nodded at everyone and thanked them, and they wandered back to tables. “Look, pretty woman, Marie’s sweet, but she’s just someone I met. She knows I’m not interested in her. Now you . . . ”
Anger pulsed through her, and she fought an impulse to slap him just for Marie’s sake. But she’d attracted enough attention. She fought back the urge to grin when she thought of Rafael, off in Houston, probably thinking she was home alone, asleep.
“You have five minutes,” she muttered, and sat down. “And you owe me water with a lemon twist.” He stalked over to the bar and came back with a beer and her water; watching him walk towards her, she could see why Marie was in love and a number of women in the club were all eyes. He was nearly as tall as Rafael, with muscled arms and a chest that stretched the denim of his shirt. Not long ago, she realized, he would have been her dream man, a fantasy to chase. If he led others on and discarded them, well—their loss. Tonight he just repulsed her.
“What did you want, cowboy?”
Before he could answer, Tom suddenly came up to the table. “Excuse me a minute, Esme. But, look dude, you know you’re not supposed to be here. So when you finish your chat, go.”
“Tía would be glad to see me,” he told Tom. Then he turned his back on the bartender. “Look, Esmeralda, I’m sorry I was rude. You know how it is, the adrenaline, the crowd—and you gotta admit, you’re a knockout.”
She shook her head. “Give it up. An ass is an ass. I doubt you treat anyone better than poor Marie. And besides, I’m engaged.”
“I don’t see a ring,” Bounty noted.
“You don’t have to.”
He stood to go. “Okay. But I hope you’ll close your eyes and see me instead of him.”
Did he hear himself? “You’re pathetic,” Esmeralda told him. “Leave.”
He frowned and plucked his hat off the neighboring table. “See you around.”
She finished her replacement glass of water, said goodbye to the couples at the next table, and went over to the bar. Angel looked better, and declined an offer to let Esme take her home. “He didn’t kill me with his lemonade, so I’ll be fine,” Angel muttered, and Esme grinned.
“Tom, I’m taking off, but I just wondered—why did you run Bounty Collins off?” Esme asked.
Tom and Angel exchanged glances, and then Angel shrugged her thin shoulders.
“There’s hell to pay anyway if anyone took pictures with their phones,” Angel pointed out, talking to Tom and not Esmeralda.
After a minute, Tom nodded, and turned back to her.
“You didn’t need to do it for me,” Esme prodded. “I can handle my own problems.”
“Not that one you can’t. Not if your fiancé finds out.”
“What? Now I have to give a damn if Rafael thinks I’m having fun at my aunt’s club?”
“It isn’t that.” Tom fidgeted, clearly nervous. Finally he put down his ever present towel and faced her squarely.
“The thing is,” he said, “Bounty Collins isn’t allowed in here because that’s not his real name. His name is Doug Harper, and Rafael thinks he killed Cody.”
Chapter Sixteen
Rafael’s phone buzzed, indicating he’d received a message, and then buzzed again and again. Puzzled, he eased himself up and away from where Justin had fallen asleep in the middle of his bed. He’d lain there beside his nephew for the past two hours, knowing he should carry him back to his own room, put him down properly, but not wanting to wake him.
So many texts in such a short time had become unusual on Saturdays. When he’d been really working at things that mattered, before Cody’s death, weekdays and weekends all ran together. Now, even weekdays weren’t always busy.
Momentary hope flared. Had Esme texted him with some question or other? He’d felt so connected to her on their Laredo trip. The hurtful memories had been cleansed by sharing them. At least, he felt that way. Then again, he no longer had to deal with anyone from his pre-Benton past. She still had all of her past pain except Toby, and he suspected that she held some necessary dream that Toby and she could have made it.
He managed to get to his phone without waking the toddler. The first message was from the owner of the feed store, who kept Cody’s horses supplied with whatever he thought they needed. “Congrats on ur engagement,” the message said. When the picture finishe
d loading, he felt his chest constrict. His breath caught. Whoever caught the shot caught Esme as she twirled, her short skirt flipping up, showing thighs that . . . Heart pounding again, he flipped to the next. A whole freaking video of “Achy Breaky Heart.” Line dancing was supposed to take place in steak houses among waitresses in boots and jeans. Not in flirty little skirts with tops that didn’t cover much of anything.
He couldn’t imagine complaining to her, though. Maybe after they married he could convince her that she couldn’t be out like that when his folks came. How would they ever believe a woman that wild, that sexy, had decided to settle down? He wasn’t jealous of the three drunk guys; she wasn’t paying attention to them. But the music seemed to own her, move her of its own accord . . . good thing she wasn’t into tangos.
Two more shots were stills of the same dance, one of them so blurry that he deleted it on the spot.
When he went to the next picture, sent with no message from a number he didn’t recognize, he froze again. But this time it wasn’t from the rush of desire for a fiancée he’d never really make love to, a physical reaction to the most sensual woman he’d ever seen.
Cold fury hammered him in the chest and he sat down on the edge of the bed so hard that Justin stirred and mumbled. He reached over to pat him, in spite of the blind rage threatening to push him over the edge. What the hell was Doug Harper doing pressed up against Esmeralda, his mouth all but wedged to her ear?
• • •
Esmeralda woke up late on Sunday, disoriented and feeling that she’d done something terrible. She just couldn’t remember what. As her senses cleared, she remembered Tom’s angry orders to Bounty to leave and Angel’s worried remarks about cell phone pictures. She’d been talking to the man Rafael hated most in the world, and she hadn’t even known.
No point in worrying. She’d go into San Antonio and look for a dress for her wedding. The sooner she and Rafael married, the sooner they could get on with the charade and be done. That thought didn’t ease her mind, so she focused on planning out the entire day. Shopping and lunch in San Antonio. Alone. She couldn’t find any more headaches off on her own, could she?
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