by Hope Ramsay
The din of conversation ended sharply, like this was a scene in some spaghetti western. It was unusual, to say the least, for Stony to set foot in Dottie’s, much less to come with his deputy. Clay tensed, wary as a coon with a hound on his tail. Something unpleasant was about to go down.
Clay released Tricia and started in Jane’s direction. He wasn’t about to let his older brother haul her back to jail. Enough was enough.
But Jane wasn’t Stony’s focus. Instead, the chief stepped right up to Ray and glared down at him with a grim look. “Ray,” Stone said, closing his fist around the boy’s right biceps.
“Huh?” Ray looked up at the chief with his goofy grin.
“You’re under arrest for grand larceny. You have the right to remain silent…” Stony began to read Ray his rights.
Clay forgot about Ricki and Tricia and Jane, turned on his heel, and took three steps toward his older brother, something kind of violent rising up into his throat. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked, his voice coming out raw and angry.
His brother stopped droning and looked up at Clay with pity in his eyes. The last thing in the world Clay wanted from his older brother was pity. His brother had given him a lifetime of looks like that—every time Clay got his clock cleaned on the playground, or when some woman cut out his heart and ate it for breakfast. God damn it, what made Stone that much more of a man than him anyway?
It sure didn’t take a man to wear a badge and gun and use his government-issue combat training to run innocent people like Jane and Ray into jail.
“Clay, this isn’t the time,” Stone said in that deep-down, always-in-control voice of his.
“What’d Ray do?”
“Just stand aside and—”
Something that had been brewing inside Clay for a long time—maybe since Tricia dumped him or maybe since Uncle Pete had been diagnosed with lung cancer—took that moment to break. And when it broke, it snapped, clean through, like a bone under stress.
In the following seconds, Clay lost himself inside a rage so deep and so wide and so vast that he launched himself at Stone intent on hurting him… bad. It took the combined force of Dash Randall, Bubba Lockheart, Damian Easley, and all the members of the Wild Horses to pull Clay off.
When they finally separated Clay from his brother, Clay had done what he’d wanted to do all day, from the moment Stone had arrested Jane. He had put his fist right through his big brother’s face.
And, boy howdy, he had sure messed up his big brother’s good looks. Stone’s perfect blade of a nose was bloodied, and his cheeks were bruised, and he was going to have a couple of big fat shiners on him.
“Shit,” Stone said as Dottie hurried over and handed him a dish towel filled with ice from the bar. “What the hell is the matter with you?” He applied the ice to his rapidly swelling nose.
Clay said not one word. He just tried to get away from the boys holding him so he could go another round.
“I ought to haul you in for assaulting an officer of the law,” Stone continued.
Clay tried to get his right hand free, but Damian was stronger than he looked.
“Momma would have my ass in a sling if I put you in jail. So you listen up.” His brother had the temerity to point one bloody finger at Clay’s chest. “Ray stole the money from the store. I gotta haul him in. I don’t have any choice.”
Stone wiped blood from his nose, snagged Ray by the arm, and turned around toward the door. He took three paces, then turned and said over his shoulder, “And I swear, Clay, the next time you come at me like that I’ll put you right on your ass, and break a few bones just for fun. And don’t you think for one minute I won’t, either.”
It gave Clay a little mote of satisfaction that he’d managed to wound his brother’s pride. It was the first time he’d ever managed to do that. It was also likely the last, because Stone would put him in the hospital, or jail, or maybe both, if he ever picked another fight with him.
Clay took a deep gulp of air as sanity returned. It was then that he looked down at his right hand and saw the torn and bloody knuckles. He had this feeling as he watched the knuckles swell up that holding a bow wouldn’t be possible for the remainder of the night.
Not to mention trying to play piano while Jane sang, which he had been looking forward to all afternoon.
Crap. He hated fighting. It always messed up his hands. And this time, it might have messed up his relationship with Stone, whom he loved, even if the guy was frequently a raging idiot.
That’s when the shame hit him, followed by this hollow feeling of hopelessness and grief. If he didn’t haul his butt out of that room quick, he was going to embarrass himself in front of everyone. And the thought of Jane seeing him cry made him feel like a jerk. Real men didn’t cry.
So Clay turned in his tracks and marched himself right out the service door to the alley without looking up or meeting the shocked looks on everyone’s faces.
CHAPTER 13
Dash Randall started to follow Clay from the room, but Dottie intercepted him before he reached the door. The bartender didn’t say a word. She just blocked Dash with a hand on his chest and shook her head. And that’s when Jane saw something in both of their faces that made her heart squeeze in her chest and her stomach flip-flop.
There wasn’t a soul in that bar who didn’t care about Clay Rhodes. She could see it in their faces. Like they all knew his pain. Like they all understood his compulsion to look after Ray Betts. Like they all knew Clay would be embarrassed if anyone tried to help him out.
And just like that, Jane understood. The Universe and Ruby Rhodes had not sent her down to Dot’s Spot this evening to be rescued or tempted. No, indeed, the Universe had something else altogether in mind.
Dash and Dottie returned to the bar, and the remaining members of the Wild Horses took the stage and started playing an old Hank Williams number short one fiddler. Ricki and the pregnant woman who had just arrived on the nine-thirty bus sat down at the same table and stared at the door to the alley like they had no clue what to do next.
Jane turned away from them and headed to the bar to speak with Dottie. “Can I have a cup of ice and a towel?” she asked.
Dottie gave her a long, hard stare. “What for…?”
“Clay needs ice for his hand. I was going to take him some.”
“I’m sure he does need ice, but I also know he sure doesn’t want you to see him cry.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t. Which is why I’m giving him a few minutes while I get ice for him,” Jane said in a voice that sounded firm and filled with positive energy. “Tonight he needs someone to lean on instead of always being everyone’s rock. I think you know that.” She nodded toward the table where Ricki and the mystery woman sat glaring at each other and the back door.
Dottie nodded back. “You know, Jane, you are my kind of woman.” The bartender filled a large paper cup with ice and put it on the bar.
Jane picked up the ice and reached for the clean dish towel Dot proffered. But before Dot released the towel, she said, “Don’t you hurt him.” She rolled her eyes toward the women at the table. “He’s been hurt before, and I’m telling you, he’s one of a kind.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
Dottie’s mouth narrowed. “I sure hope you do.”
Jane found Clay in the parking lot behind the bar. He stood with his palms braced on the hood of his minivan with his head hung low. A street light illuminated the scene, but even in the feeble yellow glow, Jane saw the muscles in his back straining against the dark fabric of his T-shirt.
Heat flowed through her when she put her hand on his back, between his shoulder blades. His T-shirt was sweat-dampened, and the solid feel of his spine and muscles beneath her hand unleashed a torrent of hormones.
Leave it to the Universe to put a man like this in her path. He might be what she had been looking for all her life—a real hero. Or he might be a huge mistake.
“Why did you come out here?”
Clay asked in a low and husky voice.
“I brought some ice for your hand.”
He made a noise that might have been a laugh, but it was devoid of positive energy. He rolled his head in her direction and gave her a stare that was hard to read in the dim light. “Man, you are something else, aren’t you? Tell the truth. You really came out here looking for explanations. But I’m not interested in explaining.”
She poured the cup of ice into the dish towel. “Let me see the hand, Clay,” she said in an imitation of the no-nonsense voice she’d heard Ruby use with her children and grandchildren.
Clay responded appropriately. He turned around and leaned on the front quarter panel of his van, holding out his hand.
Jane took his hand in both of hers. His palms were warm and rough, and the feel of his skin sliding across hers made the breath hitch in her throat. His knuckles were bruised and abraded. The hand was swollen, but it didn’t look as if he had broken any bones.
“Well,” she said as she placed the icy towel over his knuckles. “This confirms it.”
“Confirms what? That I’m some kind of out-of-control jerk?”
“No, that’s not it. But it does confirm that your brother’s head is harder than your knuckles. And that’s saying something.”
She looked up at him. He’d lost his hat somewhere, and the street light glimmered on his beautiful hair and the smile that ghosted his lips. Her heart stumbled in her chest. She could love this man. But loving him would be crazy.
After what seemed like an eternity, he pulled his hand away from hers and steadied the ice on his knuckles. “Yeah, well, thanks for the ice.” He looked away.
“I’m not afraid of you, Clayton P. Rhodes.” It was a lie.
“No?” he whispered.
“No,” she whispered back. And to prove the point, Jane reached up behind his neck and pulled his head down toward her. He resisted, but after the second tug, he leaned forward and brought his forehead to rest on her shoulder. She inhaled him then: the scent of sweat and laundry detergent and secondhand cigarette smoke from the bar.
He leaned there for maybe half a minute, before he straightened. “I seem to be acting like some kind of freaking teenager these days. And I hate being so out of control. But I have to say something important—you are not what I need, Jane. I’m sorry to say that, but it’s true.”
“What do you need?” she asked, feeling the hurt of his words prickle along her skin and settle heavily into her heart.
He pushed up from the fender, the move violent and sudden. “I don’t know what I need,” he raged. He punctuated the point by hurling the towel and the ice against the brick wall. It hit with a slushy slap.
“Shit.” He stood there, his back to Jane. He was breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists. “I guess I need to control my temper for starters.”
“That would be good. But get this straight—until I know you’re okay, I’m not leaving you alone. I don’t need to be your lover, Clay. I’d like to be your friend.”
More lies.
“You want to be my friend?” He looked at her over his shoulder.
“Yeah.”
He stared up at the streetlight for a long moment. Then he turned and faced her. He continued to hesitate, as if he were weighing the pros and cons of saying anything else. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded tight. “I’m stuck in my life, Jane. You need to know that.”
“And what does that mean?”
“It means I’m having a midlife crisis, and you are one of the symptoms. And meanwhile, the past is coming home to roost, and every time I think about changing myself, the people in this one-horse town remind me who and what I am.”
She leaned her fanny against the fender, folding her arms across her chest. She told herself he was just trying to pick this fight because he was angry and wanted to fight with someone—anyone. So she decided not to fight him at all. “Who exactly are you?” she asked.
A bitter laugh escaped his lips. “I started out my life as a fat boy with a violin whose only friend was a math geek. And I’ve ended up a failure with a violin whose only friend is a math geek with a damaged brain.”
“A fat boy? I don’t think so. You’re a big man, but you aren’t fat.”
“Yeah, well, I was short and fat as a kid.” He went back to studying the streetlight like it held the answers for him. “I didn’t put on any growth until I was sixteen, and then I grew like a weed. And as for being a failure—my brother, Tulane, has just signed a contract with Ferguson Racing to be a NASCAR Sprint Cup driver; Stone is nearly ’bout the most well-respected man in Last Chance; and my little sister, Rocky, got herself a full ride to the University of South Carolina and parlayed her education into a job running Senator Rupert Warren’s Columbia office.”
“Clay, I hate to say this, but it seems to me that you are stuck in a vicious cycle of negative affirmations.”
He turned an angry gaze on her. “Would you stop with the Pollyanna routine? If you want to be my friend, you’re going to have to quit with the glass-is-half-full crap. I’m telling you right here, right now, the glass of my life is half-empty, okay?”
“Okay. But for the record, you are not the only one who suffered through teenaged angst. You have to stop calling yourself names. That kind of thinking won’t help you get unstuck in your life.”
“Do you ever stop with that bull? You don’t know squat about my life.”
“That’s true, I don’t. So tell me, is being stuck in your life the reason you unloaded on your brother?”
“Ah, I knew you would get around to asking that question sooner or later.”
“You don’t have to answer it if you don’t want.”
“No, I reckon I will,” he said on a soft sigh. He came forward and leaned into the fender beside her. He crossed his arms like a barrier. “Like I said, the folks in Last Chance will always see me as that fat boy with the violin who ran off to Nashville, failed miserably, and then came back. And if you want to know why I decked my brother, it was because I could see all that in his eyes, and it pissed me off.”
“I’ll bet.”
“I’m not even sorry I did it.”
“Good, you shouldn’t be sorry for the way you feel. Hitting is wrong, but feelings are feelings.”
“You sound like a kindergarten teacher.”
“Yeah, well, you’re acting like a preschooler.”
“Thanks. So you think I should go use words and apologize, huh?”
“Only if you feel like it. It’s okay to be pissed off at your brother, Clay. He’s so easy to dislike.”
That earned her a chuckle. “That makes you just about the only person in town who doesn’t think he walks on water.”
“For the record, I’m mostly here validating your feelings. Although, to be honest, your brother is not one of my favorite people, especially after what he did this morning.”
He rolled his head so he could look at her out of the corner of his eye. “So you gonna tell me what that was all about?”
“I already told you about his theories. Are you trying to change the subject?”
“Uh-huh. And I’m doing that because I don’t need anyone to validate my feelings, and I don’t like being told that I’m acting like a preschooler. I’m trying real hard to get a grip on my feelings and act like a man.”
Jane turned and faced him, leaning her hip into the fender. “I’m not buying your lame excuses. If you don’t like it in Last Chance, it’s time to move on.”
“You mean like running away? Like what you did when you were a kid?”
Oooh, he was good. “That’s one way to look at it,” Jane said. “Or you could say you’re moving on. You need to decide whether spending the rest of your days managing a hardware store for your ailing uncle and looking after people like Ray Betts will make you happy. You need to decide if maybe being a musician and going back to Nashville to play country music is what you want. And then there’s the choice of going someplace like New
York or L.A., where you could be the singer-songwriter that you want to be, but are too afraid to try.”
“Wow, that’s a lot of things on my ‘to do’ list. And, by the way, I thought you said you didn’t know much about my life.”
She shrugged. “I work in a beauty shop in a small town. You hang out there for a day and you pretty much get the full story on everyone.”
“I see. And you’re qualified to tell me what to do with my life because…”
“Well, it seems to me that you weren’t shy about telling me what to do with my life. I think you told me on Thursday that I needed a positive plan for my life, and that singing karaoke and shaking my backside was not enough to get me into the Grand Ole Opry.”
“Touché.” He pushed himself away from the fender and turned to face her. “Look, I need to go bail out Ray. Would you do me a favor and tell Ricki that she needs to make nice to Tricia and let her sleep on my sofa?” He started to step around the van toward the driver’s-side door.
Jane pushed away from the fender and followed him. “That woman is Tricia?”
Clay stopped in his tracks and turned, his features unreadable in the dim light. “You know about Tricia?”
She shrugged. “I heard about her at the beauty shop.” A million new worries coursed through her head. That woman in the bar was pregnant.
He answered her unasked question. “Don’t worry, it’s not my baby. But I’m thinking she came here hoping I would rescue her.”
“And you make a habit of doing that, don’t you? And you go around making yourself responsible for everyone and everything.”
“Is that what you think?”
“It’s what I know, Clay. It’s what I see with my own eyes. It’s what I hear all the time in the gossip at the beauty shop. You rescued me on Wednesday. You gave Ricki a place to stay last night. And now this pregnant woman shows up and cries on your shoulder.”
“I didn’t rescue you on Wednesday. Let’s get that straight. I took advantage of you on Wednesday.”