The problem, Mace could have told him, was that he didn't have any of what really mattered! But he was beyond talk now, beyond reason.
In what was left of his rational mind, he knew the goatee had nothing to do with any of it.
His fight was with Tom Morrison, God and, above all, himself.
But Tom Morrison was home in bed with Jenny, God wasn't into bar fights, and Mace had done enough harm to himself.
All he wanted now was one thing he knew he could accomplish—to wipe that smug smile off this man's face, pound him into the ground and mop the floor up with him.
"Don't tell me what I've got," he said, and his fist came up, and his arm swung round as he aimed directly at the goatee's astonished face.
He put all of his force into that swing.
And ended up flat on his butt!
His head rang. His ears buzzed. He felt like a herd of buffalo had flattened him.
"Wha—?" It was all he could say with the breath he had in him.
The goatee stood over him, shaking his head.
"Ippon-seoi-nage," the goatee explained, as if he'd just given a demonstration. "The one-arm shoulder throw. Judo." Then he reached down and hauled Mace, still gasping, unceremoniously to his feet.
"I called the cops," the bartender said.
"No!" Rooster yelped. "Don't do that! He didn't mean nothin'! He just had a little too much—"
"Way too much," the goatee said. He reached down once more and snagged something off the ground and handed it to Mace, who was still trying to catch a breath.
It was his hat. The crown was folded, the brim bent. But no worse than his pride.
"Let's go," Rooster pleaded. "Lemme get him outa here," he said to the bartender. "C'mon!" He snagged Mace's belt loop and began tugging him to the door. "He ain't always like this," he apologized to the crowd as they went. "Just had a hard day. Got kicked in the head.
"An' I'm gonna kick ya somewheres else, ya don't get a move on!" he added under his breath to Mace, propelling him toward the door. "He won't give you no more trouble," he called over his shoulder.
Then he shoved Mace out the door, dragged him down the street and pushed him up against a wall. "What in the name of Debby Deever's dirty drawers has got into you?"
"It ain't like you never got in a bar fight," Mace mumbled, holding his head and wincing. He could almost talk. His brain felt like mush.
"At least I ain't never lost one," Rooster retorted.
"He didn't fight fair!"
Rooster sniffed. "Huh." He grabbed Mace by the arm again and hauled him around the corner and down another street like a mother with a grip on a badly behaved child.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Gettin' outa here. You said you weren't goin' to jail, remember? Well, if you're still here when they show up, you're gonna be tellin' that to the cops."
Mace, mortified from the top of his head to the toes of his boots, let himself be dragged.
His ears rang, his stomach whirled, and his butt still stung from the swift unexpected smack on the hardwood floor.
What the hell—?
Judo, the goatee had said. Judo? Who the hell used judo in a bar fight?
"I coulda took him if he'd fought like a man," he mumbled.
"Uh-huh." Rooster steered him into the parking lot outside an all-night gas-station-convenience-store and pushed him down on the curb. "Sit there."
Mace sat. He watched glumly, head in hands, as Rooster disappeared into the store.
What the hell was he going into a store for?
Minutes later Rooster returned with a giant paper cup of coffee which he shoved into Mace's hands. "Drink this. It'll make you sober."
Mace didn't know that he wanted to be sober.
Not now.
Maybe not ever.
Rooster hunkered down next to him and stuck his face in Mace's. "Drink. You're gonna be sorry if you don't."
Mace gave him a baleful look. "Why? You gonna beat me up?"
Rooster shook his head slowly. "Not me."
They got through dinner fine. The gravy was creamy and thick. The steak was tender and done to perfection. The mashed potatoes were smooth, the string beans were fresh, and the green chili corn bread Jenny had made at the last minute, more to absorb some of her nervousness than because they needed more food, had Tom coming back for thirds.
She was delighted.
The longer they spent at the table, the less time they'd have to fill after.
What did you do with a man you invited over to your house for supper after you'd finished eating?
She wished she'd thought of that before. Only one thing seemed to be racketing around her brain at the moment: go to bed with him.
Of course that wasn't the only thing you could do with him, but it was the first thing she thought of.
The most petrifying thing she could possibly think of!
What if Tom expected her for dessert?
Of course he wouldn't. But just as surely, she knew she wasn't sure of anything.
She didn't know anything about dating. Except about dating Mace whom she'd known and loved forever—whom she would have gone to bed with after a dinner she'd cooked for him.
Only she'd never had the chance. She'd lived at home with her parents until she and Mace were married. Her father would have shot him before he would ever have let Mace have Jenny for dessert!
But times had changed.
Everything seemed to have changed but Jenny.
I'm a dinosaur, she thought as she watched Tom polish off the last of the mashed potatoes and his third helping of beans.
"Have some more corn bread?" she said, holding out the plate.
He sat back in his chair and rubbed his stomach ruefully. "I couldn't eat another bite of anything." Did that mean she was safe?
She set the plate down reluctantly. Tom smiled at her. It was a warm, comfortable smile. It was also an intimate smile—the smile of a man looking forward to more than going home tonight.
Hastily Jenny got to her feet and began to clear the table.
"I'll help you," Tom said. "We'll get done faster."
"Oh, I don't need any help. I can do it easier by myself."
"Nonsense," Tom said with a smile. "What would I do if I didn't help?"
Read the paper? Watch television? Go home?
Did she really want him to go home?
What she really wanted was to take things easy, to go slow. Very slow. This was all new to her. Way too new.
And still she wanted Mace.
It was insane, she supposed. After he had walked all over her feelings, after he had walked right out of her life—still she couldn't put him out of her mind, couldn't stop wishing it was Mace who had offered to help with the dishes, Mace who, afterward, would take her to bed.
She wasn't letting Tom Morrison take her to bed.
He was a very nice man. He might even make a good husband. Someday. But it was too early to even think about things like that.
Oblivious to all the furor in her head while she washed the dishes, Tom wiped the plates and silverware and talked about everything from the weather to the nature hike they'd been on in Yellowstone to the letter he'd got from his daughter.
"How is your daughter?" Jenny practically pounced on this topic of conversation.
Tom's eyes always softened when he talked about Katie. It was easy to see how much he missed her.
"She's fine. She sent me a picture from when we went out for her birthday." He reached for his jacket on the hook by the door as he spoke, then took out a snapshot and handed it to her. It was a lovely picture of father and daughter sitting side by side on the grass of a park, looking at each other and laughing.
There was, between them, the sort of rapport Jenny had often seen between Taggart and Becky. It was the sort of rapport she'd always thought Mace would share with a daughter. He shared some of that with Becky, she knew, but Becky had Taggart, so it wasn't the same.
Her finger brushed lightly
over the photo. "She looks so happy," she said. "You both do."
He nodded, his expression wistful. "It seems like ages since I've seen her. She's probably grown a foot."
"It won't be long before you'll get to see her again."
"I know. But it won't be the same." His ex-wife had recently remarried. There was a stepfather in the picture now.
"Things change," Jenny agreed softly. She set the photo down on the counter and went back to washing the dishes.
Working together, they finished the dishes quickly, just as she'd feared.
"I'll make coffee," she said. "And I think there's a good movie on. Mel Gibson, I think. Why don't you try to get it on the TV while I do this?"
For a moment she thought he might see through her and object, but then he nodded. "I'll do that."
When she brought the coffee out, Tom had the movie on. He patted the couch beside him, and carefully, leaving a few inches between them, Jenny sat down. He slid his arm behind her as they watched. Or rather she watched.
All the while she watched the movie, she was aware of Tom—watching her.
She leaned forward, concentrating on the movie. He shifted his weight toward her.
The couch dipped. Jenny tipped. Tom's arm slipped around her.
She stiffened.
"Relax," he said softly. "I don't bite."
Jenny gave a small nod. She drew a steadying breath. Relax, she echoed in her mind. Relax.
Oddly, as the minutes passed and Tom made no more moves, she began to do just that.
It felt comforting somehow to have his arm around her shoulders. She liked Tom. He was solid, dependable. There.
Unlike some people she could mention.
He wasn't pressuring her, either. Not really. The pressure was in her head, not in his.
Cautiously she slanted a smile his way. He returned it. They turned their attention back to Mel Gibson. Jenny found herself sagging against him a little, settling in.
"Sorry," she muttered, straightening up.
"Don't," Tom said softly and drew her back against him, snugging one of her hands inside his. They remained that way until the end of the movie.
It was late, Jenny thought. Time for him to go home.
She started to get up. Tom held her where she was. He turned her in his arms and touched her cheek with one finger.
"Are you still afraid of me?" he asked softly.
"Of course not."
Tom shook his head. "Don't lie. I won't do anything you don't want me to do. Okay?"
"Okay," she whispered.
"I want to kiss you," he said. "How do you feel about that?"
She smiled. "Nervous."
"Why? What do you think is going to happen?"
You'll take me to bed. But as she thought it, she knew it wasn't the truth. Tom wouldn't take her to bed unless she wanted him to.
"May I kiss you?"
She stared at him wordlessly, her lips parted.
"Yes or no?" he said softly. His mouth was bare inches from hers. She could look at it or at his eyes, not both.
She swallowed. "Yes," she said in a tiny voice. "I guess."
A smile crooked the corner of his mouth. And then she couldn't see his lips any longer. They were touching hers.
It was a kiss that began very much like the first one he had given her. It was gentle, nondemanding. Not threatening at all. A match flame. Not a forest fire.
But he didn't let the flame go out. He eased her closer, wrapped his arms around her, drew her into his embrace. His tongue flicked out to taste the lips he was kissing. The moist warmth of his mouth made Jenny's heart beat faster, made her head begin to spin. She opened her mouth under his and felt his immediate response. The kiss deepened. Tom's hands moved over her shirt, easing open the buttons. And Jenny felt…
What did she feel?
Before she could figure it out, the telephone rang.
She jumped. Her face was hot, her hair disheveled, her shirt half-undone. Hastily she scrambled up. "I'll get it."
She ran from the room like the devil was on her tail. How could she have let things go that far?
She snatched up the receiver. "Hello?" She paused, then frowned, buttoning her shirt as she spoke. "Rooster? Oh, Rooster! Of course I remember you. I'm sorry, but Mace isn't here. He—"
She listened, her hand stopped buttoning. Her fingers tightened on the phone. Her eyes got wide, and her jaw dropped open.
"He what?"
She didn't believe it. So he repeated it again, word for word.
"I'll be right there," she promised and hung up. She turned to see Tom standing in the doorway. "Something wrong?"
"Yes. No. I'm sorry. I have to go."
"Is it Mace?"
Jenny finished buttoning her shirt, then stuffed it in her slacks. She hesitated, then shrugged. He'd hear about it later, anyway. "Yes."
Tom's brow furrowed. "Is he hurt?"
Jenny grabbed her car keys and headed out the door. "Not yet."
* * *
Chapter 10
« ^ »
"What the hell?"
If three cups of black coffee, a north wind off the Bridgers and a sermon from Rooster on the evils of taking on judo experts didn't sober Mace up, the sight of the tan Ford pulling into the parking lot sure did.
"Jenny?"
Mace felt like he'd swallowed the plastic cup. He tried to lurch to his feet, stumbled and fell back down again. He stared wildly at Rooster.
Rooster shrugged. "I called her."
The coffee that was already battling the booze in his stomach threatened to make an unscheduled and unwanted reappearance. "You called Jenny?"
You got her out of bed with Tom Morrison? Mace didn't know whether to cheer or cry.
"I know ya prob'ly been fightin' with her," Rooster continued, oblivious, defending his action. "Couldn't see no other reason for you actin' like a jackass," he added bluntly. "But she's your wife, bud. Has been for years—" he shook his head in astonishment "—who else was I supposed to call?"
Mace folded his arms across his knees and buried his face in his sleeve. "Anybody," he muttered.
He heard the slam of the car door, then her footsteps on the pavement, coming toward them. He didn't move, didn't look up.
The footsteps stopped. "Rooster?"
"Yes'm. Rooster Lynch. Sure didn't wanna have ta call ya, ma'am, but the way he was actin' … well, when that ol' bartender called the cops, an' I reckoned he'd end up in the hoosegow 'fore long. Whooo-eee! You shoulda seen 'im. Walked right up to some perfesser type an' took a swing. Too bad he picked the wrong one!" Rooster cackled cheerfully.
"Rooster!" Mace protested, agonized.
He looked up long enough to see Jenny looking down at him as if he were something better left under a rock.
"You're damn lucky I got ya outa there," Rooster said flatly, ignoring his protest. "That wasn't the Six Gun, y'know. A feller's only gotta look t' see they don't cotton t' bar fights in places like that 'un."
"Really?" Jenny said. "This wasn't your normal hangout then?" she said to Mace in an almost conversational tone.
He wasn't deceived, and he knew better than to tackle that one.
Rooster didn't. "Oh, no, ma'am. We started out at th'Six Gun, all right. Mace was pretty well tanked 'fore I got there, and—"
"Damn it, Rooster!"
"You was about six drinks down the trail to perdition," Rooster said firmly. "An' I reckon he'd a good half dozen to go," he added for Jenny's benefit. "T'ain't like ol' Mace, but well, I reckon sometimes even a feller like him gets woman troubles."
"Woman troubles?" Jenny echoed faintly.
"I don't—" Mace began.
"Had 'em myself often enough," Rooster confided. "Reckon ain't nobody immune. So I just thought I'd keep 'im company, like. Drink with 'im. Walk with 'im. I'd a prob'ly fought with 'im if he'd a picked a better place to do it. But, well, at least I got him outa there. It's what friends are for," he added modestly.
> "You did the right thing," Jenny said.
Rooster's self-congratulation had gone on long enough. And the hole he was digging Mace into was getting deeper and deeper. Mustering all his strength, Mace gave one more shove. This time he made it to his feet and stood with his legs spread, the better not to tip over, and met Jenny's disdainful gaze.
"You didn't have to come," he told her.
She turned back to Rooster, holding out her hand. "Thank you for calling me."
"My pleasure, ma'am. I mean, under the circumstances it wasn't exac'ly a pleasure, but, well … I reckon you understand." Rooster gave Jenny's hand an awkward shake and then doffed his hat. The tips of his ears were pink.
Jenny gave him one of her gentle smiles—the sort that Mace knew she wasn't going to bestow on him. "I know what you mean."
They stood for a moment just smiling at each other.
Mace gritted his teeth.
Then Rooster set his hat on his head again, tugged it down and took a step back. "I'll just be on my way then. Let you get goin'. You'll wanta take care of Mace."
Jenny turned back to Mace. Their eyes met. "Oh, yes," she said ominously. "I'll take care of Mace."
It didn't do any good to try to talk to her, Mace thought glumly as the car hurtled through the darkness heading back toward Elmer, with Jenny at the wheel, staring straight ahead.
God knew he'd tried.
As soon as Rooster left, he stood weaving in the parking lot and said, "I didn't know he called you."
"I'll bet you didn't."
"You didn't need to come."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"You can go home again. I'm fine."
She didn't even deign to answer that. She just took his arm and bullied him toward the car.
He dug in his heels. "I got my truck."
"Like they're going to let you drive it in your condition."
She didn't stop moving, just kept towing him along. He didn't have enough purchase on the asphalt to make a stand.
"Take me back to my truck then, if you're so all-fired determined to take me somewhere. I can sleep in the cab."
"You can shut up, Mace. That'd be wisest," she said with a sweetness that belied her grip on his arm. She jerked open the door of the car.
He teetered.
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