Springwater Wedding

by Linda Lael Miller

  He rolled his eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “I was raised in a barn, you know. Literally.” He looked around. “Where’s the guard dog?”

  Maggie had to laugh at the thought of Sadie protecting her from anything more threatening than a stray dust mote or a renegade grasshopper. “She’s keeping my mother company this afternoon. Mom’s painting a new artichoke series, and I guess she needed canine support.”

  “Ah,” J.T. said, not even pretending to understand. Just then, his shirt pocket rang. “Wainwright,” he said, holding up one hand in a just-a-moment gesture and grinning at her. His expression changed to one of solemn concentration. “Hi, Annie. Yeah, I know you called back as soon as you could.” He paused, stepping out of the doorway to let Maggie pass. “Listen, we need to talk about Quinn.”

  Maggie headed for the kitchen to make coffee and, at the same time, afford J.T. some privacy. She hoped everything was O.K. with his little boy.

  Ten minutes later J.T. joined her in the kitchen area, took a mug from the shelf, and poured himself a cup of coffee. She was seated at one of June-bug’s trestle tables, flipping through a magazine.

  He stood on the other side of the table, looking even more haggard than he had when he came in. “May I?”

  She gestured for him to sit down. “Be my guest. Everything all right?”

  He took a seat, heaved a long sigh. “My son, Quinn, is coming out here to stay with me for a while.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  He shoved a hand through his hair. “For me, it’s great. For Quinn, well, I’m not so sure.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s only six,” he said, “and he’s never really been away from Annie. Besides, I’m not used to looking after little kids, and I live on a ranch. Suppose he gets hurt?”

  Maggie smiled, touched by the obvious depth of his love for his child. “You’ll do just fine. He’ll love the ranch and, I hate to point this out, but he could be hurt anywhere.”

  J.T.’s responding smile was tentative, and brief. “There’s trouble brewing around here,” he said. “And I’m bound to be right in the middle of it, now that Purvis has stuck me with a badge. Do I need to remind you what happened to my dad? Suppose it happened again, Maggie? I don’t want Quinn to see what I saw, go through what I went through.”

  Maggie winced. She considered the grim fact that a number of Pete Doubletree’s cattle were dead, and all that that might mean, not just for Pete and his family, but for the whole community. “Maybe your dad’s killing was random, or even an accident.”

  J.T. shook his head. “It was neither,” he said.

  She let out a long breath. “And you’re afraid history will repeat itself?”

  “Yeah,” J.T. admitted. “Maybe I am. Something is wrong, McCaffrey. Something was wrong back then, and it’s still wrong now.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, quietly terrified. She couldn’t refute his words, although she knew he had no proof.

  J.T. had been a cop for a long time; no doubt his instincts were sharp where such things were concerned.

  A long silence fell. Then he assessed her thoughtfully. “What about you, McCaffrey?” he asked.

  “What about me?”

  His jawline softened, and his eyes glinted with a sort of beleaguered mischief. “Are you afraid history will repeat itself?”

  She knew he wasn’t referring to his father’s murder now, but to their star-crossed love affair, back in the days of their reckless youth. “Maybe,” she said.

  He sighed again and simply waited.

  “I don’t want to be hurt again,” she admitted.

  “When did you turn into a coward?”

  Her temper flared, despite everything. “I’m not a coward. I’m just careful, that’s all. Sensible.”

  He pondered her remarks calmly, a sad smile lingering in his eyes, while the ghost of a grin haunted his mouth. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, after another silent interlude. “This is a dangerous world. A person is never more aware of that than when they have a child.”

  Maggie had no doubt that he was remembering things he’d seen during his career as a homicide detective, and she couldn’t blame him for being scared. His concept of childhood had to be very different from her own, and not just because of his experiences with the police force. Although they’d both been raised in and around Springwater, in some ways they might as well have grown up on different planets. “I’ll bet you miss Quinn. It’ll be good for both of you to spend some time together.”

  J.T. relaxed a little, grinned. “He’s a terrific kid. Smart. Funny.”

  “I believe it,” she smiled.

  J.T. took a thoughtful sip of his coffee. “For better or for worse,” he said, “he’ll be here in a few days. Annie’s bringing him out from Atlanta herself. She leaves for South America sometime next week.”

  “South America,” Maggie marveled.

  J.T.’s mouth tilted up on one side. “Brad—that’s the new husband—has evidently been appointed to head up some construction job down there. Sounds like a very big deal—more money, lots of prestige.”

  He spoke of his ex-wife’s second marriage without bitterness, and Maggie found that comforting, though she wouldn’t have wanted to explain why. She and J.T. were water under the bridge; his feelings, or lack of them, for the mother of his child were none of her concern. “Will this mean they have to leave Atlanta?”

  J.T. shook his head, and for a moment his expression was almost somber. “No idea,” he said.

  She sat up a little straighter. They’d had a good time together, she and J.T., the night before, until he was called away to help Purvis investigate the incident out at Stonecreek Ranch. When he left, she’d watched him go with mixed emotions, disappointment and relief in equal measures. “What brought you here today, J.T.?” she asked quietly.

  “I was going to ask you to go riding with me.”

  “And now you’ve changed your mind?”

  He shook his head, grinning again, though a certain sadness lingered in his eyes. “Nope,” he said, and hesitated. He heaved a sigh, mussed his hair with the splayed fingers of one hand. “But I guess I should have called first. It was an impulsive decision to drop in.”

  She wanted to reach out, touch his hand, but she didn’t. It seemed to her, though he was making light of things, that he was still caught in a backlash of emotion following the call from his ex-wife. “We can go riding another time,” she said. “Let me get you some more coffee.” She stood, crossed the room, and returned with the glass carafe moments later to refill J.T.’s cup. “You look like you’ve had a long day.”

  His mouth—that mouth Maggie spent an inordinate time trying not to think about—crooked upwards at one side. “It just so happens that I have had a long day. I was out late, and it was early when Quinn called. Purvis and I spent hours at the livestock auction over in Maple Creek, though we made a side trip to get this phone.” He tapped his shirt pocket, where the device languished once more. “Last night was nice, McCaffrey.” His gaze caressed her, flowed over her nerve endings like scented oil, warm and soothing and, at the same time, setting her on fire.

  “It was,” she agreed, treading carefully. “I could whip up a couple of omelettes, if you’d like some dinner.” Food seemed like a safe topic.

  “It’s my turn to cook,” he pointed out, and grinned. “Let’s go to the Stagecoach CafÈ.”

  Maggie, who had dined in some of the finest restaurants in the world, was ridiculously pleased at the prospect of a down-home supper in a place with linoleum floors, vinyl booths, and a vintage Coca-Cola machine, and not a little relieved that the tension had been broken. An otherwise sensible woman, she could not be trusted where J. T. Wainwright was concerned.

  “You’re on,” she said.

  They walked down the street to the Stagecoach CafÈ. The place was brightly lit, the worn floors gleamed with fresh wax, and as they entered, an old country tune was playing on the jukebox.
She and J.T. had danced to that song, cheek to cheek, at the high school prom.

  She slid automatically into “their” booth in the back corner, opposite the kitchen, and then found it hard to meet J.T.’s gaze. She knew she’d see memories in his eyes, the same bittersweet ones that had so often haunted her over the past ten years.

  “McCaffrey,” he said, with mock sternness. She looked up. It was the bravest thing she’d done in days. “What?” she asked.

  His mouth slanted in a saucy grin. “They’re playing our song.”

  She laughed and rolled her eyes.

  “I’ve always wanted to say that,” he said.

  Rosie, the same aging waitress who had served them burgers and shakes a thousand times, approached the table, pad and pencil in hand. Rosie’s bright red lipstick flared around her mouth, trapped in the cracks surrounding her lips, but her blue eyes were kind and the circles of rouge on her cheeks gave her a merry look. “Well, now,” she said. “I was wondering when the two of you would wander in here together.”

  J.T. favored Rosie with a charming grin. “When you turned me down, Rosie,” he teased, “I turned to McCaffrey for comfort. You’ve got nobody to blame but yourself.”

  Rosie laughed and pretended to swat at J.T. with her order pad. “Smart-aleck,” she said. Her sweet gaze swung to Maggie. “What can I get you, sweetie? The chicken fried steak is good tonight.” She leaned down slightly, and spoke in a confidential whisper. “I’d stay away from the meatloaf, though.”

  Maggie grinned. “Chicken fried steak, then,” she said. “The low fat version, please.”

  Rosie rolled her eyes. “Like we’ve got low-fat anything in this place,” she said. “And like you’d have to worry about it either way.”

  “You’re going to get a big tip,” Maggie said.

  “Good,” Rosie replied briskly, busily writing down the order with her stub of a pencil. Then she turned back to J.T. “All right, hotshot. What’ll it be?” Her eyes twinkled, and her mouth was pursed. “I don’t have all night, so spit it out.”

  “Whenever I miss New York,” J.T. drawled, looking over the top of his menu at Maggie, “all I have to do is come in here and see you, Rosie. I’ll have a double cheeseburger, extra tomato, hold the onion, and an order of curly fries. And a chocolate shake. Make it the high-fat version.”

  “Hmmph,” scoffed Rosie, but she scribbled the pertinent information. “Come back in ten years, Mr. I-Can-Eat-Anything, and we’ll see what you order then.”

  “Only if you promise to wait on me personally,” J.T. replied. She laughed, patted his shoulder, and turned to hurry toward the kitchen. “Hey, Fred!” she yelled, to the owner and fry cook. “Look who’s in here having chicken fried steak and cheeseburgers!”

  Maggie shook her head, smiling. “She never changes.”

  “Thank God,” J.T. answered. “I love that woman.”

  The jukebox stopped playing, and it seemed to Maggie that every other sound receded except for that of her own heartbeat. J.T. studied her solemnly for a long moment, then got up, crossed the otherwise empty restaurant, dropped some coins into a slot, punched a few buttons.

  Their song started to play again, and Maggie felt her heart climb into her throat as she watched J.T. turn and walk back toward her. He put out his hand, and she took it, and then, though it wasn’t the least bit sensible of them, they were dancing, cheek to cheek, in the middle of the Stagecoach CafÈ.

  Billy Raynor was sitting on the top step out in front of the house, the glow of the porch light catching halolike in the ridge left by his hat. The kid was a hard worker—he’d helped unload the seven head of cattle J.T. had bought at auction that morning, as the start of his herd—and he’d still been at the barn, feeding the horses, when J.T. had gone into town to buy supplies at the feed store.

  “Hey, Bill,” he said, getting out of the truck in the gravel driveway and starting up the walk. “Everything all right?” The new cattle, yearlings mostly, were still in the corral, and therefore safe, or so he’d supposed. Maybe he’d been wrong.

  Billy nodded, got awkwardly to his feet. He was something of a paradox to J.T., youthful, with his thin chest and shoulders and gangly wrists, but more of a man than a lot of people twice his age and size. “I just figured I’d hang around a while, see if there was anything I could do to help you and Purvis track down those crooks that killed Pete’s cattle.”

  The last thing J.T. wanted was Billy playing detective, but the kid’s pride mattered, so he was careful with his response. “You’ve got your work cut out for you right here,” he said. “Between feeding livestock, mending fences, and keeping a sharp eye out for any kind of trouble, you’ll have about all you can do.”

  Billy managed another nod, and J.T. wondered what was re-ally troubling him. He hadn’t waited on the porch just to commiserate about the rustling or to exchange idle chitchat with the boss. “I’ll say good night, then,” he said, hat in hand. “I reckon tomorrow morning will come around early.” Through the trees behind the house, J.T. glimpsed the lights from the trailer Billy and his bride were sharing, and it gave him a lonely feeling. He never so much as glimpsed the place without remembering his first time with Maggie. Holding her in his arms this evening as they danced had brought back a lot of happy times. Talking with her, hearing her laugh as they ate and swapped stories, had been even better. Leaving her chastely at the door of the Springwater Station, with just a kiss on the cheek, had been harder than ever.

  Fatigue saturated every cell of J.T.’s body, and he was all but stumbling with it, but the kid had something on his mind and he felt compelled to find out what it was. “Got time to come in for a while?” he asked.

  Billy hesitated, then nodded. Even in the dark J.T. saw the color rise up the youth’s neck and throb along his jawline. He swallowed visibly and stepped aside so J.T. could pass and open the front door. Followed him in.

  The emptiness of the place seemed to echo around them.

  “I always liked this house,” Billy said, as he trailed J.T. across the large front room, with its towering rock fireplace and beamed ceilings. “I used to imagine what it must have been like all them years ago, when Scully and the missus lived here.”

  They crossed the dining area, with its floor-to-ceiling windows, and headed on into the kitchen. J.T. had left a light burning over the sink when he went out that morning, he’d been in such a rush to meet up with Purvis and get on with his day. Struggling against all that open-country gloom, the bulb made a thin showing. “I guess it must have been pretty noisy, for one thing,” J.T. observed. “They had a lot of kids, according to family stories. Can I get you a Coke or a beer or something?”

  Billy shook his head and stood poised in the kitchen doorway, as if to turn and bolt back the way he’d come. “No, thanks. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

  J.T. gestured toward the round wooden table, where Scully and Evangeline Wainwright and their children had gathered, season after season, year after year. The clan had finally boiled down to just him and Quinn, he thought, and felt another brush of sadness. “Sit down,” he said.

  He got a cup from the shelf, dropped in a tea bag, added water, and shoved the whole works into the microwave, smiling a little. Tea. The herbal variety, no less. After the shooting, he’d discovered that he liked the stuff. His partner would have given him a hard time about that; whiskey had been Murphy’s tonic of choice.

  Billy sat, scraping the chair legs against the ancient linoleum as he did so. Out of the corner of his eye, J.T. saw the ranch hand flush again. “I reckon you know Cindy and I haven’t been married long,” he said.

  J.T. didn’t look at Billy; in fact, he sensed that the kid was praying he wouldn’t. “You told me,” he answered, busying himself at the counter while he waited for the microwave. “The wedding was five or six months ago, right?”

  “Six,” Billy said.

  J.T. continued to wait while the oven whirred. Through the glass door, he saw the water bubble over out
of the mug, tea-colored, and stabbed at the stop button with one fingertip.

  “She didn’t have an easy time of it, growing up with no mother and Odell for a dad,” Billy went on.

  J.T. turned to face Billy, the cup momentarily forgotten in the oven. “No,” he said. “I don’t suppose she did.” Then, carefully, “You two have a fight or something?”

  Billy sighed, cleared his throat. “I don’t know as you’d call it that. Cindy’s mad at herself, more than anybody. And she gets pretty emotional these days, because of the baby.”

  Leaning back against the edge of the counter, arms folded, J.T. didn’t comment. Obviously, Billy needed to talk, and tired as he was, J.T. meant to listen. It was about all he could do.

  Billy blinked rapidly, but he didn’t look away. “I love Cindy,” he said. “I want her to be happy. But it doesn’t seem like she knows how. To be happy, I mean. To let somebody love her and take care of her.”

  J.T. kept quiet. In point of fact, he was a little choked up himself. Annie had often accused him of a similar problem—she’d said he was constitutionally incapable of letting anyone really care for him. He only loved from a safe distance, she’d claimed, and he couldn’t deny that he had a long history of insulating himself from any intense emotion. Some guys drank too much, or did drugs. Some chased after all the wrong women. J.T., well, he simply stepped back, retreated, lost himself in his work. He might not have gone through the grieving process, after Murphy died, if he hadn’t been stuck in a hospital with no way to escape his own feelings.

  “She says it was a mistake, our getting married,” Billy went on. “She claims I deserve better than her. But that isn’t the way I see it, J.T. I think I’m the luckiest guy there is.”

  J.T. ached for both of them. They were just a pair of kids themselves, and here they were, starting a family. “Cindy’s pretty lucky, too, it seems to me,” he observed. He remembered the tea then, reached for it, and promptly burned his hand. Stifling a curse, he sat down across from Billy, the cup cooling in front of him. He deliberately focused his mind on what the boy was saying; it wouldn’t do to fall face first onto the table, all thought washed from his brain by a flash flood of exhaustion.