by Lori Wilde
Why had she kissed him?
Neither of them said a word on the short drive over to Lissette’s house. Claudia couldn’t bring herself to look at Stewart, just kept her gaze averted out the window. Why was she even letting him drive her? She should have driven herself.
Except her stomach was shaky. From worry over Kyle? she wondered. Or the kiss? Maybe it was both. Her lips tingled from the contact. Good grief, she was being so silly.
You’re not fifteen. Forget the kiss. Keep your mind on what matters—your daughter-in-law and your grandson.
Stewart pulled up to the adorable Victorian home painted a beguiling sage green. Claudia’s gaze fixed on the red dually pickup truck parked at the curb. The front fender was dented in. Lissette had company. An uneasy feeling settled over her. Who did the truck belong to?
None of your business, you nosy old woman.
That’s when she noticed the California license plate.
Claudia sucked in her breath. California. The state where Gordon’s illegitimate son lived.
Dizziness swirled her head. Could it be he? After all this time?
You’re jumping to conclusions. That’s a big leap.
She shifted her gaze to Stewart. He was glancing at his watch, and she remembered belatedly that he had a date. Suddenly, retreat felt far safer than knocking on Lissette’s door.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said, tamping down the dread filling up her lungs. “Please, take me back home.”
Chapter Five
Awkward silence rode with them on the three-mile trip out of town.
Lissette drove. Rafferty wasn’t comfortable in the passenger seat. He was used to being in charge.
John Wayne Boulevard meandered past a feed store, a horse vet, and a shop that sold fancy masonry stone, pot-bellied woodstoves, metal windmills, deer feeders, dog kennels, and stock tanks. A rambling limestone building had a sign bragging: “Best Handmade Furniture in Texas.” They breezed past a Western wear clothing store, a tractor supply, and two places that sold horse trailers. There was the First Horseman’s Bank of Jubilee and a tiny newspaper office called the Daily Cutter.
That odd feeling of belonging stole over Rafferty again. If he could have custom made a town to fit his personality, Jubilee would have been it. How much of Gordon Moncrief’s DNA had marked him? Where else would he have gotten such a longing for a town he’d never been to?
Lissette branched off John Wayne Boulevard, took Farm-to-Market Road 730. Rafferty glanced over at her. In spite of clunky wading boots and the tension pulling at her lips, she was an attractive woman.
Absentmindedly, her fingers moved up and down over the steering wheel as if she were playing piano keys and producing a soft unhurried rhythm. Her hands moved smooth as water, savoring the texture of leather beneath her fingertips. It was a sensual movement even though he was certain she did not intend it that way.
She was as cool as clouds on a hot summer day—a balm for heated skin. Except Rafferty was suspicious of clouds. Clouds could be all fluffy and inviting one minute, providing respite from the sun, but they could turn on you in a second. Dump gray rain on your picnic. They could harbor lightning, hailstones, tornadoes—all kinds of trouble. Just like today. Wet autumn clouds had blown in out of nowhere, saturating the countryside in sodden grayness.
He let his gaze travel down the column of her long neck to the slope of her slender shoulders, and even, yes, damn him, to the swell of her breast. The long-sleeved, button-down white shirt partially camouflaged nature’s generous gift, but he could tell she would rock a bikini.
His gaze drifted back to those fingers, still moving over the leather steering wheel wrap. Clearly she was unconscious of the slow tempo she’d set up, staring out through the windshield, but Rafferty was certain the restless habit was a relief for her, perhaps a contrast to her whirling mind, an attempt to slow down her mental process.
She turned her head and caught him staring at her. He whipped his gaze forward. She pulled up to a twenty-acre plot of land strung with barbwire fence where a lone quarter horse waited in the field. At the sound of the truck engine, the horse lifted its head and started moseying toward the red pole barn.
“I’ll get the gate,” Rafferty volunteered, and hopped from the truck.
He unlatched the gate and swung it open so she could drive through into the pasture. Lissette parked and got out. Rafferty closed the gate. Kyle was asleep in his car seat. Rafferty reached for the umbrella on the floorboard and opened it up as he softly closed the passenger side door so as not to awaken the boy.
Side by side they headed toward the pole barn through the slog of mud. She’d been smart to wear waders, even though they made a sucking sound with each step as she plucked her feet upward. His cowboy boots would need a thorough cleaning when this was over.
They stepped into a particularly thick morass and when Lissette trudged forward, her left boot stayed rooted in the quagmire.
“Oh!” she exclaimed as the submerged boot jerked her backward. Arms flailing, she grabbed at his elbow with both hands.
The wind snatched the umbrella from him, tossing it over his shoulder. He struggled to maintain his balance, to keep Lissette from falling into the mud puddle.
“Whoa,” he exclaimed. “Whoa there.”
But gravity had other ideas and Rafferty lost the battle.
Lissette tumbled onto her butt in a graceless heap, momentum dragging him down on top of her.
The next thing Lissette knew Rafferty was straddling her. His knees plowed into the mud on either side of her waist. His crotch settled right against her navel, only the material of her cotton blouse and his blue jeans between them. He looked as startled as she felt. As if he too had just had the air knocked from his lungs.
Disoriented, she gaped up at him. A hot, sensual, searing sensation streaked through her lower abdomen. She’d never experienced anything like it.
Cool mud oozed at her back. She was barely holding herself up on her shoulders, trying to keep her head from getting slimed along with the rest of her. Her knees were bent, revealing to the world at large what kind of panties she was wearing—whimsical, yellow, polka dot boy-cut panties. Her personality might be understated, but when it came to lingerie, Lissette let her freak flag fly.
She tried to reach around and tug the hem of her skirt down, but Rafferty Jones was an immovable object.
“Are you okay?” he asked, not seeming to realize she was trying to effect some kind of dignity here. His gaze drifted as he assessed her, lingering on her mouth before sliding down her neck to fix on her breasts. His eyes narrowed and a slight smirk tugged at his lips.
Good grief, he was ogling her!
That’s when she realized one of the buttons on her blouse had popped open revealing a lacy yellow bra that matched her panties, and Rafferty had noticed.
“Get off me!” she snapped, more embarrassed than angry. Her mud-encrusted fingers flew to do up the button.
“Polka dots.” He grinned. “I’m a big fan of polka dots.”
“Got a thing for Minnie Mouse, do you?”
“Love of my life.”
“Get off,” she repeated through clenched teeth. Okay, now she was just irritated. She knew he couldn’t help seeing her bra, but he could help grinning like a loon about it.
“Hey, you’re the one who pulled me down on top of you,” he pointed out sensibly.
She pressed her muddy palms against his chest and shoved.
His laughter rolled out across the pasture as he tumbled off her. She tried to scramble to her feet, but the mud refused to let go.
Somehow, Rafferty managed to stand, damn him for being more nimble. He put down a hand to help her up, even as he continued to chuckle.
“Stop laughing. It’s not funny.”
“It’s sort of funny.”
“No it’s not. I’m covered in mud. You’re covered in mud. We’re going to ruin the interior of the truck.”
“Mud washes off,�
� he said philosophically. “Take my hand.”
She didn’t want to take his hand, but she couldn’t seem to extricate herself on her own. Blowing a strand of hair from her eyes, she glared and sank her palm into his.
A quiver shot straight through her body. She tried to deny it and let go of his hand as soon as she was steady. She looked everywhere but into his bemused brown eyes.
His pants were covered in mud from the knees down, but she’d fared much worse. She could feel ooze caking her back from her shoulders to her feet, and her blouse was smeared with mud from where she’d buttoned up.
Primly, pretending nothing at all had happened, she lifted her head. “You can stand here making like a hyena all night if you wish, but I’m going to feed the horse.”
“Hang on a minute,” he said, taking hold of her elbow. “Let me help you get some of that muck off.”
She opened to her mouth to tell him she was just fine, that she didn’t need his help, but before she could get the words out, he was running the back of his hand over her fanny, scraping off the gunk. A picture of what they must look like to someone passing by, both of them covered in mud, Rafferty trying in vain to clean her with nothing but his hand, finally struck Lissette’s funny bone.
Laughter erupted from her throat, spilled into the gathering twilight. A nearly full moon broke through the cloud covering as it started its journey up the sky. The vapor lamp above the pole barn flickered on, shining a purplish glow over them. Rafferty’s laughter joined hers and soon they were holding on to their sides and every time they looked at each other they dissolved into fresh gales of giggles.
It felt strange. Laughing like this.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so hard. Long before Jake had died. When had she stopped laughing?
Didn’t matter. She shouldn’t be laughing like this. Today, she’d learned her son was going deaf and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. Nothing funny about that.
A clump of clouds slid in front of the ascending moon, blunting the light, turning the horizon the color of ashes. Somewhere, frogs sang to the rain gods. She could hear Rafferty’s breathing—short, shallow, same as her own.
Their laughter died away and this time, when their eyes met, she could make out the faint lines tugging at his mouth. His handsomeness was stunning. She watched him run a palm over his five o’clock shadow, heard the soft rasp of whiskers.
Her body started trembling and his arms went around her. She did not want to cry. How nutty to be laughing one minute, crying the next. But it felt so good to rest her head on his shoulders, feel his grip tighten on her waist. Hear him whisper, “It’s going to be okay. I promise, it’s all going to be okay.”
She clung to that promise even as she realized he did not have the power to offer such assurances. She swallowed back the tears, swiped at her eyes, even as she knew she was streaking her cheeks with mud. It was too late to worry about that.
Too late for so many things.
“We need to feed Slate,” she said, stepping away from him.
Rafferty dropped his arms, looked as uncomfortable as she felt. How could she both want him near and wish he’d disappear? Reconciling the two feelings seemed impossible. She did not know him, but she wanted to.
Futilely, she smoothed her skirt, squared her shoulders, and moved toward the stallion waiting patiently underneath the shelter.
Rafferty went around to the back of the truck, took out the bag of oats they’d bought at the feed store, and carried it to the metal barrel with a clasp closing mechanism that stood in one corner of the pole barn. “Is that where you store the oats?”
She nodded.
“Who normally loads the barrel up for you?” he asked.
“I’m not a china doll, Mr. Jones,” she said, hearing the snippiness in her voice. Why was she being disagreeable? They’d just had a good laugh together. Then again, maybe that was why. She wanted to get things back on formal footing. They were getting too damn cozy. “I don’t know what you must think of me.”
“Rafferty,” he corrected easily. “I am your brother-in-law, after all.”
Yes. Her brother-in-law. She’d do well to remember that instead of noticing how even mud couldn’t hide the fact that his butt looked good in jeans.
Rafferty took the ring clasp off the barrel, opened the bag of oats with a pocketknife, and dumped them in. He found a metal scoop on a shelf and poured oats into the feed trough. The horse nuzzled Rafferty’s elbow.
“Hey there,” he cooed, scratched the stallion’s nose. The headlights from the truck were directed at the interior of the pole barn, illuminated the damp evening. “He’s curious and unafraid,” Rafferty told her. “It’s a good quality in a cutting horse. How old is he?”
“Three, I think.”
“Right age. Has he ever competed?”
“Jake had been training him whenever he was home and he’d planned on showing him in the Fort Worth cutting horse futurity this year. He’d already paid the entry fee. Of course that was before he reenlisted.”
“Does the horse have papers?”
“Yes.” She waved a hand. “Somewhere.”
Rafferty ran a hand over the stallion’s flank. The animal continued calmly eating his food. He wasn’t skittish. “Hmm.”
“Hmm what?”
“He’s a good horse. You could get a tidy sum for him.”
“Selling him is on my to-do list. How much do you think I could get?” She didn’t know why she asked Rafferty’s opinion. She could have thrown a ripe peach underhanded in any direction and hit a cutting horse cowboy who would have willingly given her an assessment.
Rafferty shrugged. “All depends on his genetics. Plus a well-trained cutting horse will sell for more than one who isn’t trained. If he’s won a purse or two, that would increase his value as well.”
She poked her tongue against the inside of her cheek. “How much would it cost me to have him trained?”
“Somewhere in the neighborhood of three to four thousand.”
Lissette gulped. “That’s an exclusive neighborhood.”
He shrugged. “A good friend might do it for less.”
“Too rich for my blood. Unless I was certain I could recoup the investment when I sell him. My focus is bringing in as much money as I can, not laying it out. Could I make the money back on him?”
“Maybe not. These things are iffy.”
For a minute, the only sound they heard was Slate munching oats and the frogs’ raucous croaking.
“If you could find Slate’s paperwork, that would help me come up with a ballpark figure for you,” Rafferty said.
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I know you need to get on the road. It might take hours to find the paperwork.”
“You givin’ me the bum’s rush?”
“You have your normal life to get back to.”
“Neither of our lives are going back to normal,” he said.
They stood there in the blue-white beam of the truck’s headlights, muddy and tired. She saw the weariness in his eyes now that she hadn’t paid attention to before. His emotional burdens were different from hers, but burdens all the same. She reminded herself that Jake’s death was still fresh for him.
A long moment ticked by. The breeze gusted against her damp clothes. A yellow wedge of misty moon shoved a window through the bunched black clouds peeping coyly over Rafferty’s shoulder. A green glow, the color of dolce verde gorgonzola, flickered gently across his face. His features held an impassive lightness. Firm, yet laid-back. Thoroughly alpha in appearance, but underneath an appealing, quiet kindness.
“Do you have a place to stay the night?” she asked before she even realized she was going to ask it.
“No.”
“I’ve got . . . You could billet in the garage apartment. It’s a bit junky, but it has a bed with a good mattress.” Why was she doing this? She couldn’t believe she was doing this. Offering the garage apartment to him
for the night.
“Billet?” His lips curved slightly upward.
“Military term I picked up from Jake. It means sleeping accommodations.” She shrugged as if the offer was no big thing. As if she wasn’t feeling the disturbing and wondrous undercurrents flowing back and forth between them. “There’s no point in getting on the road tonight in the rain or spending money on a motel room.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate the offer.”
He smiled at her. Calm, steady, trustworthy. Why then did she feel like she’d just stepped off a cliff with a blindfold on?
On the return ride to Lissette’s house, with the truck seats protected from their muddy bodies by empty feed sacks and the horse blankets he’d found inside the pole barn, Rafferty’s mind was racing. Seeing the cutting horse had given him an idea. He was beginning to hatch a plan to give her the money without Lissette knowing she was taking it from him. The scheme would allow her to maintain her pride and independence and still let him live up to his promise to Jake.
Trouble was, it meant staying in Jubilee for the next several weeks.
Even bigger trouble, he realized he wanted to stay.
When he was a kid—particularly when things were bad with Amelia, which in those days was more often than not—he would lie in bed at night and fantasize that Gordon Moncrief would come for him and whisk him away to a better life in Texas. He had an old atlas and he’d looked up Jubilee, circling the town with a red pen. He promised himself that eventually, he’d make his way there, seek out his father and his real home, leave L.A. far behind.
When Amelia found the marked-up atlas, she’d laughed at him. “Give up the dream, kid. Gordon Moncrief doesn’t give a tinker’s damn about you. I’m the only parent you get.”
Her comment hit him squarely in the solar plexus because he’d known it was true. Gordon would not be galloping to his rescue. It was up to Rafferty to save himself, to save his mother, to save the day.