A Love to Call Her Own (15 page)

“Good for you.” Being indoors all day with a bunch of kids…Dalton would rather be a target. But if that was what Dane wanted—and it was pretty damn sure what Carly wanted; she'd already lost her first husband to war—good for both of them.

“It's not jumping out of airplanes,” Dane said with a shrug, “but I can be happy.”

And that was all that mattered, wasn't it? Being healthy, being happy, and having hope. Dalton had the first one, and it was looking like he could have the second two, as well.

And if the thought of being happy brought a picture of Jessy Lawrence to mind…Good. Good for him.

The clock on the kitchen wall said four minutes to eight when Lucy walked in. She'd been home three times throughout the day to let Norton out, but this time she was back for the night. After Patricia had finished at the funeral home, they'd gone to Pansy's Flowers to choose floral displays, then to the Sandersons' church to meet with the pastor about the service and the music. The last few hours had been spent going through Patricia's clothes to pick suitable outfits for the dignified transfer, the viewing, and the service.

I won't wear black,
she'd said, her smile unsteady, her eyes overly bright.
George loved color. He never wanted me to have even one little black dress, and he didn't give a good damn how classic it was. Don't you wear it, either, Lucy. Let's make him smile up there in Heaven with our pretty outfits.

Lucy was happy to comply, she reflected as she filled Norton's food dish, then his water bowl. No matter how many times she heard it, she didn't look any slimmer when she wore black. She just looked like a fat chick wearing black.

“Norton!” she called. She rarely managed to set the food dish on the floor before the mutt came tearing into the room, colliding with the furniture and walls on his way.

She listened. No scrabbling of claws on wood, no snoring. She was about to head down the hall to the bedroom—the center of her bed was his likeliest location—when a knock at the back door stopped her. Switching directions, she did a cursory look through the glass and saw Joe on the patio.

“Is my dog out there with you?” she asked as she opened the door.

“Yeah. We decided it was a fine night for dining al fresco.”

“Norton doesn't even know what al fresco means. Want something to drink?”

“Nah, I've got water.”

Barefooted, Joe turned to go back to the patio table while she stopped by the fridge. She nudged her shoes off before stepping out the door, padded across the still-warm concrete, and sat in the chair nearest his, also still warm from the day's sun. Her body seemed to sink and sink into the cushion as the tightness drained from her, head to toe.

They sat silently for a while, whippoorwills and bobwhites singing unseen in the trees. Norton lay beside Joe's chair, his spare food dish empty, the water dish half so. Remains of a pizza from The Hideaway sat in the box on the table, beside three empty water bottles. The fourth was in Joe's hand.

Lucy was raising her can of pop when she felt his chastising look. A little bit of guilt tickled the back of her neck. Despite her intentions, she hadn't yet started her diet—it was hard when she was eating virtually every meal at someone else's house, where she had no say in the menu—but still, she should have chosen water if for no other reason than to avoid a repeat of this conversation.

“Do you know how bad that stuff is for you?”

She glanced at the familiar logo on the can, then took a defiant swallow. “I do.”

“It's full of chemicals. One can has a hundred and fifty calories. If you drink one a day for a year, that's 54,750 calories. Each can has twenty-eight grams of simple carbs. Plain old sugar. And it doesn't even quench your thirst.”

“But sometimes it's the only thing that'll do. Besides, I'm not one of your students, Joe.”

“You're telling me. My students listen.”

She punched him, though with all his muscle, it hurt her hand more that it did his arm. “That's rude.”

“Drinking that stuff is nasty. And we didn't even get to what it does to your teeth.”

“My teeth are fine and none of your business,” she retorted. “I can't believe the man who brought Krispy Kreme doughnuts over here on the first day of my diet is now criticizing my one splurge for the day.” That little bit of guilt stirred again.

Joe slid lower in his chair to prop his feet on the seat across from him, tilting his head back to gaze into the darkening sky. “You're on a diet?”

Bless his heart—he didn't say
again?
She did diets. She just never managed to do them well enough or long enough. When she'd started a diet to get into the cute summery clothes everyone else was wearing, he'd told her that her motivation was the problem. She had to want it for herself—her health, her well-being, her own personal goals that had nothing to do with fashion or clothing or anything else.

“I just want to lose ten or fifteen pounds,” she said, miffed that she sounded defensive. “They say if you lose just ten percent of your total weight, it makes drastic improvements to your health.”

Bless his heart again—he didn't do the math to figure out what ten percent of her total weight actually was. “What about exercise?”

Lucy mimicked his position. “I've been a little preoccupied this week.”

“Luce, you're preoccupied
every
week. It's called life. You still have to make time to work out.” He swigged more water. “Meet me in the morning at six.”

The sedentary loved-her-sleep part of her cringed at the idea. “I'm going to work tomorrow.”

“You don't have to be there until eight. We'll just walk around the neighborhood.”

She
hmphed
. “I've seen you walk. I have to take three steps for every one of yours.”

“I'll slow down.” He poked her shoulder, and again she was pretty sure it hurt her more than him. He was so solid, and she was so soft. “Luce, I'm offering to help you lose those ten pounds, and I won't even say anything about the timing of your new diet versus your meeting Dr. Ben.”

A blush burned her cheeks, making her grateful the dusk hid it. Was she so gracelessly juvenile that she couldn't hide a crush from anyone? Oh, crap, was Ben aware of it, as well? Was he amused? Embarrassed? Wondering how to let her down gently?

Though he did seem to like her. It wasn't impossible. Joe was good-looking, hot, had a great body, and he liked her. Not romantically, but that had never even been a desire for either of them. They were just best buds. But Ben
could
like her in a boyfriend/girlfriend sort of way. Stranger things had happened.

Joe was smart about this diet/exercise stuff. He coached football, taught nutrition and fitness. Part of his job was to help people get in shape and stay there, and she liked spending time with him. If he was willing to help her, wasn't helping herself the least she could do?

Her forehead wrinkled into a scowl. “Six o'clock, huh? Is the sun even up then?”

His grin was quick, charming, teasing. “You'll find out tomorrow.”

She was wondering just how much she might regret it when her cell rang. She glanced at the screen. “This is Marti. I haven't talked to her since Tuesday.”

“Go ahead.” He got to his feet and gathered his trash. “I'll see you at the butt-crack of dawn.”

After giving him a wave, she raised the phone to her ear. “Hey, sweetie, long time.”

“Yeah, I know you've been busy.”

Marti Levin was another of her besties. She was blessed to have so many. Marti was everything Lucy wasn't—tall, elegant, reed-slender, black-haired and fair-skinned, beamed confidence, and had never met a stranger. She told great stories and had a knack for making people laugh, though she insisted she wasn't funny.
All you need is a mother like mine.

Marti asked about Patricia, and Lucy filled her in. The margarita club members had all agreed to meet up at Jessy's before lining up on the street for George's dignified transfer and to sit together at the funeral. Though only Marti had met the Sandersons, and then only once, being there was the sort of thing they did for each other.

“So we'll have the Memorial Day parade on Monday morning, the cookout at Carly's that afternoon, the dignified transfer Tuesday, and the funeral Wednesday,” Marti listed. “A full start to the week.”

“Oh, I forgot about the cookout.” Their first Memorial Day, they'd had a picnic at Tall Grass Lake. This year, with Dane and Therese's fiancé, Keegan, to man the grill, they'd settled on a cookout. Everyone was bringing dishes, and she'd been assigned desserts. Wonderful. More temptation.

She thought of Patricia—her first Memorial Day as a widow and she hadn't even buried her husband yet—but it didn't seem appropriate to invite a grieving widow to a party. Plus, her sister and a couple of nieces were due to arrive sometime that day.

It didn't seem appropriate to invite Ben, either. Though she hated the idea of anyone being alone on a holiday, she was pretty sure he wouldn't be in a party mood.

“You're not canceling, are you?” Marti's voice held a note of warning.

“Oh, no. If I can't be with my family in El Cajon, I want to be with my family in Tallgrass.”

“Good, because I'd hate to have to drag you in a headlock all the way to Carly's house, but I could. My brothers taught me how.”

Marti was the last of the margarita girls, along with Ilena, whom Lucy could imagine getting physical. She figured Jessy could do some serious harm, and she
knew
Fia could. Therese had grown up on a ranch, and Carly wrangled third-graders all day, so they had some experience. But anyone who annoyed Ilena would get loved to death, and Marti—well, she wasn't going to risk her manicure or muss her clothing for less than a life-or-death situation.

“You and whose army?” Lucy responded to the threat.

“Don't underestimate me, California girl. I'm an Army wife—”

“And I am strong,” they said together.

“Damn straight. Now, what's been keeping you so busy that you haven't even texted me this week? I know the number one answer is Patricia, of course, but I'm pretty sure she's had some alone time. I heard Jessy say something about her having a son come visit who would probably be, oh, about our age. Is that what you're doing when she's resting? Comforting the son?”

Once more Lucy's face warmed. “The son doesn't need comforting. He didn't know George.” Though he did have plenty of old wounds that weren't hers to share.

“He didn't know his mother's husband of twenty years? Hell, I've met every one of my mother's husbands and special friends, and some of those relationships didn't last three months, plus I live halfway across the country from her.”

“It's complicated.”

Marti laughed. “No one's personal life could be more complicated than Eugenie's.”

With an
hmm
of agreement, Lucy deliberately changed subjects. “I'm being responsible and proactive by telling you that I'm starting a diet.”

“Good for you.” A pause then, guiltily… “Are you still bringing angel food cake with berries and real whipped cream to the cookout?”

“Yes.”

“Whew, that's a relief. Good for you, LucyLu,” Marti repeated with real enthusiasm. “I will be certain to eat every bite of it so you won't be tempted.”

Lucy wasted a moment wishing she had the metabolism to eat the way Marti did, but only a moment. She'd been that way before Mike died, average weight and mindful of what she ate and pretty. Lord, she missed how pretty she'd been. But then she'd become a sorrowful eater, stuffing herself to numb her grief until it became an ugly and annoyingly stubborn habit. If she ever got blissfully happy again, would her eating return to normal, or had she created a lifelong monster to deal with?

The thought was too depressing to consider, so she pushed it away. “Tell me your new Eugenie stories, please. I need a laugh.”

D
inner was long over, the sun had set, and the breeze still jingled the chimes. Dalton had helped Carly clear the table and bring out dessert, a tray of two-bite pastries from CaraCakes, and they'd polished those off an hour ago. It was time to head home.

To his? Or Jessy's?

He deliberately refused to think about it. He would just let instinct guide him.

Dane and Carly were holding hands, their chairs angled close enough to bump shoulders. He fiddled with her engagement ring for a moment before clearing his throat, then looking up. “Listen, Dalton, I—we have a favor to ask.”

A lump formed in his own throat, and he swallowed hard over it. Favors had never been a problem for him; he'd done them for everyone until Sandra's death. Sometime after that, Noah had muttered he'd rather ask help of a pissed-off rattlesnake than his brother. The memory embarrassed Dalton.

“Okay,” he said because it seemed the thing to say.

“Carly and I are getting married on June first. It's a week from Saturday. Her family's coming in from Utah and Colorado, and my mom from Texas, and her sister-in-law Lisa is going to be her maid of honor, so…”

Dane took a breath, then looked at Carly. She gave him the kind of sweet, gentle smile Dalton would always remember from Sandra. “If it's not too much to ask, would you be my best man?”

Hell. It
was
too much to ask. He hadn't been in a church since Sandra's funeral, before that not since the Las Vegas chapel where they were married. He hadn't worn a suit since then, hadn't stood before God, hadn't done anything flat-out, no-excuses, gotta-be-happy in so long that he didn't know if he could.

But to even be asked…After Dillon left town, Dalton figured the only groom he might ever stand up for would be Noah, if the kid could settle down with just one girl.

Carly laid her free hand over Dalton's, the pressure light, warmth radiating from her skin. “If it brings back too many memories, Dalton, we understand.”

“You don't need anything to bring back the memories, do you?” he asked quietly. “They're just always there, and you live with them. I'm learning to live with them.” Then he managed a phony smile. “I'd be happy to.” Okay, so he lied.
Happy
was over the top. But he owed Dane for listening to his story about Sandra's betrayal, for lightening his burden a little.

“All right!” Carly exclaimed. “When I tell Lisa she'll be escorted down the aisle by an honest-to-God Oklahoma cowboy, she'll be delighted. Cowboys are a rarity in her world.”

“What world is that?” They were so common in his world that he forgot they didn't exist everywhere.

“She's a genius rocket scientist,” Dane remarked.

Carly gave him a chastising look. “She's not a rocket scientist. My younger brother is.” To Dalton, she added, “She
is
a PhD, but a normal one. She can relate to people and use regular language and everything.”

Taking part in a wedding, standing up in a house of God, with a woman whose IQ probably wasn't even in view from his own spot on the intelligence scale…He'd better get out of there before he got himself into something even worse, like having to plan a bachelor party or something.

It took him about ten minutes between starting good-byes and actually getting into his truck. He thanked them for the dinner; they invited him to a cookout on Monday; Carly told him about the rehearsal the night before the wedding.

He should've grabbed a beer for the road. He could have beaten himself in the head with the bottle after he'd drunk it.

He drove west along Cimarron toward First Street. Now it was time for instinct to kick in, to tell him whether he was going home or accepting Jessy's invitation. He couldn't say it was instinct exactly, but something prompted him to turn left on Third and, a few blocks later, right on Main. Soon he was parked in front of her apartment.

A few strides took him to the door, painted brown, peeling at the edges, with crooked adhesive numbers: 108½. His index finger hovered over the doorbell but didn't press it. Maybe he should go home. He'd seen enough people for one day. He had books to work on, and Oz would need to go out before long, and—

The door jerked open and Jessy burst out, practically plowing into him. She stopped so suddenly that she had to grab the door frame and she actually lost one flip-flop. Her eyes widened, her breath escaping in a small, “Oh!”

He took a step back, wondering where she was headed at this time of night, whether what he'd taken as an invitation had merely been politeness, how she managed to look so damn good even when startled speechless.

It took her a moment to gather herself—catch her balance, catch her breath, slide her shoe on again. When she did, a sly, teasing smile curved her mouth and her natural sexiness amped up. “Well, well, look what someone left on my doorstep.”

“You going somewhere?”

She looked at the purse in her left hand, the keys in her right, before slowly bringing her gaze back to him. “Just to get some coffee. Something possessed me to buy decaf last time, and it just doesn't cut it. I need the hard stuff.” Her expression quirked at the last words.

“You looking for a cup or a few potfuls?”

Tilting her head to one side, she considered it for a moment. “I think one mega-sized cup will do for tonight. Java Dave's is still open for”—she checked the time and temp display at the bank—“fifteen minutes. Want to walk over?”

In response he gestured, and she stepped out and locked up, then they crossed the street. Java Dave's was on First, south of the courthouse, so they cut across the lawn, passed the gazebo behind it, and came out on the street. Except for a tiny restaurant a few doors down, everything else on the block was closed.

“How was dinner with your friend?” she asked, slinging her purse so the strap was over her head, the bag riding on her right hip. She wore another little skinny top, and the leather strap crossed right between her breasts, making it clear that she wasn't wearing a bra. It was a tempting sight, one that he let himself get lost in for a moment. It had been so damn long since he'd truly admired a woman's body, the differences, the softness, the roundness, the delicate bones, the satiny skin, the curve of a breast or a hip, the—

“Hey, cowboy. My face is up here.” Her voice was a little ragged, its edges a little sharp. Like she was teasing, but not quite.

His gaze jerked to hers, heat warming his cheeks. Noah would have made some smart-ass comment. Dillon would have been a smart-ass and charming at the same time. There was a time Dalton would have had an at least semi-charming comeback, but damned if he could think of one now.

Except for that one afternoon with Jessy, he'd been alone a hell of a long time. If he took a moment, he could calculate it to the exact date: the night before Sandra had shipped out. Five years and a few weeks. For a long time he hadn't missed sex, but since that afternoon with Jessy…

Now he not only missed it, but missed thinking about it without guilt. Guilt for feeling like he'd betrayed Sandra. Guilt for having sex with Jessy knowing nothing about her. Guilt for getting drunk and acting out of character, because sex had never been
that
casual for him. For regretting it and for her pretending not to remember it and for being pissed off by that more than what they'd done.

He didn't want to feel so damn low for wanting what every man in the world wanted.

It was complicated, maybe not for other men in the same situation but for Dalton, definitely.
You
make
things complicated,
Dillon's voice taunted.

Yeah, well, life was easy when you didn't give a damn about anyone besides yourself.

Dalton realized they'd stopped and were standing in front of the coffee shop, lights casting angles across the sidewalk. Jessy was watching him, an expression he'd never seen on her face. Uncertainty? She opened her mouth, then apparently decided better of what she'd been about to say and gestured instead. “Let's get our coffee to go. We can sit in the gazebo.”

Nodding, he opened the door, then followed her inside. Every table in the small space was occupied, and he'd guess not one of the customers was over eighteen. The kids ignored them as they walked to the counter, though the boy behind the register did check out Jessy and her thin little top without looking the least damn bit embarrassed.

She paid for the coffee—
I invited you,
she said when he pulled out a twenty and she swiped her card instead—then they stepped back out into the quiet evening. Neither of them spoke until they settled on a bench in the gazebo.

She pulled the lid off her cup, blew away the steam rising from the coffee, then took a cautious sip before saying, “It's kind of awkward sometimes, isn't it? You, me, two months ago, now.”

“Yeah. Sometimes.” Though he'd come a long way in two months, from wishing to God they'd never had sex to wondering if they would again. From never wanting to see her to seeking her out. Wanting to get to know her. Wanting sex with her again. Wanting…
something
.

“We could forget it ever happened,” she suggested.

He gave her a dry look. “Yeah. I was never very good at forgetting.”

“Then you didn't have the right incentive. I've spent my entire life doing it.”

He didn't have to ask what she tried to forget: that her parents hadn't loved her enough; that she couldn't turn to her family when she needed them; that her husband had died. It sucked that the Wilkes parents were self-centered and petty and that the Wilkes daughters valued peace more than their sister.

“Or…” He took a deep breath, noticing that despite the warmth of the cup, his fingers were cold. The first taste of coffee had turned sour in his gut, and his nerves had wound tighter than a roll of barbed wire in about two seconds flat. “We could acknowledge that it”—
shouldn't have happened
was what he'd intended to say, but his brain switched words on him—“was too soon, and we can…not screw it up next time. We can…know what we're doing and…why.”

Even in the dim light from the streetlamps, he could see her expression: surprise, a little bit of anxiety, maybe even a bit of panic. He felt the same way. Damned if he knew what he was doing.

But he wouldn't take the words back if he could.

Next time.
The words kept echoing in Jessy's brain, demanding attention one second, a backbeat to her emotions the next.

Dalton wanted to have sex with her again. Not careless, stinking-drunk, didn't-know-what-they-were-doing sex, but deliberate. On purpose. Sober. He'd seen her at her worst, but he wanted a next time.

No one had ever wanted Jessy after they'd seen her at her worst. Even Aaron, bless his heart, had never known what depths she was capable of. Dalton didn't know all of them, granted, but he still wanted to give her a chance, to give a relationship with her a chance.

The thought scared the pee out of her.

She had watched the clock all evening, wondering how long dinner with friends could take, whether he'd come by again, and why he would bother. She'd waffled a lot, too: If he came back, cool; if he didn't, that was cool, too. No big deal either way. She spent the majority of her evenings alone. She could handle one more.

Then seven thirty passed, eight, eight thirty. He was a rancher. He had to get up before the sun. He probably had nighttime chores to take care of. She'd already kept him out the night before. He had better things to do than deal with her.

By eight forty, she'd wanted a drink more than anything in the world. Wanted it badly enough that she was already savoring the taste, feeling the smooth burn. Needed it so much that her stomach was queasy with anticipation, her hands were trembling, her head was aching, and her chest was hurting.

Using midnight Sunday as her officially gone-sober time, she figured she'd gone 5,560 minutes without any alcohol. Best she'd done in months, but not good enough.

Because she'd been on her way to Buddy's when she'd met Dalton at the door.

All the shakes and aches were gone. She couldn't help thinking how much better her coffee would taste with a splash of rum, but she wasn't hurting for it now. No wonder Alcoholics Anonymous used sponsors. Having someone to distract her helped.

And what a hell of a distraction Dalton offered.

“If you need that long to think about it—” he began stiffly, but she interrupted.

“I have a tendency to act on impulse. That's why we did”—hell, they were both adults, and neither of them could say
had sex
to the other—“why
I
did what we did too soon. So now I'm trying to be grown-up and not blurt out the first answer that comes to mind.”

Her words eased some of his tension, but the rest remained evident in the taut lines of his face, the shadows in his eyes, and the stillness that radiated from him.

We can not screw it up next time.
“I'm not very good at not screwing things up,” she admitted. “It started when I was born ten days past my delivery date and forced my parents to postpone the postpartum vacation they had planned before they'd planned me, and I've never gotten better. I screwed up my relationship with my whole family, I screwed up my job at the bank, I screwed up—”

Her mouth clamped shut. She'd been about to say
my marriage
—one of the secrets she hadn't shared with
anyone
. She was the only soul on earth who knew how badly she'd let Aaron down, and she intended to take it to her grave.

“Everything,” she said with a lame shrug.

“Then it sounds like you're due for a break.”

It sounded like he was willing to give her one.

Jessy, who pretended she never cried, who told her girls that life was too damn short to waste on tears, had to blink rapidly to clear her eyes, and right then and there she fell just a little bit in love with Dalton Smith.