A Summer to Remember (14 page)

That brought Marti's clear, sharp gaze to his face. He knew what she saw. The impassive expression he wore most of the time wasn't just an expression. It was
him
. The day he'd woken up after the accident, he'd found everything inside him frozen in place: the emotion, the regret, the anger, the self-hatred. He'd stayed that way through the trial, through the months in prison, through the months since his release. He could still hurt. He could be grateful for small things. He could laugh. He could even love again, as Jessy, Oliver, and Oz had proven.

He just couldn't get rid of that frozen knot inside him.

“Have you made peace with it?”

That wasn't a concept he had much familiarity with. For as long as he could remember, he'd felt different—thought about different things, wanted different things. When he was riding the rodeos, drinking, and partying with all the pretty girls, he'd thought that was what he wanted. Then he'd met Tina and found some measure of satisfaction there. Lilah had deepened it before prison had ripped it right out of him.

Now he didn't know what he wanted or even what he needed. Whatever it was, he was pretty sure he didn't deserve it.

He didn't have to find out how long Marti would have let the silence drag out because Cadence came back to them, a short line of horses following her. “You've got the best job in the world, Mr. Smith, taking care of these girls.”

He smiled at her enthusiasm. He had to admit, his job was one of the things right about his life now. He'd missed these pastures and woods, the house, the barn, the creek way out back. “Do me a favor. Call me Dillon.”

Cadence's gaze darted to her aunt, who nodded, then back to him. “When I e-mail Mom, I'm going to tell her that instead of college, I've decided to become a rancher. That will make her freak.”

“Add that you're learning barrel racing so you can win one of those great big belt buckles to wear when you get back home,” Marti suggested. “That'll make her hair catch fire.” They both laughed easily, their eyes crinkling the same way, their laughs full and indelicate. Not quite what he'd expected.

He suspected much about Marti Levin might not be what he'd expected. And she seriously did smell like everything good. He really needed to get himself a bottle of that.

Maybe even two.

Elliot liked the first day of every job he'd ever had, with the exception of the Army, when he'd been scared snotless that he wouldn't live up to his family's, the training cadre's, and his own expectations. Prairie Harts was no exception. He'd spent the morning making bread, steering clear of the professional mixers with their dough hooks and doing it the way Grandma had taught him, kneading by hand. It had been a long time since he'd made bread, but the instant he'd dug his fingers into the sticky mass, it had all come back to him: the hours he'd spent learning the right “feel” for every different bread they made, the smells, the texture, the rising, the baking, the tasting.

After work, he'd gone to one of the apartment complexes Fia had shown him last night and laid down the first month's rent plus a deposit for a good-sized studio apartment. It came unfurnished except for the Murphy bed that folded out of a closet, but hey, he and Mouse didn't need much else. The building was old, brick and stone, erected in the 1930s, recently remodeled but retaining its gracefully shabby air, and the price was within his budget. He liked gracefully shabby.

Leaving Mouse asleep on the bed, he picked up his keys, wallet, and Stetson and headed to the truck. The margarita girls liked to get an early start on their evening, and given that he had to be at work at 4 a.m., he was going to have an early end to his.

When he arrived at Fia's duplex, she was sitting on the stoop, face tilted back to catch a few rays from the setting sun. She was…

Instead of trying to narrow it to one word, he gave a heavy, happy sigh.

She would have gotten in by herself, but with a reminder that his mama didn't raise him that way, he loped around the truck, opened the door, and helped her climb up. In exchange, he got a close-up view of gorgeous legs and muscles and, beneath the shift of flowy fabric, just a hint of the nice, sweet curve of her hip.

“Good day?” she asked.

“Damn good day.” When he climbed behind the steering wheel again, he repeated the question. “Good day?”

She raised her hand and made a so-so gesture. When she didn't elaborate, he kept himself from pressing for more. “So tell me who I'm going to meet tonight,” he said instead.

Her expression lightened. “There's Carly. She's married to Dane, who was Airborne, and found out a few weeks ago that she's pregnant. And Therese, who's married to Keegan, who was a medic. Between them, they've got three kids and are thinking about a fourth. Ilena married a pediatrician last Christmas. Her son will be one next month, and I'm one of his many godmothers. We spoil him rotten.”

“As godmothers should.”

“You know Patricia and Lucy, of course. There's also Marti. Her husband and Lucy's were good friends, and they were killed in the same battle. Jessy's our Southern belle—red-haired, green-eyed, makes every man within a hundred yards look twice—and she's married to Dalton, who has a ranch outside town. His brother Dillon comes, too, sometimes. Bennie comes when her classes allow. She married Calvin just before he got out of the Army and got pregnant immediately. She's not going to wait too long the way she did with her first husband. None of them are.”

After a moment's reflection, she went on, “That's all of our regular group, but there are ten to fifteen others who come when they have the chance.”

Elliot turned east onto Main Street. The margarita club met at The Three Amigos, the Mexican restaurant in the strip mall where he and Fia had run into each other last Friday night. “What about you and Scott? Did you wait too long?”

“We didn't wait for anything,” she replied with a laugh. “We traded phone numbers the first night we met, had sex the second night, and were married within a month. We didn't need to date a long time or have a year-long engagement to know we were meant to be together.”

He was silently agreeing with her, that sometimes a person just knew, when she glanced at him. “Does it bother you? When I talk like that about Scott? I mean, when you and I are…” Again, she made that wig-wag motion with her hand.

“Dancing this dance?” he asked with a wry grin. He moved into the turn lane, then pulled into the shopping center lot. After parking, he faced her. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

“That's a whole lot of living before you met me. It's a whole lot of loving.” Though not as much as she should have had. Her husband shouldn't have been the first person in her life to make her feel loved. “Everything that happened in those years made you the woman you are, and I really like that woman. How could I be bothered by any of it?”

She gave him such a look—grateful, sweet, even a little bit teary. Damn, he was a sucker for looks like that.

To lighten the mood, he removed his hat, shoved his fingers through his hair in his best effort at primping, then reseated it. “Besides, it might surprise you to hear this, but I have had a girl or two who was crazy about me.”

As he intended, she laughed. “Crazy in love or just plain crazy?”

“Crazy in love a couple times.” Then, thinking of the girl with the tire iron, he smiled ruefully. “Just bat-shit crazy on occasion.” He walked to her side of the truck and opened the door. When she took his hand, he waited until her feet were on the ground, then drew her close. The scent that drifted around her was as enticing as bread in a hot oven and as familiar as home. He had a feeling it would haunt him for a very long time to come.

Something else familiar—good old-fashioned lust—started building inside him, warming his skin, making his heart beat a little faster and his breaths a little raspier. He'd been in bed with women within an hour of meeting and had dated others without ever going that far, but Fia was different.

You say that every time.

Trust Emily to pop up in his head at an inopportune time.

Everyone is different. Everyone is special. Bless you, El, you really believe it. That's why women love you.

But Fia was even more different. Even more special.

“How do you want to play this?” His voice was ragged, and his skin tingled all over. So much reaction for so small a touch.

“Play?” she echoed as if she found an entirely different meaning in the word. Sex was serious business, true, but damn, it could be fun. Sex with Fia would be incredible fun.

He nodded toward the building behind him. “Inside. With your friends. Are we buddies? Friends? Friends with impending benefits?” He trailed one finger the length of her arm, ending at the flutter of fabric where her sleeve started. “Do I get to be your boyfriend? Are you going to introduce me to the girls, or do I just get to meet the guys?”

She snorted. “Ha. You clearly have no clue about the margarita girls. If I just left you in the bar with the guys, every single one of them would find a reason to go over and check you out—and they are
very
good at checking guys out.”

Which didn't answer his question. That was okay. Meeting her best girlfriends was a big step. For a woman like Fia, who didn't love lightly, it was a public announcement of commitment. Minimizing what was between them in public was fine, as long as she was willing to acknowledge it in private.

“I'll tell you what. You just introduce us, and we'll keep them guessing. Good?”

Her fingers tightened briefly around his. “Good.”

The interior of the restaurant was on the subdued side, given the bright range of colors on the outside. The hostess greeted Fia by name but didn't offer a menu or directions, unnecessary since she obviously knew where she was going. He removed his hat, then had to release her hand to wind between tables to the back, where three tables had been pushed together. A group of women sat there, each faced with chips, salsa, and contrary to their name, iced tea or water. They all greeted Fia with sincere pleasure, then all their gazes turned to him.

“Elliot!” Patricia rose from her chair and hugged him. He wasn't surprised. She reminded him of his mother, and his mom would have done the same thing. “What are you—I didn't know you knew Fia.”

“She was the first person I met in town. Hey, Lucy.”

His other boss looked from him to Fia, then back again, and a smile slowly curved her mouth. He knew that smile. He'd seen it on Emily plenty of times, on the wives of a few Army buddies, on every matchmaking woman he'd ever known. “Hi, Elliot. Hi, Fia.”

Fia knew the significance of the smile, too, and the tone of Lucy's voice, and she flushed, but in a good way. Not an embarrassed sort of thing but more like she'd gotten caught with a naughty secret. “Guys, this is Elliot Ross. He's new in town.”

She went around the table with the introductions, and he pegged each name to the few details she'd given on the way over, all the regulars plus an extra named Leah. They came in an array of hair colors, skin tones, heights, and body types, with accents that ranged from definitely Southern to back East to indistinguishable, and he knew within minutes that he would become friends with every one of them if given the chance.

He said his hellos around the table, fielded a compliment on his Stetson and another on his Texas accent, and received a tiny, intimate look from Fia, and something deep inside him sparked.

Tallgrass was looking more like home every day.

W
hy don't you all just get one great big table and have dinner together?”

Fia was standing at the window in Elliot's apartment, looking toward the dimly lit horizon, while he rinsed and refilled Mouse's water dish in the small kitchen. She could see his reflection in the glass, but the real thing was much better, so she turned to face him, the broad windowsill providing a ledge for her to lean against. “I don't think it's ever come up—I think because we all like things the way they are. The guys get a night out to talk about sports or whatever, and the sisters get to catch up on everything in each other's lives.”

After putting the water dish on a mat on the floor, he leaned against the cabinets, hands resting on the countertop, ankles crossed, gaze fixed on her. “Makes sense.”

He was so damn handsome. She'd noticed that the first time she'd seen him—right after she'd thought how sweet it was that he was holding an umbrella for his puppy—but it still drew her up short. He had the smoldering, sexy good looks that landed guys on magazine covers and runways, along with the body to match. Put him in snug-fitting, faded, unzipped jeans that rode low on his narrow hips and nothing else but his cowboy hat, post it on the Internet, and the image would go viral in no time.

Take him out of those jeans, and…Woo.

She drew an unsteady breath and clasped her hands together around the bottle of water she held. It took some effort to push that image to the back of her mind and to concentrate on the here-and-clothed present. “Back when all the girls were single, we talked one time about what would happen if one of us met some guy and fell in love again. Would she continue to meet with us or drop out? Would he want her to be part of a group that she joined to help her mourn the loss of the first man she'd fallen madly for? It was kind of scary, especially for me. Most of the girls have family, and Carly and Lucy and Ilena are still very close to their first husbands' families. But me—these women
are
my family. I couldn't bear the idea of not having all of them in my life on a regular basis.

“Then Carly met Dane and Therese met Keegan, and there was Jessy and Dalton, and none of them
cared
why we were friends. We weren't Carly's widows' group or Therese's support group. As far as they were concerned, we were just friends. And there's Ilena and Jared and Lucy and Joe and Bennie and Calvin…” She fell silent for a moment, then murmured, “God, we are
lucky
.”

Lucky to have their first husbands. Lucky to have one another. Lucky—some of them, at least—to fall in love again. How many people found one person to love them so much, much less a whole gang of them?

Sweet, but another thought to push back for a while. She didn't want to get maudlin here.

Forcing a few extra watts into her smile, she gestured around the large room. “So show me your apartment.” That had been their reason for stopping by, that and to make sure Mouse was all right. Judging by the dent in the mattress, she hadn't moved much in her few hours alone.

Elliot adopted the voice of a character from a movie they both liked. “Well, this here's the sleepin' area, and this”—he held out one hand to the kitchen—“is the cookin' and cleanin' up area, and back through that door is where we do our bathin' and all.”

“It's a lot bigger than I expected. I wonder why they didn't turn it into one- or two-bedroom apartments when they remodeled.”

“Nah, the guy's lazy. That would have meant taking out and putting in walls, mudding and taping them, having to hire subs and getting permits and having code enforcement inspect the work. All he did was throw on some fresh paint, fix a few dings in the plaster, and change out a few sinks. Little jobs.”

It amused her that, without meeting the landlord, she believed he was lazy. Had she ever trusted anyone as quickly and as completely as she did Elliot? It wasn't that he proclaimed himself as telling the truth and nothing but. There was just something about him that said he could be trusted and believed, that he was a good man, dependable, honorable, happy, satisfied. He wouldn't lie to a woman to get her into bed or to sneak around behind her back to see someone else. He wouldn't cheat or give anything less than his absolute best to anything he did.

With her upbringing, she should be skeptical of everything everyone said or did—and for a long time, she had been. She'd thought all fathers were worthless drunks and all mothers wished their kids away on a regular basis. She'd thought grandparents were for disappointing grandkids, that aunts and uncles were just extra people in a child's life to let them down.

But she trusted Elliot. In her world, that was a huge step.

Across the room, he tried to hide a yawn, but she saw it and started toward the door. “I'd better get home before you turn into a pumpkin.”

He caught the reference to their conversation last week and arched one brow. “I don't turn into a pumpkin. If I'm still up at midnight, I'll become a ravening beast with slobber dripping from my fangs while I'm trying to bake bread in the morning.”

“It could go viral on the Net.”

“Huh?” he responded as he opened the door for her, but she just shook her head in response. No need to tell him she'd been envisioning a naked cowboy a short while ago, not when his bed was only ten feet away.

The drive back to her house was silent, though after a few blocks, he pulled her hand onto the console and twined his fingers with her. The radio was on, old country tunes playing in the background, and she was softly singing along when Elliot joined in. Her jaw dropped, and she stared at him in the dim light. “Oh, my God, you can sing.”

His grin was immodest. “I used to play some clubs in my younger days. I play the guitar, too. Guess you never noticed it under all the stuff in the backseat.”

“Go on. Sing more.”

He did, and she listened with her eyes half closed. The tones were sweet, the emotion fierce, the quality hands-down better than the singer on the radio. Everything she learned about Elliot was adding up to an extraordinary man.

While she remained plain, average Fia. With “issues.”

“Beautiful,” she responded when the song ended. At about the same time, he turned into her driveway.

He came around and held hands with her to the stoop and up the steps, where he propped open the storm door with his boot while she unlocked the door. She set her purse on the floor inside the door, then faced him. “I'm not going to invite you inside because you've got to get up early.”

“Darn.” He moved a step closer, fitted his hands to her waist, and leaned toward her. She met him in the kiss, her mouth parting, her hands sliding around to the back of his neck, combing through his silky hair. Dear Lord, she'd forgotten how good a kiss could be. She nibbled at his lip, pausing only when his tongue thrust between her teeth, invading, exploring, rousing a long-unsatisfied need deep inside. Moving intuitively, her hands glided over soft cotton that covered the lean muscles along his spine. When they reached the rougher texture of jeans and leather belt, the tips tingled, like the briefest touch of a live wire, singeing and searing and sparking pleasure through her body.

When she stroked a few inches lower to slide her palm over his erection, his breath caught, and so did hers. It had been so very long…would be so very easy…back up one step, don't let go, take him to the bedroom or, better, the couch, strip off their clothes…So easy. So perfect. So wrong.

Even the thought of that last word was wrong. It jangled in the midst of nerves humming with need. It pulled her out of the haze of what she could do, of the incredible satisfaction she could have, and brought back all the ugly uncertainty of her life. Elliot might be Prince Charming, but she was no princess, and her life was no simple, sweet fairy tale with a happily ever after.

Tears seeped into her eyes—disappointment, weariness—and she opened her eyes to blink them away. Apparently sensing the change in her, Elliot ended the kiss with another tiny, sweeter kiss, then clasped her hands in his. For a long time, he studied her face with an intensity that rippled along her skin, then he took a step back, putting breathing room between them.

When he spoke, he sounded as if he'd done a long hump with a heavy ruck on a hot day. “You never did tell me.”

“What?”

“Is Fia short for something?”

“You never did ask.” She didn't sound much better. “Sofia.”

He laid his palm gently against her cheek, repeated her name, then backed away even farther. “Thank you, Sofia.”

“For what?”

“Being in that parking lot Friday night. For liking me and my dog. For kissing like—” Breaking off, he grinned and shook his head.
“Damn.”

“It takes two.”

His grin strengthened, then slowly faded. “Good night.”

Leaning against the door jamb, she watched him go to his truck, get in, and drive away with a final wave. Sighing deeply, she stepped inside the house, closed and locked the door, and stumbled, hitting the floor with a solid thud.

By the time headlights flashed across the windows fifteen minutes later, Fia had gotten herself off the floor and hobbled to the couch. Her left wrist throbbed where she'd tried to catch herself, her right knee was burning, and her left foot was in spasm, sending sharp pain from her toes all the way to her teeth. She didn't try to get up; her visitor had keys. All the margarita girls had keys for just such an occasion. She just slumped there on the couch, feeling sorry for herself.

Jessy burst into the room, all bustling energy and concern. Right behind her was Ilena, slight, slender, white-blond, mothering angel. “Are you all right?” Ilena asked as Jessy demanded, “What happened?”

“I'm sorry to call—”

They both brushed her off, Jessy sitting on the arm of the sofa and Ilena taking a spot on the cushion beside Fia. “Mamacita was with me when you called, so I sent the guys on home and she gave me a ride.”

“You know you're supposed to call
any
of us at any time,” Ilena chastened in her insubstantial voice. Without asking, she pulled Fia's foot onto her lap and began massaging the tight muscles. “Tell Jessy what medicine you need, and she'll get it.”

Fia obeyed, then settled deeper into the couch as waves of pain radiated from her foot. “I hate for you to do that. I took a shower before dinner, but I've walked on my feet since then.”

“Better than walking without them,” Ilena teased. “Get real, sweetie. I have an eleven-month-old son. I've handled way nastier stuff than your feet.”

When Jessy returned from the bathroom with Fia's medication, she brought a glass of water and hovered while she took the pill. It was a powerful muscle relaxant, but sometimes it couldn't overpower the spasms.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Jessy asked.

“My wrist is a little sore, but it's not swollen.”

“She's got an owie on her knee,” Ilena said with a nod. “The best cure for owies is a hug from Russell the Sheep.”

“She's not a baby like John, Mamacita.” Jessy checked both wrist and knee, then sat down on the coffee table. “What happened, doll?”

Fia rolled her eyes. “I'd left my purse on the floor while Elliot and I were on the porch, and at first I thought I'd tripped over it, but then I realized my foot was on fire.” Pins and needles. Flames licking along her nerves. She could describe it a dozen ways, but the best was simple: hell.

“You didn't call for him?”

“He'd already left.”

Jessy's green gaze studied her. “And you wouldn't have even if he'd been there.”

Fia didn't say anything. She couldn't look either of them in the eye.

“Aw, Fia—”

Ilena interrupted. “Her toes are starting to loosen. Let's get her into bed before the pill kicks in and we can't move her. Not that you're big or anything, Fia.”

Jessy snorted. “She's practically a foot taller than either of us.”

“Good things come in small packages.” Ilena wrinkled her nose. “My mom used to tell me that once it became apparent I was never going to see five and a half feet without a ladder. By the time I was sixteen, I would have sold Mom just to be average, but Juan was a little guy, too. Maybe that's what drew us together.”

With their help, Fia got to her feet, and bearing only as much weight as she had to on her left heel, she hobbled into the bedroom. Ilena gave her privacy to change into her pajamas. Jessy, who'd undressed her before, helped her trade the pretty outfit chosen to impress Elliot for a comfy T-shirt advertising a 10K she'd run with Scott years ago.

“Want me to massage that foot?” Jessy offered.

“I've got it.” Ilena kicked off her shoes, sat cross-legged on the bed, and went back to work on the stubborn spasm.

Jessy removed her own shoes and climbed into bed, plumping the pillow behind Fia, fixing one for herself. The first time Fia had called Jessy for help, her friend had been there in a flash, but she'd been puzzled as hell. She was no one's first call for comforting pats and
poor baby
reassurances, and Fia suspected Jessy had figured out, just as Fia had, that she was the only one available at that time.

Since then, though, she was usually Fia's first call. She had a capacity for caregiving that no one had ever guessed at, and she did it all in her usual blunt manner. She never overwhelmed Fia with too much sympathy, which tonight might have left her a hot mess.

“All right,” Ilena said after a moment. “Give us the secret, inside, intimate scoop on Elliot. Where did you find him, are you going to keep him, and would you be willing to loan him out from time to time? I promise I would just look, not touch.”

Fia laughed. “He's not a stray dog that wandered in looking for a place to live.” But only half of that statement was true. He was looking for a place to stay, and she would very much like for that place, metaphorically, to be her.