A Summer to Remember (26 page)

“I'd've kicked his ass myself. I am not a fragile flower. I learned how to fight dirty a long time ago.”

His laugh was husky and made her feel warm and happy all the way through her soul. “Aw, Fia, you're my perfect woman. You know that? Everything I ever wanted…everything I will ever need…”

This kiss was longer, slower, hungrier, and robbed the breath right from her lungs. Her legs were so weak, she wasn't sure she could stand, much less walk, and the heat inside her burned so bright that tearing off her clothes right now, right there, was a terribly tempting idea. Hell, forget her clothes. Tearing off
his
was what she really needed.

Before she'd managed to undo even one shirt button, Elliot lifted his head, grasped her hands in his, and gave her that incredibly charming cowboy smile. “Let's go home, Fia.”

W
alking really wasn't Marti's thing. It wasn't that she held anything against the great outdoors or exercise in general. It was just that she didn't like to sweat. That was an activity she thought should be reserved for sex and catastrophic disasters, such as running through the jungle with a T. rex on her heels.

But Cadence had asked to go for a walk this evening, and since Marti wasn't going to send her out alone after dark, no matter how safe Tallgrass was, here she was in shorts, a tee, and sandals, strolling toward Main Street. They'd talked about school, the weather, Cadence's parents, and Cadence had even brought up a boy she liked at school.

Giving advice to a fourteen-year-old with her first serious crush…not something Marti had ever imagined herself doing. Though Lucy would say she was quick to give advice to grown-up women with their serious crushes. It was only because she never planned to have another crush herself, so someone might as well make use of her experience.

And the fact that she was just a little bossy.

“Grandmommy sent me a text this afternoon and said she may come to Tallgrass for Christmas,” Cadence announced without warning.

Marti nearly tripped over a crack in the sidewalk. “She did, huh?” Thank God, her house had only two bedrooms. Though Eugenie wouldn't hesitate to kick Cadence out of her room and onto the couch. The thought of sharing her own personal private space with her mom was daunting. She'd done it once before for a few weeks, and by the time she left, Eugenie had not only been on Marti's last nerve but was stomping it with four-inch heels. The evening of her departure, the margarita girls had added an extra night out to their schedules and dragged Marti from bar to bar until she was so happy and relaxed that they then took her home and poured her into bed.

“I always like when Grandmommy visits. But last time Mom told Dad that the house wasn't big enough for both of them.” After a moment's reflection, Cadence added, “I think Grandmommy does some of it on purpose. She wants to see if she can make steam come from Mom's ears.”

“Eugenie's always making steam come from someone's ears.” Marti stopped at the intersection with Main Street and gestured. “Which way?”

Cadence looked to the left, her gaze skimming over the businesses, then turned right. “Bronco's is right up there. This girl Gillian in my class, her older sister is a waitress at Bronco's, and she wears this teeny little outfit and makes really good tips. Gillian says she's gonna work there when she's old enough.”

Marti stopped herself from rolling her eyes only by biting her tongue. The prep school Cadence attended before coming to Oklahoma prided itself on the fact that ninety-some percent of its graduates went on to college, that seventy-some percent earned advanced degrees, that they turned out top doctors, lawyers, military leaders, scientists, and civic leaders. And here, Cadence's classmate's goal was to work in a soldier bar. If Belinda knew, she would probably deem Marti a failure and whisk her daughter off to that boarding school after all.

And Marti would miss seeing Cadence's sweet face every evening when she got home from work.

Maybe she would get a cat.

“So her goal is to be a waitress in a bar in skimpy clothes?”

“And make really good tips. That's the important part of it. And if that's what she wants, Aunt Marti, then that's what she should do. You know, the teachers back home always tell us we can be whatever we want to be, but then they treat you like a failure if you want to be something traditional, like a waitress or a nurse or a stay-at-home mom. They say, ‘Why would you settle for being a nurse when you could be a doctor? Why would you waste your talents staying at home taking care of babies when you can hire someone to do it for you while you take care of your career?'” She shrugged her thin shoulders. “They don't have much respect for the people who make their world work, like waitresses and nannies and chauffeurs.”

And paralegals. Bakers. Kindergarten teachers. Cowboys.

“Ah, Cadence, you're a wise girl.”

“I know.” Her gaze was directed ahead, probably on the neon lights at Bronco's, but a tiny smile curved her mouth.

They strolled another block or so before she spoke again. “Look, Aunt Marti. There's Mr. Smith.”

Oh, Marti was
not
proud of how quickly her head snapped up, or of the pleasure that rushed through her the instant her gaze found him standing outside a café on the next block. One of the down sides of a cowboy who lived and worked on a ranch outside town, the opportunities to just casually run into him were somewhere between slim and none, unless she started hanging out at the farm and ranch supply places in town.

“He's really cute. I like him.”

“I do, too.”

Cadence's grin lit her face. “I know.” In a totally uncharacteristic manner, she waved one hand high above her head and yelled, “Hey, Mr. Smith!”

He looked up, looked their way, and Marti hushed her niece even as anticipation spiked inside her. “Child, weren't you taught better manners than that?”

“Abby says sometimes being subtle doesn't work. Besides, if I hadn't gotten his attention, he would've gotten in his truck and driven away. Come on, hurry up.” Cadence didn't sprint, but she lengthened her steps until Marti had to work to catch up to her.

Dillon met them at the street corner, his hand going automatically to the brim of his hat in salute. “For such a slender kid, when you bellow, you sound remarkably like an angry cow that's been separated from her baby.”

Cadence smiled. “You heard me, didn't you?”

“I think the whole block heard you,” he said mildly, then bumped her shoulder in an easy, friendly manner. His gaze shifted to Marti, and he almost smiled. Not completely, but it was enough to know that he was happy to see her.

God, how long had it been since a man was happy to see her?

He tipped his head. “Marti.”

She mimicked his motion and his tone. “Dillon.”

“We're going to the ice cream shop,” Cadence announced. “Want to go with us?”

While one side of Marti's brain pointed out that there'd been zero mention of ice cream, the other side was holding its breath for his response. Going for ice cream was a sweet, old-fashioned thing to do, even with a teenage girl along, and last Tuesday seemed a long time ago while next Tuesday was still a long time away.

“I'm always ready for ice cream.”

Something warm and gooey burst open inside Marti. Crap, she wasn't a warm and gooey person. She was practical and logical and analytical and never, ever overly emotional. But she couldn't deny that his small gesture turned a lovely evening into something much more spectacular, that anticipation was edging out complacency, that things in general had just gotten better.

If that wasn't being overly emotional, she didn't know what was.

The tension in the truck was heavy, electric, the air damn near too thick to breathe, but it was good tension. Claw-inside-and-make-him-ache tension. Expectancy. If they had to drive one half mile farther, Elliot didn't think he could make it. He would have to turn into the first empty parking lot, find the spot farthest from the street, and do with Fia what cowboys had been doing in pickups for decades.

Releasing her hand, he parked in the driveway, hustled around the truck, and opened the passenger door. She slid into his embrace, her arms going around his neck, her legs wrapping around his waist. Aw, she felt so damned good, so damned hot. They would be lucky if they made it into the house in time to avoid arrest for being lewd and lascivious in public. Her mouth was sending incredible sensations along his cheek, his jaw, his ear, as he blindly made his way to the steps, then the stoop, then inside the house. Getting keys from his pocket had never been so damn near impossible.

Happy to see them, Mouse was barking and circling around Elliot's ankles as he stumbled toward the couch. When the back of it banged against his legs, he bent, lowering Fia to the cushions, sliding after her, his hands tangling with hers as they tried to undo each other's clothing.

His blood was boiling, his skin supersensitized to every touch from her, his erection about to burst, when Mouse barked, then pawed at him. “Not now, Mouse.”

She did it again, adding a pathetic whine that made Fia chuckle. “Aw, poor baby needs to go out.” She kissed him, greedy, demanding, then pushed him back a few inches. “You take her out. I'll wait in the bedroom.”

He tried to kiss Fia again, but she pursed her lips and shook her head. “Take care of the baby first.” As he rose, she gave him a look. “Then I'll take care of you.”

“Promises, promises.” He headed toward the back door. “Come on, Mouse, and make it quick.”

The pup ran down the steps and across the patio, then started sniffing. Depending on how urgent her need, the sniffing part could be over in seconds or take as long as he was willing to give her. Apparently, she'd exaggerated her need tonight, because she was on a trail and showing no signs of losing it.

“Come on, Mouse, you're killing me here.”

The dog glanced up at her name, then bent her head again, pulling him across the yard. Finally, hallelujah, she circled, then squatted, and they got to return to the house.

The couch was empty, but a light shone from the bedroom. Elliot left Mouse snacking in the kitchen and headed that way, but when he walked through the door, the room was empty. He turned back, saw a wedge of light coming from the bathroom, and knocked on the door. “Fia?”

The door wasn't closed completely, so it swung open under the weight of his hand, showing Fia sitting on the floor, her back to the tub, hugging her arms to her chest. No, not hugging. They were drawn up that way in what looked like a spasm to match the one he'd massaged from her foot the other night. Her knees were bent, her left foot bare and turned inward, and her head was bowed, her forehead resting on her knees, her face hidden.

“Fia?” Elliot crouched in front of her, his heart booming like artillery, a shiver of fear rushing over him, icy enough to extinguish the heat that had been building inside. Gently he lifted her chin, forcing her to look up. “What's wrong? What's happening?”

She tried to turn her head away but seemed to lack the energy. “Ah can't…”

Her voice was weak, her words slurred. If he didn't know better, the words and the paleness of her face would make him think she'd gotten gut-puking drunk. His hands trembled as he cupped her cheeks to tenderly turn her face to him. “Do you need to go to the emergency room? Should I call 911?”

“No, no, no. Please. Jus'…jus' bed.” A tear slipped from her eye and rolled until it hit his finger. “I didden want…S-s-sorry.”

Hearing the sadness in her voice made his heart hurt. Why not, since his gut was knotted and his lungs were so tight he could grab only the shallowest of breaths? “Shh, shh, shh. It's okay.” He scooped her into his arms, then stood, barely feeling her weight. Mouse was waiting curiously in the hall, and she followed them into the bedroom, where he carefully laid Fia on the bed. Straightening, he switched on the bedside lamp, but she flinched and squeezed her eyes shut, so he turned it off again. “What do you need, Fia? Tell me what to do.”

“Pills,” she whispered.

“Okay, pills.” Yeah, he was familiar with the pills. They'd been raising too many questions without answers in his head. He took two steps that way, then pivoted back. “Which ones? Darlin', which ones do you need?”

With a moan, she rolled onto her side away from him, curling up in the fetal position. When he realized she was trying to toe off her other boot, he pulled it off for her and saw with despair that those toes were curling under, too, muscles pulling them painfully taut. She was in a lot of pain—any fool could see that—and he felt as damn helpless as a newborn baby.

And scared. Panic tumbled in his gut, threatening to spill over and leave him a quivering mess.

“Fia? Baby, can you hear me? Tell me what pills to give you.”

Slowly she shook her head, mumbling words he couldn't make out even when he bent close enough to feel her breath. Straightening, he ran his fingers through his hair, then his gaze skimmed across her cell phone on the nightstand. She must have left it there before going into the bathroom, where this—this whatever the hell it was started. He grabbed the phone, scrolled through to the listing for Patricia, and hit Send.

Patricia's hello was cheery and motherly and eased his panic enough to just barely keep him from hysteria. “It's Elliot, Patricia. Something's wrong with Fia. She, just, uh, she has these spasms, and she can hardly talk, and—and her feet and her arms…She's whimpering.” The sound was like a razor-sharp blade scraping his skin raw. “I'm gonna call 911—”

A weak
No!
came from the bed, muffled by Fia's position.

Patricia's cheeriness disappeared, replaced with concern. “No, sweetie, it upsets her. Besides, they've seen her like this before. They'll just give her the same medication she takes at home, run her through tests she's already had a dozen times, make her really uncomfortable and tired, and then send her home. What you need to do first is give her the pills.”

“She can't tell me which ones she needs or how many.”

“Go to the bathroom, on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet.”

He covered the short distance in a few strides, jerked open the cabinet door, and asked, “Which ones?”

“Two from the bottle on the left, one from the second bottle, one from the third.”

He popped open the bottle, hands shaking so badly he poured a half dozen in the sink. Clenching two in his fist, he got the next two. “Okay, so four pills. Is that all?”

“Yes. Get those down her and make sure she keeps them down.”