Just Let Go… (18 page)

G
ILLIAN WASN’T SURE
what she had expected after sending the article. A call, a letter, a long kiss to wake her in the night, but all she got was silence in return. The silence drove her mad. She spent time at Mindy’s, changing diapers and baking. She repainted the jail in a pleasing shade of sky blue that was supposed to soothe the savage beast. She ran five miles every morning, up before the sun, because for the first time in her life, there were too many hours in the day, instead of not enough.

Thank goodness her mother let her suffer in peace, giving her extra hugs and shooting her anxious glances, but Modine Wanamaker had no correcting words for her daughter. No, Gillian was hurting enough. Jeff Junior began to date Meredith Bradshaw, the teller at the bank, and Gillian felt relieved rather than hurt.

In time, she told herself that her heart would heal. She believed in the power of positive thinking, but this time, she wondered if Gillian Wanamaker was wrong.

A
USTEN HAD NEVER SPENT
a lot of time in the company of Modine Wanamaker. In the past, she’d never sought him out, and he respected her wishes not to be in his company, and as such, she was almost a stranger.

So, it was somewhat of a shock when she strode into the small garage on South Congress Street in Austin, her flower-print dress out of place. Austen made note of the tiny hat on her head. It wasn’t hard to see where Gillian inherited her sense of individual style.

He put away the wrench and rubbed at the rag at his hip, not offering his hand. It seemed the more polite thing to do.

“Mrs. Wanamaker. Is everything all right?”

Her mouth quivered. “No, Mr. Hart, it is not. And since you’re the cause of it, I thought I should tell you in person.”

“Is Gillian all right?”

“No, she’s not. She’s working herself to the bone, not that she wasn’t too skinny to begin with. She stays up late. She spends all sorts of long hours at the sheriff’s office, with all those nefarious types. She’s organized an antilittering campaign and a street beautification campaign. She did all the flower arrangements for Birdy Hammitt’s funeral, and Gillian hated Birdy. I’m at my wits’ end because she’s killing herself right in front of my eyes. I have thought you capable of a whole pack of bad deeds, none of them true, and now, just when I think you’re a good man, I see what you’re doing to my daughter, and…it’s cruel, Mr. Hart. You’re a very cruel man, and after all the good things she had to say about you, I’m trying very hard to reconcile that.”

Gillian wasn’t supposed to hurt, she wasn’t supposed to miss him. “She wasn’t supposed to do that,” he explained, placing his dirty hands out in the open, just in case Mrs. Wanamaker missed the fact that he wasn’t a prize.

“Maybe not, but she up and did. What do you think a mother is supposed to do?”

“Ma’am, honest to God, I don’t have a clue. I can’t help her.”

And then, Mrs. Wanamaker, with her lavender scent and her polished black shoes, stepped on his scuffed work boots. Hard.

He bit back his curse because he knew it wasn’t right, but when he looked into the woman’s blue eyes, slightly less fiery than her daughter’s, only just as determined, he knew that once again, he was at the mercy of the Wanamaker women.

Hell.

“You don’t want me there. Nobody wants me there.”

“I want my baby girl to be happy. She’s happy if you’re there. Therefore, God help us all, I want you there.”

“I’m an auto mechanic.”

“It’s an honest, hard-working occupation, and I’m assuming that you stopped stealing from your boss.”

“Yes, ma’am, but she wants the more polished version of me. Not this.”

“Are you calling my daughter a snob?”

Quickly Austen shook his head. “No, ma’am, but she has expectations.”

She glanced over him, taking in the faded coveralls. “Then maybe it’s time you lived up to them. If you think you can.”

He heard the challenge in her tone. The words, so like her daughter. Throwing down the gauntlet, making him tilt at windmills all over again.

Hell.

“She’s really unhappy?” he asked uncertainly, happier at that thought than a good man should be.

“A shadow of her former self. It took her ten years to get over missing the prom, and now this. I take it you’re going to fix this mess?”

He nodded once. There was work to do. A lot of work to do, and dammit, he was going to have to take another shower, but maybe, maybe…

In a rush, the dreams came rushing back, and Austen met Modine Wanamaker’s tough gaze.

“Give me a few days, and I’ll take care of it all.” It was a bold promise, one that he had no business making.

It’d take a miracle, but the thought of having Gillian Wanamaker forever would be the best miracle of all.

O
NCE AGAIN
, J.C. delivered for Austen. He didn’t understand why people kept throwing bones his way when there wasn’t a man alive who deserved them less, but J.C. looked at him with that same bright enthusiasm that Gillian did, and when he explained what he needed, she threw back her head and laughed.

At first, he took that for a no, but J. C. Travis was a woman of great surprises. After she caught her breath, she surprised him once again.

“At the advice of a very smart man, I’m running for governor next year, and I need somebody in my corner. A jack of all trades, part PR chief, part campaign manager, part advisor. I need somebody that makes sure the railroad project comes through on time, under budget, and with my name plastered across every newspaper in the state, in giant print no less. If I hire you on, you can do that for me, can’t you?”

Speechless, Austen could only nod.

“Fine. I’ll need you in town one day a week, Thursdays are always good. That way I can relax and get a spa treatment for the weekend. Gotta look top-notch…for those press pictures.”

Austen smiled gratefully at her, thinking there was no picture that could ever do justice to the large heart of J. C. Travis, but as her newly hired PR representative, he would make sure that the photographers always tried.

“Thank you for this.”

“You’re going to go get her and bring her back here?” J.C. asked.

“No, ma’am. I’m going to do something I should have done a long time ago. This time, I’m going to her. This time, I’m going home.”

T
HE HIGH SCHOOL
gymnasium was lit with dim lights, stars hanging from the ceiling. Tall vases of roses were lined against the wall, their scent lingering heavy in the air. The music was low, coming from speakers hidden behind the stage. There were no students, no teachers, only Gillian waiting in her old prom dress, with a carefully preserved crown of roses on her head.

She didn’t have to wait long before she saw him, immaculately uncomfortable in the tux—she could tell from the way he pulled at the neck. But the smile was only for her. The look in his eyes was only for her.

The heart of Austen Hart was only for her, and tonight he had come back home. For her.

The silk still swished when she walked, the fabric still clung exactly as it had ten years ago, and as his eyes swept over her, she was grateful for the extra twenty miles she had run last week.

The white lingerie wasn’t tucked in her closet, it was lying across her bed, waiting to be worn. Waiting for him.

Her mother and father had discreetly taken a room at the Spotlight Inn, not at Gillian’s suggestion. No, Modine Wanamaker had insisted. Her daughter needed space and privacy, and they were finding a new place soon. Something reasonable because according to her mother there was no need to waste good, hard-earned money on fancy accoutrements.

Gillian suspected Modine was rubbing her hands at the idea of future grandbabies. Something that seemed a lot more viable, she thought, walking toward him, head high, fighting the urge to run. Eventually, she did run, gracefully though in the three-inch heels, since she’d practiced this, practiced gliding into his arms, but nothing could compare to the feeling of his coming home.

“You’re here?” she asked. “This isn’t a dream?”

He kissed her once, soft, lingering, a promise, a vow. “No dream. This is you. This is me. This is forever. If the people of Tin Cup aren’t happy, they can go suck an egg, because this time they’re stuck with me.”

“You won’t have any problems. You’re a regular hero around these parts.”

She saw the blush on his cheekbones and laughed. “I didn’t do anything,” he told her, lying through his teeth.

“Take it from me, darling, when people want to bask at your feet in adoration, you go with it.”

He swept her into a dizzying turn, the dreams of the past, the hopes of the future playing out before her. “I love you, Gillian Wanamaker.”

She felt tears in her eyes. At last. Forever. She shot him her best grin and listened as the song played on. “I know.”

T
HERE WAS A CROWD
pressed against the windows, watching the couple dancing inside. As the kissing got a little more involved, Modine Wanamaker moved the folks along, proud of her daughter, proud of what had better be her future son-in-law, and imagining the good-looking grandbabies they were going to have.

Her husband, Emmett, gave her a kiss and a familiar pat on the rear, and she felt herself blush. “I need to be working on a new baby announcement.”

He winked at her, a saucy one that she hadn’t seen in ages. “There’ll be time enough for that tomorrow. Let’s go check out the room at the inn. I always knew one day I’d get you there.”

“You old devil.”

“Only a devil for you.”