A Love to Call Her Own (11 page)

The problem was the real Jessy was always there, always remembering.

Then a pickup pulled to the curb right in front of her, engine idling, droplets from a very recent car wash gleaming in the evening sun as they slowly disappeared. She was about to rise and cross the few feet of sidewalk, but the driver's door closed with a thunk and Dalton appeared, walking behind the truck and stepping up.

She'd been right about his clothes. His hat was straw, a shade between white and cream, and his shirt was white, button-down, the sleeves folded back to his elbows. The jeans were deep blue, the color unfaded, the fabric unripped, and the hem unfrayed. His boots were polished, his belt stitched brown leather.

Something inside her stilled, caught the breath in her lungs, and held it a moment longer than usual. That something was quiet, calming, and very much needed. It simmered through her, settled her nerves, and let her breathe deeply for the first time all day.

As he stopped just in front of her, she deliberately shifted her gaze to his middle. “No rodeo buckle?”

“No rodeoing. I did enough steer wrestling, roping, and bronc riding in my job. Why would I want to do it for fun?”

“Because girls love a rodeo cowboy?”

His gaze narrowed, and he tugged his hat a little lower over his eyes. “When I was young enough to rodeo, I had a girl. I wasn't looking for another. But you're right. She loved a rodeo cowboy.”

Not Sandra, then. Someone else who'd broken his heart? Or just one of many that he'd had fun with in the course of growing up?

She stood, a much better view of him, and watched his gaze skim over her, all the way down to her scarlet toenails. Though he didn't comment, she knew approval when she saw it. “Where are we going tonight?”

“Wherever you want.” He led the way to the truck, opening the passenger door, watching as she delicately stepped onto the running board, then slid into the seat. Jeez, with half her wardrobe, she wouldn't have been able to make the steps without showing her prettiest thong to Dalton and anyone else within flashing distance. But the longer skirt allowed her to do it gracefully while protecting her modesty.

She waited until he sat opposite, a totally effortless step up for him, to respond. “Not Serena's. Not Luca's. And not Three Amigos.” That still left a surprising number of restaurants for a town Tallgrass's size, thanks to the tens of thousands of soldiers stationed there. “You have any preferences I should know?”

He slanted her a look that created a response totally different from her first view of him tonight: shivering, disquiet, a nearly forgotten little trill of pleasure and awareness skipping through her. It felt remarkably like arousal, something she hadn't experienced, not sober anyway, in a very long time. But no. No, no. She didn't do sober arousal. She damn well didn't do sober sex.

“Mom always said my brothers and I would eat dirt if you poured gravy on it and handed us a spoon.”

Brothers.
Until now, she'd been aware of only the younger Smith boy. Filing the information away, she considered the food options. “How about Walleyed Joe's?” Though their specialty was catfish, the place served a little bit of everything, the food was good, and an extra bonus, it was located a couple of miles out of town on the lake. They weren't likely to run into any of the margarita club there. She definitely didn't want to see any of her besties. For now, Dalton—and anything that might develop between them—was her secret.

The only good one she'd had in a very long time.

W
alleyed Joe's hadn't changed much in the years since Dalton's last visit. Maybe the wood was silvered a little more, and the deck had a few more tables squeezed onto it than before, but the aromas drifting on the air when he and Jessy walked through the door took him back twenty-five years, when he, his parents, and Dillon had come there the first Sunday of every month for dinner. Eating out had been a rarity back then, and for them it had nearly always been here. The tradition had continued until his parents moved away. He'd brought Sandra a few times, but she hadn't liked the smell of fried everything. She preferred a tradition of sleeping in late on Sunday, eating breakfast in bed, then making love.

He waited to feel some sense of sorrow or anger, something to remind him of everything he'd lost, but it didn't come. It was okay to be in this place with all its memories. The past was past, right? At least, he was trying to make it so.

A waitress on the fly hustled them to a table on the deck at Jessy's request, dropped off menus and napkins, took their drink orders, then disappeared back inside. Jessy chose a chair at the table for four that allowed her to face the lake, and he sat to her right, where the water stretched out into the distance.

When the girl had asked what they wanted to drink, he'd been about to ask for beer—nothing went better with fried catfish—but the last time he'd shared a meal and a beer with Jessy, he'd wound up drunk and in bed with her. Not his finest hour. No booze tonight. He was driving. He wanted all his faculties intact. He didn't want to screw up again.

Not that having sex with a woman he knew was the same as having sex with one he'd just met. Besides, this was a new start. Same woman, same man, different situation, for damn sure a different outcome.

So when Jessy ordered iced tea, he ordered Coke.

Neither of them picked up the menus. She unrolled the thick paper napkin from the silverware and spread it primly across her lap, took a deep breath, and sighed. “I had fish for lunch today. Squeezed with fresh lemon juice, seasoned with pepper, steamed to perfection.” The sun glinted off her red hair as she shook her head. “People who eat fish any other way besides fried or in soup should be shot.”

“So why'd you do it?”

“I had this weak moment where I thought I should eat healthy. You know, if I'm going to live another fifty years, I might as well try to be in shape to enjoy them?”

He couldn't help it. He tried to keep his gaze on hers, but his eyes had developed a will of their own, his attention sliding downward. He'd seen her looking like every guy's kid sister and every man's killer fantasy. The dress she wore tonight was definitely in between. The color was good for her. It didn't hide her assets but didn't scream
look at me!
either. Her in-your-face sex appeal was toned down, but the subtlety didn't hide the fact that it was still there, or that she was beautiful. Red hair, green eyes, golden skin. Lots of curves. Tiny waist. Great legs for someone so short. Hell, she'd look incredible in a feed sack.

“Nothing wrong with your current shape.”

A smile flitted across her face. “Genetics. Mostly my parents gave me a bunch of baggage, but they did share their great genes. The most exercise they've ever done is looking for faults, but people mistake them for decades younger than they are.” The smile flitted again. “Their life's goal is making everyone around them feel inferior, so of course they'll live to at least a hundred and five.”

He couldn't imagine feeling that way about his parents—Dillon, sure, but not David and Ramona—but he also couldn't imagine David and Ramona trying to make anyone feel bad about themselves, especially their kids. God knew, he and Dillon had given them plenty of reason.

“Do you see them often?”

“Not since I left home at eighteen.” She fiddled with the napkin in her lap, one pink-tipped finger smoothing out the creases. “My parents were perfect younger versions of their parents, and they were determined to turn us into perfect versions of themselves. We lived in the same house my great-grandfather's great-grandfather lived in. We went to the same schools, belonged to the same social groups, were friends with the same families.

“My life was mapped out before I was even born: what preschool I would go to, what prep school, which sorority I would join when I attended Mother's alma mater. The only thing missing was the man I would marry, but they'd already narrowed down the suitable families to a handful.”

She quit toying with the napkin, breathed deeply, and skimmed her gaze across his. “I never really fit in with their plans. The schools kept me because my parents donated a lot of money, and there was ever the hope that some teacher or advisor would save me at the last minute. But at eighteen, instead of heading off to college like a good daughter, I took off, fell in love, and got married.”

She fell silent and still for a long time. Dalton didn't mind the wait. After a sigh with a hitch in the middle, she quietly went on. “I invited them to the wedding. Never heard anything from them. When Aaron died, LoLo, the casualty notification officer, contacted them. Never heard anything then, either.”

Her cheeks pinked, and her laugh was halfhearted. “They always said I'd be a disappointment, so I proved them right.”

Her shrug made the green fabric cling just for a moment to her breasts. He'd seen her naked but knew practically nothing about her.

Except that he'd like to see her naked again. Sober this time.

Both of them.

The thought raised his blood pressure and added an extra layer of heat to his skin that couldn't be blamed on the sun, blocked now by the deck overhang. As he looked at her again, searching for a distraction, the warmth got uncomfortably close to rising into his face.

“What about the rest of your family?” he all but blurted out. “You have aunts, uncles, grandparents?”

“No one I really knew. They chose not to fit in with the family, so we never spent much time together. My grandparents were just like my parents, so no joy there, either.”

Where the hell was the waitress with his pop? He could seriously use a wash of something cold to chase the hoarseness from his voice. “In-laws?”

She shook her head. “Aaron grew up in the foster system. When he aged out, he joined the Army. They were his family.” Before he could think of another question, she turned that one back on him. “What about Sandra's family? You still in touch?”

“I get birthday and Christmas cards and cards on the anniversary of her death. But pick up the phone and call?” He shook his head. “They live in Seattle. We never had much chance to get to know each other.”

And he'd never figured out how to face them knowing the secret he kept. Sandra's family took comfort in the idea that she'd died a hero, doing the job she'd chosen. If they found out that her wounds had been survivable, that she could have come home and had a full life, that she could have chosen to live…

They'd already had their heart broken once. Why let it happen again?

Instead of the bitterness that had eaten away at him for four and a half years, all he felt was resignation.
I lost my wife to an IED,
he'd told Dane Clark weeks ago, but at the time it hadn't been the complete truth. The improvised explosive device had claimed him, too. Like Sandra, he'd been too cowardly to work through the pain and come out the other side. He'd grieved, withdrawn into himself, shoved away everyone who tried to come close, and damn near wallowed in his sorrow and anger.

He'd been pissed at her for not living a full life, and yet he hadn't, either. Though that was changing. It was hard to stay withdrawn into himself when people—like Jessy, like Dane—kept drawing him out.

After a moment's silence while the waitress finally delivered their drinks, then took their orders, Jessy gazed across the water. “I met Aaron at a club in Savannah. I'd settled there, and he was stationed at Fort Stewart. He was funny and sweet and cocky as hell. We got married a couple years later and had a lot of good times.”

Dalton was surprised by the attempt at a chuckle that escaped him. “Sandra and I met at the feed store in town. We were married ten days later.”

“Wow. I never would have pegged you as impulsive.”

“I never was.” He'd been the patient one, thinking things through, considering consequences, and Dillon was the reckless one who didn't give a damn about consequences, even though he'd left a trail of them behind him.

Was his brother out there somewhere, still screwing up people's lives? Or had he changed, grown up, settled down, and made things right?

Was he even still alive?

They were identical twins. Everyone thought they had some kind of mystical connection, that they felt each other's happiness and pain, that they shared a deep mysterious bond. If that were true, if Dillon sensed that Dalton was suffering, wouldn't he have stopped being an ass years ago? Would he have inflicted so damn much pain if he felt it himself?

Surely, if Dillon were even half the man their parents had taught him to be, he would have at least let them know where he was, what he was doing, how he was doing.

A fish plopped in the water near the deck, drawing Jessy's gaze. A faint smile tugged at her lips. “My friend's dad took us fishing when we were about ten. I'd never been before, and I thought it was a most excellent way to spend a few hours. I had a pretty good catch, and I took them home and asked Mom if the cook could fix them for dinner that evening. She threw the fish in the trash, lectured me about proper behavior for a young lady and especially for a Wilkes, sent me to scrub away those awful smells—being fish and sweat and sun—and forbade me to ever go again. So naturally every time I could get away for a few hours when my friend's dad was going out, I went, too. I just made sure to throw my catch back. It was my secret rebellion, but not letting her know took some of the power out of it.”

“Not letting her know was your way of keeping the peace.” Not that it sounded like there had been much of it in their family. “The important thing is you knew. And I'm pretty sure it wasn't your first or your last.”

Fine lines appeared at the corners of her eyes as discomfort shadowed them. “First secret? Or rebellion?”

She sounded relatively normal, but he was pretty sure it took some effort. What secrets was she hiding, and from whom? Was he a secret? Was that why she'd suggested a restaurant outside town? So no one would know she had a date, or a date with him?

“Either. Both.”

After a moment, the shadows faded, and her shrug looked as careless as she'd intended it to. “People who don't have secrets or rebellions haven't taken enough chances in their lives. Nobody will ever say Jessamine Wilkes Lawrence didn't take chances.”

He wondered what those secrets, rebellions, and chances were—wondered what she'd done in the past to cause that uncomfortable look. He could bluntly ask. He'd been so unsociable the past four years that people overlooked his behavior. He didn't, though. Instead, he took a long drink of pop, savored the faint burn on its way down, then in the closest-to-teasing tone he'd managed in a long time, repeated, “Jessamine? Your name is Jessamine? Hell, I'd be rebelling, too.”

By the time dinner was over, darkness had settled like a shadow of protection around Jessy. Whippoorwills and bobwhites sang in the trees nearby, accompanied occasionally by the mournful note of the hoot owl. Distant lights on the water marked where boaters tried their hand at night fishing or lures and catches of an entirely different sort. She felt a very distinct sense of pleasure, all warm and cozy and
nice
. She didn't have a lot of nice moments in her life, but this evening had mostly been one after another.

Though now that the end loomed, some of her coziness was taking on a sharp edge of dread.

This was the point where most people would have their after-dinner drink, but not her. Other than margaritas with the girls, she did most of her drinking solo—or at least, away from her friends. The bartenders at every bar and club in town knew her tastes, and it had long been her motto that there was no finer way to end the day than curling up on the couch with Patrón or, before that made it into her budget, Cuervo. It was her routine.

So far she'd been able to avoid it for two nights in a row. But she'd done this too many times: gone out to dinner, gone home, had a drink or two or who-the-hell-was-counting before bed. She'd narrowly avoided it the last two nights. She'd missed it the last two nights.

How would it play out tonight? Would she stay strong, or would weak Jessy win?

The waitress brought the check, and Dalton slid two twenties beneath the tab. Jessy stared at the bills, grateful to them for pushing the night ahead to the back of her mind. “I don't think I've seen anyone pay for dinner with cash in ages.”

“I have a debit card. I just prefer cash.”

“I bet I haven't had money in my purse for at least a year.”

“So if our debit cards got lost or stolen, I'd still be able to buy myself a Coke, and you wouldn't.” His half smile was smug and dry, one eyebrow quirked in a silent
So there
.

Slowly she rose to her full height, giving a little shimmy to send her dress fluttering into place. “I would still get my Coke, which would actually be Sprite Zero,” she said with an innocent smile. “I just wouldn't have to pay for it.” Demonstrating the behavior that had gotten her way more than pop over the years, she sashayed to the railing at the far end of the deck.

Dalton told the waitress to keep the change, then followed, stopping a short distance to her right. “So you smile and flirt, and men do what you want?”

“Pretty much. It's a birthright of Southern women. We learn it by the time we leave the nursery.”