A Love to Call Her Own (21 page)

Jessy looked at Dalton, who was unfazed by her volunteering him. “Let me take a look out and see. You guys have fun.” She fluttered her fingers in a wave, then turned toward the exit. A moment later, the stool scraped across the concrete, then boot falls thudded behind her.

As they stepped outside the restaurant, she let a slow smile spread through her. Carly was right. Dalton hadn't come to town just to watch the game. It had been a long time since Jessy had felt this excited about a little time with a man, but tonight it was there, pushing past all the negatives, all shiny and blinky to catch her attention.

She was one lucky girl.

Dalton stood near Jessy under the bright-striped canopy, watching the rain fall as steadily as when it had started. It was a good rain. All over the ranch, the grass, the trees, and the creeks were drinking it up, always ready for a soaker, never knowing when the next one might come.

“You know, if I walk you home, I'm just gonna have to come back by myself to get the truck.”

She tilted her head to gaze up at him. “It's just rain. You won't melt.”

“Neither will you. That umbrella's almost bigger than you are. You could use it for a weapon.”

Smiling, she took a stance and wielded it like a clumsy sword covered in yellow daisies and hot pink. “I never use the umbrella on the way home. The idea is to arrive to dinner looking fabulous. If I come back looking like a drenched cat, there's no one to see.”

“So why don't you ride home with me, put the umbrella up, then we can walk over to Java Dave's for coffee.”

“It's a deal,” she said with an expression that made him think she'd planned to agree all along. True to her word, she didn't unfurl the umbrella, hustle to the truck, or try to shield herself using her purse. The air could have been dry as the most boring Sunday sermon for all the care she paid.

Inside the truck, it smelled like wet leather, clean rain, and delicately scented shampoo. Underneath those aromas was the staleness of dust and grit, plus just a whiff of a perfume that, like outstanding food, could damn near make his mouth water.

After he turned onto Main, he remarked, “Dane told me about the dignified transfer today.” Most of the margarita club had gathered outside her apartment, holding flags or their hands over their hearts as the processional passed. He had only dim memories of Sandra's transfer. He'd been in shock, heartbroken, and angry. His parents and hers, her sisters and their families, and Noah had accompanied them to the airport. He didn't remember saying a word to anyone, not even casket-side. There'd been no point when the only thing he'd wanted to know was
why
, and it was far too late for her to tell him that.

“How many of those have you seen make their way through town?” he went on, his voice a little thick.

“The first one was too many, and it wasn't even Aaron's.” She looked at him. “I remember them all. I always will. But sometimes I need to keep them in the back of my mind.”

He nodded. He'd witnessed one dignified transfer, one military funeral, and sometimes keeping them in the back of his mind was the only way he'd kept his sanity.

Within moments, he was parking in front of her building. “It's convenient that you always have parking available.”

“It's harder during the day when the businesses are open. But I have a private space in the alley out back.” She dipped one small hand into her oversized bag and came out with a key ring before opening the door. “Give me a minute to set the umbrella inside, then I'll race you to the coffee shop.”

He shook his head, remembering Carly's comment about Jessy and exercise. He shut off the engine, pocketed his own keys, and was opening the door when she streaked across the street in front of the truck, jumping puddles, splashing her way to the other side. “Damn,” he muttered, slamming the door, darting a look left and right, then running after her. For someone who boasted sedentary preferences, she was light and quick on her feet. She made it halfway to Java Dave's before he got close enough to grab her hand and stop her.

“You forgot your hat,” she said, huffing out the words as she swiped her sodden hair from her face.

“You cheated. A race means we start at the same time.”

“You're taller, in a lot better shape, and have longer legs. How would I win if I didn't cheat?”

“I like your shape.” Her hair stood on end, her purple shirt looked as if it had shrunk two sizes, and her shorts had gone baggy, making her waist look narrower, her hips look curvier, in contrast. “It couldn't get any better.”

Still holding hands, they started toward the shop. “Thank you,” she said airily, as if the compliment was nothing less than she expected. Dalton had seen that reaction enough to know it was a cover.

“When I was a kid, I prayed to the tooth fairies, the Christmas fairies, the ninja fairies, everyone, to please let me top five and a half feet. Everyone in my family was small, including the men. My friends used to call us the toy family. Sadly, the fairies and genetics let me down. I'd still like another six inches of height, but…” She stepped aside to let him open the door, then smiled breezily. “That's what they make outrageous heels for.”

The air-conditioning inside hit like an arctic blast. Like before, they got their coffees to go, then walked back through the rain to the gazebo. Jessy settled on a bench, railing at her back, and drew her feet onto the seat before taking a tentative sip of whipped-cream-topped caffeine. “I love this place. I came here sometimes on my afternoon breaks from the bank. You know, hardly anyone ever takes the time to sit here and relax.”

“You don't strike me as the take-time-and-relax kind.”

“Mostly with the bank, this was my release-steam-or-explode place. Whatever fool came up with the idea that the customer is always right was out of his freaking mind.” She shuddered, then took a long, appreciative sip of coffee. “I hated that job. Getting fired—” Breaking off, she darted her gaze his way, off to the street, then back again. Her slender shoulders rounded in a shrug as if she was acknowledging that the words couldn't be recalled.

After a moment, she sighed. “One day, this girl came in—beautiful, dumber than dirt, bratty and snotty and smug. Her father was on the bank's board, and after my patience wore thin from repeating the same information over and over, she threatened to have my job and I told her—”

“That she was too stupid to do it?” Dalton pressed his lips together to control the grin trying to break free.

“Pretty much. Sundrae—can you believe that name?—went to the boss, and I…got fired.” She stared at her coffee while doing another of those shoulder lifts-and-rolls that looked almost sensual. Granted, most everything she did was sensual.

Finally his grin escaped. “First time?”

“Yeah.” She looked at him again, her gaze narrowing, forehead wrinkling, before slowly her own smile started to edge out the frown. “I
hated
that job. Despised everything about it. Had to force myself out of bed every morning to go to it. But getting fired mortified me. It was just one more way I screwed up. I curled up in bed for a week, wanting it back at least long enough so I could quit on my own terms. How dumb is that?”

He'd never lost a job—not much of an accomplishment considering that he'd worked his whole life for his dad, then himself. But he could imagine the impact. With some people, being shown the door just rolled off their backs; Dillon automatically came to mind. Others, like Jessy, took it personally. Dalton figured he would have, too.

He figured she hadn't told anyone, either, wanting to keep what she saw as her failure from her friends.

It meant something that she'd told him, even if it'd been by accident.

“How's the new job?” There had been some surprise among her friends at the cookout, as if none of them had ever imagined her working with animals. After watching her with Oz and his stock, Dalton thought it seemed logical, even natural. When you'd been hurt enough, sometimes the best thing to do was surround yourself with animals. As a general rule, they were smarter, more loyal, and more compassionate than most people, and they couldn't talk you to death with advice.

The last bit of embarrassment disappeared from her expression. “Aw, it's great. Most of the dogs are sweethearts. Most of the cats think they're royalty and I'm there to await their bidding. There are a few babies, though, who have some serious trust issues to work through.” Her face wrinkled into a frown as if thinking about those animals in particular troubled her, then she went on. “I'm taking pictures of them for the website and Facebook to see if it helps stir interest in them. Whatever else I've messed up—”

She broke off, and her gaze went distant. After a moment, she said, “I'm a good photographer. I take great pictures.”

“You never showed me any pictures of my stock,” he reminded her.

“That's right, I didn't.” She took another long drink of coffee, leaving a bit of whipped cream in the corner of her mouth. “When I invite you to my apartment, I'll do that.”

The two of them alone in her apartment…There was an image to make a man want. He didn't have a clue what the place looked like or how her tastes in furniture and colors ran, but he didn't need one to picture the two of them in her bed or on her couch, the floor, any reasonably stable surface. The thought—the possibility—spread heat through him so quickly he was pretty sure he could hear the hissing of steam from his wet clothes.

His hand was unsteady as he reached out to her, using the tip of his index finger to wipe away the cream. She was amazingly soft and warm and delicate, but the look in her green eyes as she stared at him was as shaky as his fingers. They'd agreed to take it slow, not to repeat the mistake of sex too soon. Was this too soon?

If he had to ask, it probably was.

Damned if the part of him that had been celibate too long didn't care. The part that thought one afternoon of sex was nowhere near enough to make up for five years without was willing to take the risk.

But the part that wanted not just sex but Jessy herself had a little more patience, a little more determination.

Slowly he drew his hand away, missing the contact immediately. There weren't enough soft things in his life, but he could wait.

Awhile.

O
n Wednesday the margarita sisters filled an entire row at the post chapel, their dresses bright splashes of color per Patricia's request. Dane sat at one end in his dress uniform, Joe at the other in a dark suit. Lucy sat between him and Marti, her thoughts flowing from the eulogy to bittersweet memories and back again.

There was much more to say about George and his accomplishments than her family pastor had managed with Mike. Mike had lived only half the years George had. Her husband never would have attended college or become an officer; he would have done his twenty, then gone home to California to work in his father's carpentry business.

Still, he would have done great things. He would have helped her raise wonderful children; he would have cared for his parents as they aged; he would have been the one all the neighbors called on when they needed help.

He wouldn't have been the kind of guy who made a place for himself in the history books, but he would have been—
had
been—the guy everyone loved and respected and missed.

Damn, she missed him.

Warm, strong fingers closed over her hands, and she realized they'd begun to tremble. She glanced at Joe, staring straight ahead, gaze locked on the carved cross on the wall behind the reverend. The sight of Joe at her door this morning in a suit and tie had startled her even more than the fact that he'd gotten his hair cut. For a man who lived in sweats, shorts, and T-shirts, he wore the suit amazingly well. He was, the sisters had all pointed out, amazingly handsome.

Bennie, her ebony skin glowing in contrast to the fiery purple of her dress, had given her a skeptical look.
I don't get this just-friends stuff, Lucy.

You don't think men and women can be friends?

Of course I do. But a guy who looks like Joe? He's way too fine, chica, to waste on just friendship.

But Lucy's heart already belonged to Mike.

And she was looking to give a piece of it to Ben.

Ben sat in the second row between his sisters, flanked by distant relatives. He wore a suit, too, pale gray with an even lighter gray shirt. He'd been in a mood when she'd seen him the night before and again this morning—contemplative, she thought. Even Sara and Brianne hadn't been able to draw him out.

Patricia was composed in the front row. Though she looked unbearably weary, she sat erect, and her eyes were dry. Lucy had always wondered, on seeing photos and videos of military widows at their husbands' funerals, how they held themselves together. Was it some special quality she lacked, maybe some secret they learned that had been denied her?

Then Mike had died, and she'd found out, in her own case, at least, that it wasn't composure. She'd sat erect through his service, eyes dry, because she was too tired to do anything else, because she had already cried so many tears that she just didn't have the energy to produce one more. She'd been numbed by grief and shock, coping only one minute at a time, not yet thinking ahead to the huge scope of her loss: the rest of her life without Mike.

Her hands trembled again, and Joe held them a little tighter.

The minister quoted Marine Corps General Paul X. Kelley:
Lord, where do we get such men?
And General George S. Patton:
We came here to thank God that men like these have lived.
And Mike's favorite:
The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.

Mike and George, Marti's husband and Bennie's and Ilena's, all of them, had been such men, good men, and they'd given their lives in the fight against evil, and she was so very thankful they had lived.

But so very heartbroken they had died.

Patricia's house began clearing out around seven. Ben couldn't even guess at how many people had been in and out, how much food had been brought, how much eaten. The funeral home had delivered enough flowers and plants to fill the house with competing fragrances, to occupy most surfaces and spread across the front porch in a rainbow of color. He'd met so many strangers that he'd given up trying to remember names and connections to Patricia and George.

He was exhausted. Mentally. Physically. He wanted—needed—the busyness of his practice and the comfort of his own bed. He needed to go home.

Then images from the day passed through his mind—Patricia accepting condolences from dozens of people, sitting under the funeral home canopy at the cemetery like a windup doll that was finally running down, murmuring a prayer, flinching at the firing of the salute, accepting the casket flag from the post's commanding general, saying good-bye at the grave site, leaving a handful of red roses on George's casket, getting lost inside herself on the way home.

Ben couldn't go just yet. The staff had rearranged his schedule; his partners were taking over the cases that couldn't be put off. He wasn't needed there.

He'd shed the coat and tie and rolled his sleeves up, but hadn't changed clothes yet. Tired of voices, of people, of the little bit of guilt crawling along his spine periodically, he went outside to stand on the patio. Thanks to the tall trees next door, the bricked area was shaded from the evening sun, the chairs with their thick padding inviting, the subtler smells of tree, earth, and flowers more pleasing to breathe.

“How long have you known about Bree?”

He didn't glance at Sara as she joined him. Instead, he gazed at the back of Lucy's house. She'd left a while ago to feed the dog and walk him—probably to decompress, too. Today hadn't been easy for her. He'd seen it in the lines that framed her mouth, that edged out from the corners of her eyes. Too many memories, and few of them happy.

“She told me a couple days ago.”

“I can't believe all these years she's been missing Mom.”

“Haven't you? At least a little?”

“No,” Sara replied bluntly.

“You were nine.”

“And smart enough to see that she chose him over us.” She sipped a glass of wine from the supply one of Patricia's friends had brought. “Have you missed her?”

He shrugged. “I never really thought about it. About her.” It was true. She'd left them to make their way the best they could, and for him, that had been by shutting her out. He'd gotten very good at it, but the past week and a half had changed that.

“She wants to meet my family,” Sara said. “Bree mentioned it. She thinks it's a great idea.”

“What do you think?”

“I don't know. She chose to skip out on two thirds of my life—important times. Why should she get to come back now?” With a deep exhalation, she sat on the edge of a chair. “Bree says the past is past. It can't be undone.”

That was true. Their perfect family had been shattered. Their father had been broken. They'd lost their balance and happiness and illusions, and none of that could be changed. So should they forget it? Set it aside as if she hadn't been responsible for the shattering and give her a chance? Trust her, forgive her, welcome her, and maybe even start to love her again?

And what if she abandoned them again?

“You don't have to decide anything this minute,” he said at last. A lame answer, but sometimes
lame
was the best he could offer.

“I know. In fact, Bree and I have to head back to Tulsa. If we make good time, I'll get to tuck the kids in and read them a story.” She stood and swallowed the last of the wine. “When are you going home?”

“Soon. Tomorrow. Friday.”

Her expression suggested the answer didn't quite please her, but she didn't comment on it. “Help me pry Bree away, will you?”

They returned to the house, where they did, in fact, have to pry Brianne from Patricia's side. She wanted to delay going home, but three words from Sara—
Matt, Lainie, Eli
—stopped her protest. Patricia hugged her tightly and said a more subdued good-bye to Sara, then Ben walked them outside to Sara's car.

He hugged them both, ruffling Sara's hair just to make her grimace, then shoved his hands into his pants pockets and watched as they drove away. Part of him wished he could follow behind them in his own car. But another part knew that leaving Tallgrass just now would be a mistake. He didn't know why he felt the need to stay another few days. He just did.

After gazing at the crowded house for a moment, he circled around the side to the backyard, then ignored the patio and headed for Lucy's. He was tired, his head ached, and his nerves were wound tight. If anything could make him feel better, it was Lucy with her soft voice, reasonable mind, and even softer hands.

As he reached the patio, the back door opened and the mutt burst out, dragging his owner behind him with his leash. A quiet growl vibrated from the animal.

“Oh! Hey, Ben.” Lucy reeled the dog in, her expression all pleasant surprise. Already Ben was feeling evidence of improvement. “Norton, sit. Behave.”

The dog ignored the first and studied Ben, tongue hanging out, a calculating look in his doggy eyes.

“Hey.” Ben backed a step away from Norton. “I was wondering if you'd like to go somewhere. Dinner. Dessert. A drive.” Even as he said it, he realized it was exactly what he needed: a quiet time, not judging or being judged, no bitterness, no history separating them, just friendship drawing them together and the possibility of a future.

“Oh. Wow. Um…” She tucked a strand of hair worked free of her ponytail behind her ear, then her gaze moved past him. Ben didn't need to hear footsteps to know someone was approaching or to hear a voice to know it was Joe Cadore. The mutt was having a fit of glee.

“Joe, hey,” Lucy said. “Uh, listen, would you mind walking Norton for me tonight? Ben asked me to—to go somewhere. Dinner. A drive. Out.”

Cadore was wearing a ball cap backward, along with gym shorts and a T-shirt with the sleeves ripped out. He reminded Ben of a kid, with no responsibilities, no interest except in good times, and not a serious thought in his head—plus a good dose of suspicion. His gaze went from Lucy to Ben to Lucy again, his eyes narrowed, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “What about—”

A look from Lucy stopped his question, and he grudgingly said, “Yeah, sure, I guess.”

She thrust the leash at him. “Let me change real quick, Ben, and I'll be ready.”

Before he could say she looked fine, the door closed behind her and he was left alone with Cadore and the dog. He didn't say anything—talking would only encourage them to stay—but Cadore didn't take the hint. Norton sat at his feet, leaned against his leg, and watched them.

Ben shoved his hands into his pockets again and studied the house. It was well maintained, painted within the last year or two, the color somewhere between white and light yellow. The shutters and door were green, and the same shade striped the cushions on the patio chairs. With tubs of flowers grouped in corners, the place would have been comfortable without the two nuisances eight feet away.

Before manners or sheer discomfort forced Ben to say
something
, the door opened again and Lucy stepped out. She'd changed into a dress, sleeveless, vivid blue, with flip-flops. Her hair was down again, soft waves reaching to her shoulders, and she'd touched up her lipstick. She was about the prettiest and sweetest companion he could ever want for enjoying a warm summer evening and a setting sun.

“Thanks, Joe,” she said, oblivious to the tension in the air. “Just put him back inside when you're done. See you later.”

Ben followed her across the patio and into the grass. He couldn't resist looking back just once. Cadore scowled back before muttering something to the dog, then taking off at a slow jog around the house and toward the street.

By noon Friday, Jessy was stinky, damp, and tired, but she had five sweet-smelling dogs ready to meet prospective owners to show for her efforts. None of them had enjoyed their baths—
What's wrong with you?
she'd asked.
Don't you know a long soak in a tub is one of the great pleasures in life?
—but they had endured in exchange for the serious combing and treats she and Angela had given each of them.

Now she sat in an inexpensive webbed lawn chair in a back room, a bottle of cold water on the table in front of her. Angela had gone to get lunch—sprouts or something from a little health food place Jessy had never noticed—and Meredith was at her other job, so Jessy was alone in the place. She liked it—the smells, the stealth of the cats, the play and barking and snores of the dogs. Who knew she would feel so at home at an animal shelter?

“I'm back,” Angela called a moment before she appeared in the hallway. Cats swished around her feet. Somehow, with her, the action appeared sweet and affectionate. Jessy was pretty sure that when they did the same to her, they were just trying to trip her.

The blonde began unpacking the plastic bag she carried before snagging a folding chair on the other side of the table. A large plate in hand, she hesitated. “I forgot to ask if you have any dietary restrictions. Are you vegetarian? Vegan? Gluten-free? Diabetic? Paleo, Atkins, South Beach?”

Jessy blinked. “I eat everything.”

“Good.” With a grin, Angela continued unpacking. “So do we, but when Meredith and I lived in L.A., our friends were following so many different diet paths that we couldn't even have a dinner party.”

Jessy began peeling foil from the containers, each containing two portions of food: grilled chicken strips; tomato, onion, and feta salad; black beans with cilantro in a spicy dressing; blackened pepper strips, grilled rings of red onion, sticky sweet slices of mushroom; and soft corn tortillas to wrap it all up. If this was health food, she needed to sign up.

“What brought you to Oklahoma?” she asked after they'd each made a taco/wrap hybrid and taken the first few bites.

“Meredith went to vet med school at OSU. I didn't want to be apart that long, and she didn't want to practice in California, so I came with her. We'd both been involved with animal rescue groups, so when she came to work in Tallgrass, I got a job here, and now we run the place.”