A Love to Call Her Own (28 page)

“Not even all women today cook.”

Her nose wrinkled. “Aw, Jessy can't cook?”

“She makes a great fried-egg grilled-cheese sandwich.”

“I guess you could live on that if you're not worried about your cholesterol going through the roof. Of course, you're both young and not packing an extra forty pounds.” She patted her midsection, then laced her fingers together. “She's a beautiful girl.”

He nodded.

“I know you're wondering what happened Saturday night.”

Another nod. Anything he said would likely contain a four-letter word or two and earn him a chastising look or a swat. He'd gotten his share of both over the years.

She gazed off at the view she'd seen every day of her life for nearly forty years: pasture, cows, fences, trees. Had it been hard for her to leave this place? Had warmer weather and the freedom to travel been worth giving up the ranch?

For her, probably. Him, never. He'd lived his entire life here, and he intended to die here—if he was lucky, with Jessy at his side.

Good thing he'd begun believing in luck again.

Still gazing out, Ramona said, “When you called from Las Vegas to tell me you and Sandra had gotten married, I was shocked. I expected stuff like that from Dillon, but you…you were my responsible son. I hadn't even met her yet and you were married after only ten days. But it was obvious she was good for you, and by your first anniversary, I couldn't have loved her more if I'd given birth to her myself.”

For four and a half years, Dalton had focused on
his
grief,
his
loss. He'd rarely considered the grief and the loss of other people who'd loved Sandra: her parents and sisters, his parents and Noah, her friends.

“You know I've worried about what a tough time you were having. I've prayed every day and every night for God to help you find joy in life again—and yes, my version of
joy
included another woman to love. I know in my head people can be satisfied without a partner to share their lives. I just can't really grasp it in my heart. I can't imagine my life without you boys and your father.”

Oz opened one eye and looked around, then focused on Ramona. He stretched, crossed to the swing, and hopped up and sniffed before sitting to face her from a few feet away. She gave him a reproving look before going on.

“When your dad and I walked in and saw those shoes…I never thought I'd say this, but I was thrilled that you had a woman in your bed. It had been so long. You had been so lost. And to bring her
here
…We know you, and we knew she must be special to you.” She looked at him and repeated the words as if making sure he believed her. “I really was thrilled.”

He didn't doubt that. All she'd ever wanted was for her sons to survive each other and live to see eighteen, stay off bucking broncs and bulls, remember their manners, love someone, and be loved back. Giving her grandchildren to spoil was optional, but just barely. “At least until you met her.”

“I was so happy one moment, and then I saw her, and…she wasn't Sandra.” Even though she tried to hide it, there was a bit of heartbreak in her voice. “Logically, of course, I knew that, but to see her standing beside you, to imagine her filling all the places in your life where Sandra used to be…It just knocked me off balance. It was kind of like losing her all over again.” Bending her head, she swiped at one eye, then tried to cover it by scowling at Oz, who'd sneakily closed half the distance between them. “Don't you come any closer. I've lived my whole life without getting attached to a dog, and a scruffy thing like you isn't going to become the first.”

Oz smiled his dog smile and continued to watch her.

Dalton cleared the emotion from his throat. “Jessy's a good person, Mom. Her husband was killed in the war, so she knows…She's smart and funny and loyal to her friends, and she loves animals, and she…” Everything he said was true, but none of it came close to explaining why he loved her. He didn't know if it could be explained, but borrowing his mother's words, he tried once more. “She's my joy.”

This time Ramona didn't try to hide the tears welling in her eyes. “I know. I'm sorry I wasn't prepared for seeing you with a woman other than Sandra, and I'm sorry I made such a bad impression on her, but I want to make it up. We were halfway home when I made your dad turn around and come back so I could apologize not only to you but to Jessy, too. Do you think she'd be willing to talk to me tomorrow?”

“I'm sure she will.” For him, if no other reason.

Because even if she hadn't put it into words yet, he knew he was Jessy's joy, too.

Wednesday was shaping up to be the first truly hot day of the summer, and Jessy was loving every minute of it. Having realized that everything that got on her at work washed off just as easily, she'd dressed for real comfort that morning in shorts, a tank, and heavy-duty sandals that responded well to a hose. After her first three walks, she went inside the shelter long enough to get another bottle of water and to slather on sunscreen. Settling her ball cap on her head, she headed into the play yard again, leash dangling over her shoulder, and asked, “Who wants to go next?”

The dogs danced around her, including the ones she'd just walked, all yipping and yelping, but it was silent movement off to the right that caught her attention. Oliver stopped just at the edge of the shade, sans cone, and looked at her a moment before he came closer. She hadn't taken him out before; he'd shown no interest, though Meredith and Angela insisted that would change.

It appeared today was the day.

“Oliver, wanna go?” She hooked the leash onto his collar and led him back inside. There was a gate from the play yard, but no way was she opening it and trying to get him out without letting everyone else escape. Once outside, she headed west with the dog, her shoes thunking on the pavement a hundred times louder than his paws.

“I told the girls about Aaron last night,” she said. She gave lots of verbal approval to the other dogs, but she'd fallen in the habit of actually carrying on conversations with Oliver. He was what she imagined a psychologist would be like, only less responsive, less a know-it-all, and way the hell cheaper. “You know what? They didn't care at all. Leah was even in the same place as me, kinda. I mean, she was just thinking about divorcing Marco. She didn't actually do anything. Though, you know, I didn't actually do anything, either.”

Unlike a lot of their dogs, Oliver showed some manners on the leash. He walked just a few steps ahead of her, didn't lunge or pull or try to go in his own direction. When they passed a dog barking behind a fence, he didn't growl and his fur didn't prickle.

“Anyway, they know all my secrets now, and they still love me. Isn't that amazing?” She took a swig of water. “I wish I knew your secrets, sweetie. Where did you come from? What was your life like? Are you missing your people or happy to be away from them? God knows, all families aren't created equal. But we'll find you the best one ever. I don't know if Oz would like a younger brother, but I think he'd adapt, and Dalton said we could take you if necessary.”

We.
The simple word sent a shiver of well-being through her. She'd missed being part of a
we
.

Though she loved her time with the margarita club, she had missed being with Dalton—just looking at him, touching him, sharing little moments like washing dishes with him. She'd damn well missed making love with him. She intended to see him tonight, since Ilena had turned down her offer to help around the house.
Juan's mother is coming to stay tomorrow,
she'd said along with her thanks
. She wants to be here when her new
nieto
is born.

Juan's mother loved Ilena. His whole family adored her and treated her like a princess.

Dalton's mother hadn't even wanted to shake Jessy's hand.

“You know, years ago, I dreamed about marrying into a huge, friendly, warm, loving family where I would finally have parents and siblings who cared, even if there wasn't any blood between us. Then I fell in love with Aaron, who'd lost any real family he might have had when he entered the foster system, and now Ramona Smith…”

It hurt, holding her hand out to someone who just looked at it like she had mad cow disease or something. Nearly eighty-four hours later, her fingers cramped a little on Oliver's leash. It wasn't the first time she'd been rejected. In a haze of emotion, she'd tried to hug her mother the day she moved out of the Wilkes house, but Nathalie had stopped her with an outstretched arm, physically blocking the embrace. It had confirmed that leaving was the right thing, but it had still hurt like hell.

They reached First Street, and Oliver politely stopped beside her on the curb. The passing vehicles didn't make him uneasy, not even the semi that blew through over the speed limit, its empty trailer rattling and bouncing. When it was clear, she started across and Oliver trotted beside her.

With the sun inching past the midpoint, the buildings on the other side of the street offered some shade, at least until they reached the parking lot for the Starlite Motel. It had been built in the nineties as a tribute to motels of the 1950s, with neon signs, a lot of tall, peaked angles, vintage stools and booths inside its small restaurant, and some eye-catching paint colors. She and Aaron had stayed there while house hunting in Tallgrass. They both had appreciated quirky and odd.

She picked up her pace, the next bit of shade her goal, but Oliver stopped short. She tugged, but he didn't give. “What's up?” she asked. “You see people inside there eating lots of good, fattening food you don't get?”

His nose was quivering, and the ripples went all the way down his body to his tail. His ears flattened against his head, but he didn't seem hostile, just excited. Jessy tightened her grip on the leash, just in case, before searching for what held him so captivated.

The vehicle nearest them was an old pickup, decades older than her, a Chevy with its original blue-and-white paint and a heaping splattering of rust. Both doors were open, though she didn't see any sign of life. Then boots thumped the ground on the other side, and a man straightened from the passenger seat, settling a straw cowboy hat on his head.

Oliver took that as his cue to move. He started across the parking lot despite Jessy's attempts to stop him, pulling her along, raising whitish-gray gravel dust in his wake. The closer they got to the truck, the faster he moved, until Jessy was trotting to keep up.

The man closed the pickup door, turned, his hat tugged low over his face, and found Oliver smiling, wagging his tail, shaking all over. Could this be his owner? Had he lost Oliver while passing through and come back looking for him?

“Hey, buddy,” the cowboy said, bending to offer the dog his hand. There was none of that tentative sniff-sniff stuff. Oliver licked the hand, then wriggled closer for a scratch. The man crouched, head ducked, and devoted both hands to giving the dog attention, along with some soft words.

“Is this your dog?” Jessy asked at last. “He's been staying the last few weeks at the shelter, but we haven't found his owner. Is he yours? Are you his?”

“No, sorry. Never seen him before.”

Disappointed—how cool would it have been for Oliver to find his owner and for his owner to love him?—Jessy took a step back, stumbled on a chunk of gravel, and almost fell off her thick-soled sandal. The cowboy looked up as she caught herself, and the air rushed from her lungs like someone had removed a plate-sized plug.

Identical at birth didn't necessarily mean identical today. People aged differently—put on weight, took it off, went gray or some totally unrelated color, built muscles or wasted away, lived happily or carried a lot of burdens. But differences aside, she saw enough of the identical to recognize the man in front of her.

Dillon Smith had come home.

Thirteen years after running away in the middle of the night and breaking his family's hearts.

“You okay?” he asked, rising to his feet. “Maybe it's too hot for you and this little guy to be out walking.”

“When did you get to town?” she asked hoarsely.

His familiar dark eyes narrowed, bleaker than she'd ever seen Dalton's, and he took a quick look to make sure no one else was around. “Do I know you?”

“Would you forget someone this short with hair this red?”

“Maybe.” His gaze slid down to her feet and back. “But I wouldn't forget that body.”

She snorted. “I'm Jessy Lawrence. I'm dating your brother, Dalton.”
Dating.
Saying it out loud gave her a bit of a shiver.

Something passed across his face—a shadow, fear—and his manner immediately changed. He grew nervous, as shaky as Oliver, his movements jerky instead of fluid, his eyes blank instead of friendly. “Good for Dalton,” he muttered. “I've got to get going.”

He started to step around her, but Jessy blocked his way. “Where?”

“None of your business, Jessy Lawrence.”

“Dalton's at the ranch.”

“Of course he is. Where else could he possibly be?”

He moved again; she blocked again. “Did you come here to see him?”

He heaved a sigh, then smacked one hand against the tailgate. Oliver moved closer to him, pressing against his leg, and without hesitation, Dillon scratched him again. “I thought about it,” he admitted sullenly.

“But?”

“I thought about it the last five times I came here, but I always changed my mind.”

“I imagine it's hard to show up after thirteen years and say, ‘Hey, guess what? Twin brother's alive and come home.' Though your parents would be excited as hell to hear it.” Jessy didn't feel guilty for criticizing him, even though she'd done much the same. But there was one huge difference: Dillon's family loved him.