Return to Oak Valley (22 page)

Maria sniffed and dug into her pancakes. Everyone else did the same, and it was then that Shelly noticed the little Tootsie Roll lying on the side of her plate. A small burst of warmth went through her, and she glanced over toward the serving window. Tom Smith looked up just then, and, catching her eyes on him, he grinned and winked.

“I have one, too,” Sloan said beside her, as he twirled one of the familiar red-and-white-wrapped chocolate rolls under her nose.

“I'd think,” she said primly, “that you'd be too old to have gotten Tootsie Rolls from Mr. Smith.”

“Hell, honey,” he murmured, “I'd lay odds that there isn't a person in this valley under the age of fifty who hasn't gotten Tootsie Rolls from Tom Smith at one time or another.”

Breakfast took a while. Several people already seated and eating knew Shelly from years ago and wandered over to welcome her back to the valley. As others who recognized Shelly came strolling in for breakfast, it was inevitable that they, too, stop at the table and exchange greetings. Not by one lifted brow or startled expression did anyone let on that there was something unusual about a Ballinger and a Granger sitting side by side. They might not have indicated it, but Shelly knew that she and Sloan were going to be the main topic of quite a few conversations today…and tonight…and next week and probably even next month.

Less than a half dozen people in the valley knew the details of their long-ago relationship, and for that she was thankful. Had it been common knowledge, speculation would have been rampant, and it was bad enough knowing that everyone was watching them and wondering about them.

She had enjoyed the meal and she had enjoyed renewing old acquaintances, but she'd have been lying if she hadn't admitted that she was glad when the four of them rose to leave. Being the object of covert looks, even kind ones, had never appealed to her.

After dumping their plates and cups in one of the big lined plastic garbage cans set against the back wall of the room, head held high, Shelly allowed Sloan to escort her from the building. Outside, she turned to bid him a polite good-bye, but was immediately forestalled when Acey said, “Hope you'll excuse Maria and me—Maria's part of the judging committee, and I've got to get my horse unloaded and readied for the parade.” He pulled out a battered stainless-steel pocket watch and muttered, “Parade'll start, if we're lucky, only an hour late.”

Before Shelly's startled gaze, Acey and Maria turned away and hustled on down the street. She could have sworn that she heard Acey smother an evil chuckle as they walked away. Maria had the decency to glance back, but then she bent her head toward Acey and giggled at something he said.

“I think,” Sloan said thoughtfully, watching the departing pair with mingled emotions, “that you have been rather cavalierly handed off to me for the day.”

“And I think not!” Shelly muttered. “Don't worry about me, I can find someone to run me back to the house.”

“And miss the parade? After Acey went to such lengths to get you here and provide you with an escort?” Sloan asked, his hand clasping her arm and holding her at his side. He might not care for Acey's heavy-handed tactics, but he sure as hell didn't mind taking advantage of them.

“Even after that,” she said, a note of near panic in her voice. If there was one thing Shelly had learned over the years, it was to recognize a dangerous situation and either defuse it or get away from it.

She'd thought she was over Sloan, but even if her mind was convinced of that fact, her treacherous body was not. All through breakfast she'd been conscious of Sloan sitting right beside her, conscious of the warmth of his body, of his size, of his powerful masculinity. It wasn't anything that he did, he was just
there
, and just the sight of his long-fingered hand reaching for a cup of coffee, the sound of his whiskey-rich voice, the brush of his arm against hers had sent a shaft of heated excitement through her. She tried to tamp it down, tried to ignore it; but she was unbearably aware of every move he made, every breath he took, and aware of her own body's response in ways that worried her. Glumly she admitted that she'd been humming with plain old carnal attraction from the top of her head to her toes curling in her boots since the moment their eyes had met this morning.

She sighed. Oh, hell. Now what should she do? It was dangerous to stay, but the temptation to do so was overwhelming. She'd been so sure, so positive that time and her own maturity would have lessened his appeal to her, but she discovered she was wrong. Dead wrong. In spite of all the years between them, the hurt, the lies, the mistrust, the old attraction was still there. She didn't know how to defuse the sexual awareness that simmered between them, didn't know if she wanted to, so that left getting away from temptation her only option.

Forcing a smile, she glanced at him. “Look, I know that Acey dragooned you into this—just as he did me. We had breakfast together and we didn't kill each other or even start a fight. Let's quit when we're ahead, OK?”

The expression in his eyes was hard to read. “Don't tell me you're afraid?” he taunted, pulling her closer. “A Granger afraid of a Ballinger?”

Her chin lifted. “Being afraid has nothing to do with it—and for the record, I'm not. I'm sure, however, that you have other things you'd rather do than drag me around with you all day.”

He grinned. “Is that so. Figured that out all by yourself?”

Her teeth ground together. “I'm trying to be polite, but you're making it damned difficult.”

“Polite? Honey, you haven't been polite to me since the first day we met and you threatened to break my head open with that lug wrench of yours. Why start now?” Eyeing her mutinous expression, he said gently, “Shelly, it's only a damned parade.”

Put that way, her objections seemed silly. But it wasn't the parade that gave her pause; it was the simmering sexual awareness between them that had her ready to hightail it back to the house and away from temptation. She'd said she wasn't afraid of him, but she was lying through her teeth. The power he seemed to wield over every nerve in her body was terrifying. And mesmerizing. And exciting. Dammit!

He gave her arm an impatient shake. “Come on, Shelly, what do you think is going to happen if you spend the day with me? We'll be in full view of most of the population of Oak Valley.” His mouth twisted. “Believe me, it's highly unlikely that I'll do something rash like attack and ravish you with so many witnesses around.” He didn't know why it had become so important that he keep her at his side, but it had—vitally so. He'd been furious with Acey for manipulating the meeting, but now that it had happened and the world hadn't exploded, he realized that he'd be a fool not to take advantage of the opportunity Acey had handed him. He
wanted
to spend the day with her. He grimaced.
Ah, hell, face it, Ballinger
, he thought,
you just want
her…
any way you can get her.

“OK,” Shelly said abruptly. “Let's go watch the parade.” She flashed him a look. “But I'm warning you, Sloan, don't get any ideas. I still hate you.”

Sloan laughed and, pulling her along with him, walked toward the highway that ran through the center of town. It was a short walk; the Masonic Hall fronted on the highway, and the area they'd been in, at the rear of the building, was only about a block away.

The parade route was short. Probably not more than a quarter of a mile long, as it ambled down the highway, heading north. It started at the corner of Main Street, just south of McGuire's Market, and traveled straight through the main part of town to Soward Street, where it turned right and worked its way back to Main Street, where it had all started. There was nothing commercial about the parade. It was just a group of hometown residents dolled up and strutting their stuff for friends and neighbors.

Shelly enjoyed the parade. One of the big red fire trucks from the volunteer fire department led the parade, and she recognized Bobba Neal behind the wheel. He recognized her, too, and a large smile crossed his face. Next came the Field Day Sweetheart, a tall blond teenager on a skittish bay horse, her rhinestone-studded crown gleaming in the sunlight. It was fun to see the silly float the local feed-and-hardware store had put together on the rear of the large flatbed truck that they used to bring in goods from outside the valley. It was rigged to look like a jail and a half dozen prominent members of the community hung out the barred windows, yelling greetings and insults as the truck slowly made its way down the highway. With delight, she saw that Danny Haskell was one of the convicts. He spotted her, waved madly, and grinned. The high school band came next, drums a-banging; grinning members of the 4-H and Future Farmers of America marched behind the band; then came the Indian dancers, hooting and whooping as they moved down the street; another float, this one sponsored by McGuire's Market, followed. The float was made up to resemble a saloon and had a bunch of gamblers and saloon girls prancing around. One of the saloon girls, she saw with a smile, was M.J. And she hooted with laughter when she realized one of the other women was Cleo, looking racy in a low-cut, skintight, red satin gown that clashed garishly with her bright red hair. The Women's Club entry strolled past, laughter and catcalls following them. The ladies returned it all with interest. A tow-headed little boy in his finest cowboy duds rode by on his spotted pony, then a pair of young girls dressed as angels, or fairies, Shelly couldn't decide which, came by, their chestnut horses bedecked with pink ribbons. They were followed by a couple of small metal carts decorated with purple-and-white crepe paper pulled by fat little ponies, their proud drivers not more than ten years old. Next was an old farm wagon freshly painted a bright blue, and some ranchers and their wives waved to the crowd lining the highway. A fancy black-and-gold vis-à-vis, a pair of mules pulling it, rolled by. The Oak Valley Riding Club was the next-to-the-last participant, Acey riding tall in the saddle, the California flag held proudly at his side. Shelly didn't recognize the other two members of the color guard, but she thought she saw a couple of friends she remembered from her youth riding along with other members of the club. The last entry was the manure sweepers and laughter and friendly gibes followed them as they swept and cleaned up after the horses.

Throughout the parade, Shelly and Sloan had stood near the judging stand in front of the old St. Galen's Hotel and had had a good look at each entry as it had stopped before the judges to receive its awards. Hank O'Hara had manned a scratchy and imperfect loudspeaker and he had kept the crowd laughing with his comments as he announced the winners. Another teenage girl, probably the runner-up in the Sweetheart contest, handed out the ribbons.

Shelly had forgotten the genuine enjoyment the community took from the parade. Looking at it through sophisticated eyes, it was probably pretty rinky-dink and small-time, but she loved it. Certainly it bore no resemblance to the fabulous Mardi Gras Parade in New Orleans, but she wouldn't have traded the experience for a handful of diamonds. What made it so unique and fun was that, besides her friends, she recognized half the participants and realized that just about every spectator lining the short route had a family member or a friend in the parade. There was a sense of community pride in the air. The affection and delight everyone felt was almost palpable. It left her feeling proud and glad and, in an odd way, as if she really had come home.

The parade might have held most of her attention, but she hadn't been unaware of the looks she and Sloan had gotten. Some of the looks were just plain curious, some were startled, several were friendly, a few were disapproving and tight-lipped, and several more were openly speculative. Sloan had chosen a very public place for them to watch the parade, and Shelly wondered if he'd done it on purpose. More importantly, she wondered how much longer she could stand here appearing relaxed and at ease when she was so painfully conscious of Sloan's big body at her back. His heat seemed to envelop her and every time he leaned over, which had been frequently, to point out something of interest, the brush of his warm lips against her ear had been excruciatingly erotic. Her entire body was tingling, her breasts were heavy and aching, and she knew that her lower body was in exactly that same state—aroused and ready.

It might have comforted her, if it didn't terrify her, to discover that Sloan was in precisely the same state. Maybe worse. He had managed to keep his hands off her during the parade, but he'd had to fight continually the urge to drop his arms around her and pull her back against his hungry body. Every time she moved, she brushed against him, and the scent of her perfume, Red, teased and tantalized his senses. That cloud of tawny hair tickled his nose, and it was all he could do not to grab her and bury his head in the gleaming strands. Oh, yeah, and when he so politely leaned over to point out some facet of the parade, he'd wanted to nip that little ear of hers so badly that he was damn near ready to howl when the parade finally ended. He was heavily, painfully aroused, and if she moved that tight butt of hers against him one more time…well, he wouldn't be responsible for what happened. He either had to put a little distance between them, he decided grimly, or get her someplace private where he could at least have her in his arms and snatch one kiss before she slapped him. He took a deep breath and tried discreetly to edge his swollen organ away from the zipper of his jeans, where it was digging into him. Jesus he was in a state.

The crowd was thinning, and Sloan turned her and began to walk back toward Soward Street, where he had parked his vehicle. “How about if we check out the rodeo? That's where just about everybody is heading now that the parade is over.”

Shelly didn't look at him. She was afraid if she did, he would see the desire and longing in her eyes. She had to get away from him.

“Uh, if you want to drop me off at the house, that'd be all right,” she muttered. “It, um, isn't that far out of your way.”

Sloan's mouth tightened and his fingers dug into her arm. “Do you have to fight me every step of the way? You enjoyed the parade, didn't you? Even if you have to put up with me, you'll enjoy the rodeo—if you'll let yourself.”