Slow and Steady Rush (3 page)
She was here to take care of Miss Ada, that’s what mattered. “If you need help moving your stuff in, let me know.”
“I can manage a couple of suitcases, but thanks.”
He shifted his feet farther apart and hooked his thumbs in his front pockets. “Hold up. You’re not moving home?”
Wariness replaced her uncertainty, her feet planting themselves farther apart, mirroring his. “I’m staying until my grandmother is back on her feet. My job—my life—is in Atlanta.”
“Miss Ada needs family around her—permanently.”
“She needs to cut back on some of her crazier notions, is all. She’ll be perfectly fine in a couple of months.” Her arms crossed over her chest, and her voice echoed his earlier defensiveness. “Anyway, Logan is five minutes away.”
“Logan will help as much as he can, but you know as well as I do, he’s still getting his shit together. What are you going to do? Ship her off to an old folks’ home for strangers to take care of her?”
The denim blue of her eyes flashed anger and something more—regret and maybe fear. “What is your problem?”
It was an excellent question, and one he wasn’t sure how to answer. If he had family, he’d damn well take care of them, appreciate them, but Miss Ada’s situation was none of his business really, so he kept his mouth shut. While traversing the foster care system, he’d learned how useful silence could be. Their gazes warred.
At his continued silence, she chuffed and whipped around, her hair peppering him with river water. She stalked across the field toward Miss Ada’s.
“Watch where you put your feet,” he called when she was halfway across, unable to stop himself from goading her. Her glare singed him from over her shoulder, even from the distance.
#
Darcy rubbed her chest. Her heart hadn’t slowed since the gun’s report, and the snake carnage floating around her sure hadn’t helped matters. She had planned to wade in to her knees, but the water had been so cool and clear, before she knew it, her clothes were hanging from a branch. How long had he been watching her?
Instead of stretchy shorts to accommodate the body of an athlete twenty years beyond his prime, the new coach’s jeans and T-shirt molded the defined muscles of a man ready to play. But, when she’d caught him halfway to his truck, his ball-cap shadowed blue eyes had locked on her in a suspicious squint, squashing her inappropriate shot of insta-lust.
She had assumed the high ground. Except, he’d neatly flipped their confrontation. His lips had thinned and tucked against straight, white teeth, and his accusations burned through her. Not completely true, but not false either.
“Geez, get it together,” she whispered to herself.
Embarrassment, anger, and guilt warred for dominance, and she pressed her hands against flaming cheeks. After everything Ada had done for her, she vowed not to let her grandmother see a hint of the resentment she couldn’t quite wrestle into oblivion. She would stay as long as Ada needed her, but Ada wouldn’t need her forever.
Once-sparkling white paint flaked off the house, and the railings lining the wraparound front porch were loose. While she was back, she’d work on fixing the house up. Ada would like that. She eased into the kitchen and closed the screen door with a careful hand. Her cousin was inspecting the contents of the refrigerator.
“’Bout time you showed up, cuz.” Logan fired the first salvo and popped the lid off a jar of homemade pickles, sticking one in his mouth like a cigar.
So soon after Dalt’s accusations, his teasing jab stung, and she replied hotly, “I have a job. Responsibilities. Do you need a dictionary since the concepts might be unfamiliar?”
Far from taking offense, he half-sat on the counter and crunched into his snack. “I see you’re still as tart as unsweetened lemonade. No wonder you’re still single.”
Their familiar banter helped de-frazzle her nerves, and Darcy notched herself into his side to hug him around the waist before pulling back. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner. My replacement needed training. Did Ada give you hell?”
A year older than Darcy, Logan had been a hard-partying high school football star, constantly in trouble but everyone’s best friend. She had been the hard-studying teacher’s pet, shy and awkward. On the surface, they had little in common but shared a bond that went beyond even being cousins.
They’d both been abandoned with Ada, Darcy by her mother and Logan by his father. They had been playmates and confidants, and while their lives had gone in different directions, they understood each other in a way no one else could.
“Ideally, she would have stayed in the hospital another day or two, but she insisted on leaving,” he said with a shade of Darcy’s earlier impatience with Ada’s stubbornness.
She dropped her voice to a whisper. “How is she really? What did the doctors say?”
Everything on his face drooped, giving his usually carefree countenance a solemn cast. “She’s spunky and has a good chance to regain most of her mobility. But Darcy … the risk for complications is high, especially with both hips affected and considering her age.”
She turned away, nodding, and opened the almost bare pantry. Things were changing too fast. “What have you been doing with yourself?” she asked, partly to change the subject and partly to ferret out his ability to help.
“Looked up the word ‘job’ in the dictionary, discovered it involved money, and decided if one was good, two was better.”
“Really, where are you working?”
“Helping Dalt with the football team most afternoons. School cleaned house in May. Only coach they kept was Hal Perkins. He was mad as a wild hog that he didn’t get the top spot. Being an assistant pays next to nothing, but it keeps me in shape. I’m paying the bills by managing The Tavern for old Milt.”
“Is that … wise?” Darcy asked. After leaving the army, Logan’s reacclimation to civilian life had involved copious alcohol.
“I’m fine,” he said without rancor. He looked better than fine. His brown hair was neatly trimmed, his dark eyes clear, and his body honed. Tilting the pickle jar toward her, his bicep looked ready to massacre the straining seam of his T-shirt. His gaze flicked to her bare feet. “Someone’s been to the swimming hole, I see. Better watch yourself. A passel of cottonmouths have nested in the bank.”
Perfect, absolutely perfect. Maybe the coach had actually saved her a trip to the hospital. Taking a pickle, she leaned on the counter next to him. She looked from the peeling, fruit-bowled wallpaper to Logan and back again.
“I ran across Dalt at the river.” No need to mention her state of undress or rudeness. “He was kind of a jerk. Seems to think I’m going to up and abandon Ada at the earliest opportunity, and he didn’t bother to sugarcoat his opinion.”
“Don’t get your feelings hurt. Dalt’s not a suave charmer with the ladies. He’s more of a man’s man. If you know what I mean.”
Lord have mercy, she knew. The testosterone had nearly bowled her over. The new coach made her ex-boyfriends look like weak-kneed, acne-covered, mama’s boys. She couldn’t imagine her reaction to his blatant physicality was unique. “I can’t believe one of the women around town hasn’t snapped him up.”
“He doesn’t seem interested.”
Something like relief or maybe excitement stirred her insides as Logan continued. “I keep expecting to find one of the town hussies naked and spread-eagle on the practice field. He would probably step over her and start drills. The more he ignores them, the hotter they get. It’s been mighty entertaining.”
Of course, women threw themselves at the man. If the situation at the river hadn’t been so unnerving and confrontational, she might have considered it herself. “Is he being nice to Ada to get the old Wilson place?”
Logan’s gaze slashed in her direction. “The big city has turned you awfully suspicious. Can’t someone just be nice?”
“He didn’t strike me as a nice sort. He’s more of a scary I-won’t-take-no sort.”
Logan hummed, understanding imbued in the noise. “He’s not manipulating Ada. I’ve trusted him with my life and would again.”
So, they’d served together. She wasn’t surprised. The man had a definite military bearing—all stoic and intimidating. She propped her hip against the counter, but Logan’s eyes stayed fixed on the wallpaper. He never talked about his tours, and she’d learned to let it go.
“How long is Ms. Evelyn going to stay?” She cocked her head toward the den.
“All night.”
Her dread transmitted, and humor sparked on Logan’s face. He said, “Be grateful. It’s the last night we have coverage. After that, you’ll be the night nurse.”
She slumped against the counter. Anxiety pounded her heart and made her break into a sweat in spite of the air-conditioning. He circled her shoulders with an arm and gave her a quick squeeze.
“Why don’t you come out to The Tavern tonight? Last night of relative freedom. Wear something … I don’t know”—his finger zigzagged over her T-shirt and cutoffs—“not that. More girly.” He winked. “If you can manage it.”
The screen door rattled his good-bye before she could fling an answering insult.
Sitting in her car in The Tavern’s parking lot, Darcy gripped the wheel so hard her fingers turned white and debated her move. People around Falcon knew too much about everything. She’d done her best not to live up to her name—Wilde. “Keep it between the lines” was her mantra.
Her mother, on the other hand, lived up to her name and more. Drinking. Drugs. Pregnant with Darcy in high school. Darcy’s father could have been one of any number of boys, and Darcy lived with the aftermath. In Falcon, stories persisted long after the guilty had escaped.
But there were instances her inner wild child flared. Skinny-dipping satisfied some primal urge probably inherited from her mama. She’d gloried in the feel of the water and wind on her bare skin, out in the open. Impractical, gorgeous underwear no one ever saw was her other indulgence.
Figuratively pulling up her big-girl panties—in reality, a ridiculously tiny scrap of black lace—she hauled herself out of the car. Only the thought of Logan waiting inside forced her toward The Tavern’s wooden double doors. If she tucked tail and ran, his teasing would be unbearable.
She’d wrestled her hair into submission with a flatiron and wore a blue tank dress that hit a couple of inches above her knees. Nothing overtly sexy or attention-seeking, but tailored and classic.
The Tavern’s dark paneling and permanent haze attested to its decades as the local watering hole and social mecca. A bar ran along one wall opposite a dance floor. The middle was awash in rickety wooden tables and chairs with a few men and women scattered like flotsam.
People glanced her way, and her face heated in spite of the years gone by. Avoiding eye contact, she sidled to the bar where Logan stacked glasses and rearranged bottles. “I thought it’d be more crowded.”
Logan glanced at his watch. “It’s early yet. Can I make you something?”
“Tea sounds good.”
“Coming right up.” He winked, one corner of his mouth drawing up. “You cleaned up nice.”
“Thanks.” She examined the room while he poured her drink. “Do you like working here?”
He slid the glass down the smooth oak like an expert and propped his arms on the bar. “Not particularly, but Milt’s ready to retire. I’m going to buy it, fix it up, turn it into something upscale. Better food, better music, better everything. The loan is pending.”
She regarded him like an unknown bug specimen. Logan? An upstanding business owner? She gulped her iced tea to mask her surprise. Coughing spasms wracked her body, and she slapped the bar.
“That … that was not tea,” she said in a creaky voice, pointing at the glass.
“Sure it was. The Long Island variety. You walked in looking like a deer on the first day of hunting season. Katherine coming?”
“She had to work. Too many cases on the docket for morning court.” Darcy completely understood but missed being able to borrow a portion of her best friend’s unrivaled confidence.
Logan wandered to the opposite end of the bar to give the servers their instructions, and she tentatively took another swig. This one went down smooth, and before she knew it, bare ice tinkled in the bottom.
Someone fired up the jukebox, and a pulsing beat underlay the increased buzz of conversation. A different bartender checked on her. “What’s your poison, sweetheart? Logan told me to take care of you. Anything you want.” Insinuation flavored the words, but his eyes were guileless.
“Long Island tea, please.” She pushed the glass toward him.
With a boyish grin that had probably gotten him into many a patron’s panties, he said, “Yes, ma’am.”
She drained the fresh drink, and the man replaced it without comment. The door opened every few seconds, belching groups of two or three. As she sipped, she observed the easy camaraderie and recognized several people. A group of popular women, who had been popular teenagers in high school, bunched around two tables close to the dance floor and attracted a fair amount of male attention. But no one approached her, and she felt invisible—in a good way.
Then
he
walked in. Dear God in heaven, she hadn’t exaggerated his blatant masculinity. Thick blondish hair settled in wavy clumps as if his routine involved fingers and not a comb. A red T-shirt this time. Nothing special except in the way the cotton spread over broad shoulders and tucked messily into a pair of broken-in jeans as if the shirt begged for some woman to pull it out … and maybe even off. Damn, he was hot. Tongue-lolling, fantasy-inducing, panty-dropping hot.
He scanned the room. Choosing his conquest for the evening? She was surprised none of the women raised their hands and yelled “Pick me, pick me!”
She took another sip and snorted. Although there was no way he could have heard above the din, his gaze stripped away her cloak of invisibility. In a loose-limbed amble, he approached. Several men stopped him to chat, but there was no question as to his ultimate destination. His gaze flicked to her even as he replied to them.
Heat prickled her scalp, burned down her face, through her body, and finally banked in her lower belly. Then, he was there, standing a few feet in front of her. Close enough to bask in his maleness and become high on the tang of his cologne. Her inhibitions dangerously low, her knees parted a few inches.