Texas rich (3 page)

Moss took her hand, taking her over to a stack of crates and sitting beside her. "Bilhe, honey, you're going to be sony you asked that question." For the next hour Lieutenant (j.g.) Moss Coleman described to Billie the exhilaration he felt when

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his wheels left the ground. He told her about flying a wrecked old crop duster around the ranch and the way his father had tanned his hide when he'd found out about it. Moss had Billie laughing, exclaiming, shuddering. He sparked her imagination and made her wish that just once she could fly.

"There's a little airport around here where they have planes for hire. I'd like to take you up, Billie, just so you'll know I'm not crazy and everything I've told you is true."

"I'd like that," she answered quickly, cheeks flushed with the anticipated excitement, eyes bright and eager. "Oh, but I don't thiric my mother would like that— Mother! What time is it?"

Moss glanced at his watch. "Five-thirty."

"Omigosh! I've got to get going." For the first time in hours Billie remembered her friends. They must think she'd gotten lost or gone home by herself. They wouldn't still be hanging around the yard. "It was nice of you to show me around, Lieutenant. I know you must be busy and I've got to start for home. My mother will worry if I'm not home by six." She felt so silly, telling this man that she had to be home by six o'clock. It was so babyish. She felt humiliated by the restrictions, especially since he'd spent the afternoon talking to her as though she were his own age and not an empty-headed schoolgirl.

"Do you see your friends anywhere? You don't suppose they left without you, do you?" he asked, concerned.

"It doesn't matter. I know my way home. Thank you again." Billie began to walk away. Moss was stunned. Girls never walked away from him, not at five-thirty in the afternoon. He was about to speak when Bilhe tumed. "Lieutenant, since you're so far from Texas and your family, perhaps you'd like to come to dinner on Sunday." She almost gasped with astonishment at her invitation. What in the world had made her ask him to dinner? She could abeady hear Agnes's objections. Still, lots of families invited servicemen for a home-cooked meal. Meal. Food. Oh, God! Agnes was going to complain about the food ration coupons. Still, she'd made the offer and she had to follow up on it. "Four seventy-nine Ehn Street. Gray-and-white house."

"Wait a second, Billie. Two miles is a long walk and you'll never make it home in time. Let me see if I can borrow a car and I'll drive you. By the way, thanks for the invitation. Tomorrow's Sunday, you know." He grinned as though he guessed her second thoughts.

Billie flushed under the dazzling smile. "It really isn't nee-

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essary. Fve still got the money for the movies and I can take a cab if I have to, really."

"I won't hear of it. If I hadn't pulled your ear about flying, you wouldn't be stranded. Please, let me help." He was so sincere, Billie just nodded.

While Billie waited, she contemplated her predicament. She didn't want Agnes to know that she'd spent Saturday afternoon at the Navy Yard, much less that she'd been talking to a military man and had lost her friends. What if someone called or stopped bv the house to ask about her? What if Moss came to dinner? He'd surely tell Agnes how he'd met Billie.

Moss returned dangling the keys to a 1938 Nash pariced near the guardhouse. Billie felt so grown-up when Moss held the door open for her. Agnes was going to have a fit. Nice girls didn't get into cars with strange boys. Or men. Moss Coleman, Lieutenant (j.g.), was no bo^^. Agnes wouldn't miss that fact. In spite of herself, Billie was excited and flattered.

"How long will you be in Philly?" Bilhe asked when Moss had maneuvered through the traffic and swung out onto the main road.

"Probably through the summer. At least, that's the way it looks right now. Or until I can get myself assigned to where the action is. Being an errand boy for a hotshot admiral isn't my idea of doing my part for the war effort. I'm a pilot, Billie, and a damn good one. That's what I want to do."

Billie nodded. She knew all there was to know about a protective parent. Moss interpreted her expression correctly. "You too, huh?"

"It's because I'm an only child. My father died when I was little. I suppose it's natural for a parent to be protective. They want what's best for us." To Moss it sounded like a recital of what her mother must have said hundreds of times. Just the way Seth Coleman had preached to him.

"I've got a sister, but I'm the only son. Pap is up there in years and he's afraid for me. But I can't let his fear rub off on me. Flying is what I do and what I do best. I don't plan to run around for some two-star admiral whose only idea of action is signing papers and drinking scotch. Scotch that I have to procure for him."

"What will you do?"

"It's not what I'll do, Billie; it's when I'll do it! Pap can get me assigned to fat man's duty, but he can't keep me here. I can speak up for myself and there's not a damn thing he can

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do about it. But I hate to hurt him. He's a great guy and I know how much I mean to him. It's just that sometimes I really feel the weight of that responsibility pressing down on me. Being the apple of ole Pap's eye isn't what it's cracked up to be." Moss could hardly believe he was telling her these things. He was used to keeping his personal life and his problems to himself.

"Turn here. It's two blocks down and then take the next right. Gray-and-white house. I'll say a prayer you get what you want."

Moss almost braked the car. Any other girl would have said she would keep her fingers crossed. This one was going to pray for him. Impulsively, he reached across the seat and took her hand. It felt small and fragile in his. He released it a moment later to shift gears and pull to a stop in front of the house. He glanced at his watch. "Five minutes to six," he armounced proudly, as though getting her home on time had been a monumental task.

Billie wondered where her friends were. Were they worrying about her? "Would you like to come in and meet my mother? Oh, but you've probably got other things to do, and I do appreciate your taking the time to bring me home. I'm sorry I've been such a nuisance."

"You, sweet Billie, are anything but a nuisance." He smiled, realizing he'd meant what he said. But Jesus, he didn't want to go in and meet her mother. He loved his mother but other people's made him nervous, especially girls' mothers. Hell, he was here... maybe she was afraid she was going to catch it and he could help matters. All in the line of duty. "I'd like to meet your mother," he lied.

Billie almost fainted. That wasn't what he was supposed to say. Didn't he know she was only trying to be polite? She didn't wait for him to come around to open the door for her. Instead, she leaped out, smoothing down the skirt of her jumper. Suddenly, the fringe along the hem seemed girlishly silly and trendy, and for the second time that day she wished she were wearing stockings and heels.

Agnes Ames's eyes narrowed when she heard the sound of a car door closing in front of the house. None of Billie's friends drove a car. She parted the lace curtains slightly and peered out. Billie and a navy man. An officer, considering the dress whites. What could have happened? She wouldn't panic. Billie was a responsible child. A serious, responsible child.

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"Mother! Pm home. Come and meet someone."

Moss Coleman stood a good six inches taller than Agnes, yet he was inmiediately aware of her strength, as if she were his height or even taller. It was in the measuring, brown eyes

and in the subtle squaring of the shoulders He'd seen the

same signs of character in Seth. Pearls. Why did they always wear pearls? It seemed every giri's mother he'd ever met was adorned with them.

Billie broke the silence. "Mother, this is Moss Coleman. He was nice enough to bring me home so I wouldn't be late. Moss, this is my mother, Mrs. Ames." He waited to see if Mrs. Ames would offer her hand. She didn't.

Billie was beginning to feel desperate. Agnes was standing her ground, staring at Moss with suspicion. "I've invited Moss to dinner tomorrow. He's from Texas and it's been a long time since he's had a home-cooked meal. I knew you wouldn't object," Billie prompted hopefully.

"Dinner. Of course. We'd like to have you for dinner. Lieutenant," Agnes offered.

Moss wondered if Mrs. Ames meant she'd like to have him as a guest or for the main course! But hold on a minute, he'd never accepted the invitation. Somebody was being raikoaded here and he thought he knew who. "I wouldn't want to impose, Mrs. Ames," he said in his best-bred Texan, just a shade short of humble. Before he could pohtely make excuses, Agnes forced something that passed for a smile.

"Fine. Shall we say around two? I want to thank you for bringing my daughter home. It was very considerate of you. She's very young and I worry when she's late." There it was, the gentle nudge, the reminder that he was suspected of being a troll who lived under a bridge and preyed on iimocent young girls.

"It was my pleasure, ma'am," Moss drawled. "Billie, thank you for the invitation. I have to get the car back to the yard. Nice meeting you, ma'am."

He still hadn't said if he was coming to dinner and Billie felt wretched as she watched him walk out to the car, Agnes's words about her youth still smarting.

Outside in the car. Moss exhaled a long, gusty sigh. He didn't think he wanted to come to dinner. But Sundays were always so boring you could want to tear your hair out, and it had been nice talking with Billie. If he didn't have anything

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better to do, he'd show up around two o'clock. If something came up, he'd send a note.

Before Agnes could question her daughter, Billie rushed into a lengthy explanation. "I think it was very nice of him to bring me home, don't you, Mother?"

"Billie, you broke how many rules this afternoon?" Agnes said frigidly.

"Mother, please. Do we have to go into all of this? I'm home, safe and sound. Nothing happened. The lieutenant is charming. He didn't say he was coming to dinner and I'm certain he has other plans, so don't count on it. I'm sorry if I upset you."

Agnes sniffed. It was her usual reaction to Billie's apologies. Once, just once, Billie would have liked to hear that she was forgiven, or at least that her mother understood.

"I think I'll go up to my room and get ready for supper."

"I moved your room downstairs to the study. Mr. Campbell from next door and his nephew helped move down the furniture. I'm going to rent your room. We really have to do our bit, Billie. The housing situation is reaching crisis proportions."

Billie only knew that someone else was going to live in her room, the only place she'd been able to call her own since she was a little girl. "I wish you had told me. Mother. I don't mind the change, but I would have liked to pack my things myself. Did you go through everything? Even my pictures?" Billie felt violated.

"Everything. Go see for yourself. Now you'll have the window seat. You can sit there tomorrow and watch the road to see if your handsome lieutenant shows up for dinner." Agnes smiled.

Billie glanced at her mother. She'd just been bought. Agnes's seeming acceptance of having Moss for Sunday dinner was supposed to soothe the wound of having been moved lock, stock, and barrel out of her room. And she had to accept the terms of truce; otherwise, if Moss did come tomorrow, she could count on Agnes's sulky indifference, which could make Billie squirm as though she had fire ants in her bloomers.

It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. At least Agnes could have asked before renting out her bedroom from under her. Billie wandered into the study and looked at the window seat with its velvet cushion. It would be a delightful place to curl up with a book. She had a clear view of the drive and the street.

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Perhaps it wasn't so bad after all.

Agnes remained in the hall at the bottom of the stairs, head cocked to one side as though she were listening to a distant noise. The sound she heard was her inner voice murmuring questions concerning Billie, Her perfectly nice and gifted daughter had returned to the house this evening and there was something different about her that had nothing to do with the lipstick or with the artificial blush applied to her cheeks.

UUUiU CHAPTER TWO }))}»»)

Agnes Ames bent down to baste the roasting chicken. As with almost everyone else in Philadelphia—and Agnes did aspire to being like everyone else, only better—after coming home from Sunday service the first order of the day was to dress the chicken and stick it in the oven. It was one thing to invite a guest to Sunday dinner and quite another to plan a meal that was acceptable yet not expensive.

The chicken was a delectable golden brown, the bread stuffing savory with herbs. Her practiced eye took in the bowl of garden salad and the fresh string beans, which, being out of season, had cost more than she cared to spend. Mashed potatoes and gravy would be more than enough when she'd added her homemade biscuits. The butter, dearer than dear since rationing, was first allowed to soften, then whipped with ice water to increase its volume, and chilled again. It was one of her little tricks and it worked quite well. Agnes Ames could not abide white, unpalatable oleo. She had prepared a deep-dish apple pie the night before and it would be mouth-watering. If there was one culinary talent she possessed, it was making pies. The secret was using rendered suet instead of shortening, which cost a fortune, for the crust. She did not like to think about the dent in her sugar supply for the sweet dessert.

The music coming from the living room had a mournful sound. That wasn't like Billie. Normally, she'd be playing light, popular tunes after her practicing was done. Once, Agnes

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had had dreams of her daughter becoming a concert pianist and she'd been told by experts that Billie had the talent. But after learning the prohibitive cost of schooling and lessons and recitals, Agnes had regretfully abandoned the idea and turned her ambitions for Billie along less flamboyant lines.

Agnes listened for a moment. Billie must have learned a new piece. Perhaps it wasn't mournful, just sad. Her thoughts inmiediately went to the young lieutenant. Moss Coleman frightened her. Or was it the way Billie looked at Moss Coleman? A Texan! No doubt he was a ranch hand—or did they call them cowpokes? And that atrocious drawl! Not for Billie. Definitely not for Billie. She'd been worrying all morning what she would do if the cowboy did show up for dinner and managed, despite her, to ask Billie for a date. Up to now, Billie had always listened to her, always behaved and followed her advice. Agnes's stomach fluttered.