The Cowboy Finds a Family

by Anne McAllister

  I’m a dinosaur, she thought as she watched Tom polish off the last of the mashed potatoes and his third helping of beans.

  “Have some more corn bread?” she said, holding out the plate.

  He sat back in his chair and rubbed his stomach ruefully. “I couldn’t eat another bite of anything.”

  Did that mean she was safe?

  She set the plate down reluctantly. Tom smiled at her. It was a warm, comfortable smile. It was also an intimate smile—the smile of a man looking forward to more than going home tonight.

  Hastily Jenny got to her feet and began to clear the table.

  “I’ll help you,” Tom said. “We’ll get done faster.”

  “Oh, I don’t need any help. I can do it easier by myself.”

  “Nonsense,” Tom said, with a smile. “What would I do if I didn’t help?”

  Read the paper? Watch television? Go home?

  Did she really want him to go home?

  What she really wanted was to take things easy, to go slow. Very slow.

  This was all new to her. Way too new.

  And still she wanted Mace.

  It was insane, she supposed. After he had walked all over her feelings, after he had walked right out of her life—still she couldn’t put him out of her mind, couldn’t stop wishing it was Mace who had offered to help with the dishes, Mace who, afterwards, would take her to bed.

  She wasn’t letting Tom Morrison take her to bed.

  He was a very nice man. He might even make a good husband. Someday.

  But it was too early to even think about things like that.

  Oblivious to all the furor in her head while she washed the dishes, Tom wiped the plates and silverware and talked about everything from the weather to the nature hike they’d been on in Yellowstone to the letter he’d got from his daughter.

  “How is your daughter?” Jenny practically pounced on this topic of conversation.

  Tom’s eyes always softened when he talked about Katie. It was easy to see how much he missed her.

  “She’s fine. She sent me a picture from when we went out for her birthday.” He reached for his jacket on the hook by the door as he spoke, then took out a snapshot and handed it to her. It was a lovely picture of father and daughter sitting side by side on the grass of a park, looking at each other and laughing.

  There was, between them, the sort of rapport Jenny had often seen between Taggart and Becky. It was the sort of rapport she’d always thought Mace would share with a daughter. He shared some of that with Becky, she knew, but Becky had Taggart, so it wasn’t the same.

  Her finger brushed lightly over the photo. “She looks so happy,” she said. “You both do.”

  He nodded, his expression wistful. “It seems like ages since I’ve seen her. She’s probably grown a foot.”

  “It won’t be long before you’ll get to see her again.”

  “I know. But it won’t be the same.” His ex-wife had recently remarried. There was a stepfather in the picture now.

  “Things change,” Jenny agreed softly. She set the photo down on the counter and went back to washing the dishes.

  Working together, they finished the dishes quickly, just as she’d feared. Jenny left the pots and pans to soak.

  “I’ll make coffee,” she said. “Maybe you could find a good movie?” She nodded toward the living room and the television.

  For a moment she thought he might see through her and object, but then he nodded. “I’ll do that.”

  When she brought the coffee out, Tom had a movie on. “This okay?”

  It was a thriller, one she and Mace had talked about going to see in the theater but they had never managed to find the time. “Looks good,” Jenny said.

  Tom patted the couch beside him expectantly, and carefully, leaving a few inches between them, Jenny sat down. He slid his arm along the back of the couch behind her as they watched. Or rather she watched.

  All the while she watched the movie, she was aware of Tom—watching her.

  She leaned forward, concentrating on the movie. He shifted his weight toward her.

  The couch dipped. Jenny tipped. Tom’s arm slipped around her.

  She stiffened.

  “Relax,” he said softly. “I don’t bite.”

  Jenny gave a small nod. She drew a steadying breath. Relax, she echoed in her mind. Relax.

  Oddly, as the minutes passed and Tom made no more moves, she began to do just that. It felt comforting somehow to have his arm around her shoulders. She liked Tom. He was solid, dependable. There.

  Unlike some people she could mention.

  He wasn’t pressuring her, either. Not really. The pressure was in her head, not in his.

  Cautiously she slanted a smile his way. He returned it. They turned their attention back to the movie. Jenny found herself sagging against him a little, settling in.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, straightening up.

  “Don’t,” Tom said softly and drew her back against him, snugging one of her hands inside his. They remained that way until the end of the movie.

  It was late, Jenny thought. Time for him to go home.

  She started to get up. Tom held her where she was. He turned her in his arms and touched her cheek with one finger.

  “Are you still afraid of me?” he asked softly.

  “Of course not.”

  Tom shook his head. “Don’t lie. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  “I want to kiss you,” he said. “How do you feel about that?”

  She smiled. “Nervous.”

  “Why? What do you think is going to happen?”

  You’ll take me to bed. But as she thought it, she knew it wasn’t the truth. Tom wouldn’t take her to bed unless she wanted him to.

  “May I kiss you?” He waited for permission. A new-age man, for sure. And one with enough awareness to realize she was actually as nervous as she’d said she was.

  Now she stared at him wordlessly, her lips parted.

  “Yes or no?” he said softly. His mouth was bare inches from hers. She could look at it or at his eyes, not both.

  She swallowed. “Yes,” she said in a tiny voice. “I guess.”

  A smile crooked the corner of his mouth. And then she couldn’t see his lips any longer. They were touching hers.

  It was a kiss that began very much like the first one he had given her. It was gentle, nondemanding. Not threatening at all. A match flame. Not a forest fire.

  But he didn’t let the flame go out. He eased her closer, wrapped his arms around her, drew her into his embrace. His tongue flicked out to taste the lips he was kissing. The moist warmth of his mouth made Jenny’s heart beat faster, made her head begin to spin. She opened her mouth under his and felt his immediate response. The kiss deepened. Tom’s hands moved over her shirt, easing open the buttons. And Jenny felt . . .

  What did she feel?

  Before she could figure it out, the telephone rang.

  She jumped. Her face was hot, her hair disheveled, her shirt half undone. Hastily she scrambled up. “I’ll get it.”

  She ran from the room like the devil was on her tail. How could she have let things go that far?

  She snatched up the receiver. “Hello?” She paused, then frowned, buttoning her shirt as she spoke. “Rooster? Oh, Rooster! Of course I remember you. I’m sorry, but Mace isn’t here. He—”

  She listened; her hand stopped buttoning. Her fingers tightened on the phone. Her eyes got wide and her jaw dropped open.

  “He what?”

  She didn’t believe it. So he repeated it again, word for word.

  “I’ll be right there,” she promised and hung up.

  She turned to see Tom standing in the doorway. “Something wrong?”

  “Yes. No. I’m sorry. I have to go.” She was looking around for her keys even as she spoke.

  “Is it Mace?”

  Jenny finished buttoning her shirt,
then stuffed it in her slacks, spied the keys on the counter and reached for them. She hesitated before answering Tom’s question, then shrugged. He’d hear about it later anyway. “Yes.”

  Tom’s brow furrowed. “Is he hurt?”

  Jenny grabbed her car keys and headed out the door. “Not yet.”

  Chapter Ten

  If three cups of black coffee, a north wind off the Bridgers and a sermon from that paragon of virtue, Rooster Lynch, on the evils of taking on judo experts didn’t sober Mace up, the sight of the tan Ford that pulled into the parking lot sure did.

  “Jenny?” He felt like he’d swallowed the Styrofoam cup. He tried to lurch to his feet, felt his head spin, stumbled and sat back down again. He stared wildly at Rooster. “What the hell’s she doing here?”

  “I called her.”

  The coffee that was already battling the booze in his stomach threatened to make an unscheduled and unwanted reappearance. “You called Jenny?”

  You got her out of bed with Tom Morrison? He didn’t know whether to cheer or cry.

  “I know ya prob’ly had a fight with her,” Rooster went on, oblivious, defending his action. “Couldn’t see no other reason you’d be acting like a jackass,” he added bluntly. “But she’s your wife, man. Has been for years.” He shook his head in astonishment. “Who else was I supposed to call?”

  Mace folded his arms across his knees and buried his face in his sleeve. “Anybody,” he muttered. Anybody but her.

  He heard the slam of the car door, then her footsteps on the pavement, coming toward them. He didn’t move, didn’t look up.

  The footsteps stopped. “Rooster?”

  “Yes’m. Rooster Lynch. Sure didn’t wanta haveta call ya, ma’am, but the way he was actin’—well, I reckoned he’d end up in the hoosegow ’fore long. Walkin’ right up to some per-fesser type an’ takin’ a swing. Picked the wrong one, he did. Hoooweee!” Rooster cackled. “That bartender was just itchin’ to call the cops.”

  “Rooster!” Mace protested, agonized. He looked up long enough to see Jenny looking down at him as if he were something better left under a rock.

  “You’re damn lucky I got ya outa there,” Rooster said flatly, ignoring his protest. “That wasn’t the Six Gun, y’know. A guy’s only gotta look to see they don’t cotton much to bar fights in places like that ’un.”

  “Really?” Jenny said. “This wasn’t your normal hangout then?” She was speaking to Mace who had nothing at all to say.

  No matter. Rooster answered. “Oh no, ma’am. We started there. Mace was pretty well tanked ’fore I got there, but—”

  “Damn it, Rooster!”

  “Tanked,” Rooster repeated firmly. “Not like him. But I reckon sometimes even Mace has got woman troubles.” He eyed Jenny speculatively.

  “Woman troubles,” Jenny echoed. Was that what he was calling it?

  “I don’t—” Mace protested.

  “Have ’em myself often enough,” Rooster cut him off. “Reckon ain’t nobody immune. So I just thought I’d keep ’im company, like. Drink with ’im. Walk with ’im. I’da prob’ly fought with ’im if he’da picked a better place to do it. But, well, I hung around at least to get him outa there. It’s what friends are for,” he added modestly.

  “You did the right thing,” Jenny said gravely.

  But Rooster’s self-congratulation had gone on long enough. And the hole he was digging for Mace at the same time was getting deeper and deeper. Mace mustered all the strength he could and gave one more shove to try and get to his feet.

  This time, unsteadily, he made it, and stood with his feet spread, the better not to tip over, and met Jenny’s disdainful gaze.

  “You didn’t have to come,” he told her.

  She ignored him completely, turning away and holding out her hand to Rooster. “Thank you for calling me.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am, er . . . well, under the circumstances it wasn’t exac’ly a pleasure, but, well . . . you know what I mean.” Rooster gave Jenny’s hand an awkward shake and then doffed his hat. The tips of his ears were pink.

  Jenny gave him one of her gentle smiles—the sort that Mace knew she wasn’t going to bestow on him. “I know what you mean.”

  They stood for a moment just smiling at each other.

  Mace gritted his teeth.

  Then just before the silence became more awkward than ever, Rooster set his hat on his head again, tugged it down and took a step back. “Reckon I’ll just be on my way then. Let you get goin’. You’ll wanta take care of Mace.”

  Jenny turned back to him and their eyes met. “Oh yes,” she said. “I’ll take care of Mace.”

  *

  It didn’t do any good to try to talk to her, Mace thought grimly as the car hurtled through the darkness heading back toward Elmer, with Jenny at the wheel, staring straight ahead. God knew he’d tried.

  As soon as Rooster left, he had said, “I didn’t know he called you.”

  “I’ll bet you didn’t.”

  “You didn’t need to come.”

  “So you said.”

  “You can go home again. I’m fine.”

  She didn’t even deign to answer that. She had just taken his arm and bullied him toward the car.

  Mace had dug in his heels. “I got my truck.”

  “Like you’re going to drive it in your condition.” She hadn’t stopped moving even for an instant, just kept towing him along. He hadn’t had enough purchase on the asphalt to make a stand.

  “Take me back to my truck then, if you’re so all-fired determined to take me somewhere. I can sleep in the cab.”

  “You can shut up, Mace. That’d be wisest,” she said with a sweetness that belied the grip she had on his arm. She jerked open the door of the car and waited.

  He teetered beside it.

  Jenny gave him a gentle shove.

  He toppled in.

  She hadn’t taken him back to his truck. She had ignored him completely, instead driving straight through town and up the road through Bridger Canyon, heading home.

  Now Mace slumped in the seat beside her.

  He stared straight ahead and tried to tell himself that this had to be the worst moment of his life—worse even than that day in the doctor’s office. That had been devastating, but he couldn’t help that. This—oh, God!—he didn’t want to even think how he’d feel once he was sober.

  He wondered how soon it would happen. Those three cups of coffee Rooster had poured into him were having some effect. Part of it was sobering. Part of it was sickening.

  He wasn’t quite sure when he figured that out. Maybe when Jenny turned off the paved road onto the gravel that led into the hills near the ranch house. This road was narrower and bumpier. It twisted and curved. Jenny’s old car bumped and swayed. And bumped and swayed.

  Mace shut his eyes.

  The coffee and beer and tequila in his stomach, which had reached a sort of a truce in the parking lot, were beginning to renegotiate now. It was beginning to feel a lot like the truce had been called off.

  His jaw clenched and he concentrated on taking slow deep breaths. It didn’t help.

  “I don’t suppose you’d like to explain what tonight was all about,” Jenny said into the silence. She’d been mercifully mum since she’d shoved him in the car, had driven the whole way in stark unforgiving silence. Please God, Mace prayed, she wouldn’t start a postmortem now.

  He shook his head in response to her question. It was a mistake. His stomach roiled.

  “I can’t believe you! Going to Sherpa’s and picking a fight with a man you don’t even know! What the hell is the matter with you?”

  Mace didn’t answer. His fists clenched on top of his thighs. He held his breath.

  He could feel the disgust in the glare Jenny shot his way even in the dark. “I suppose you’re just going to be strong and silent and macho and pretend he started the fight with you.”

  Mace clamped his jaw even tighter.

  “What? No answer?
Oh come on, Mace. Surely you must have something to say.”

  “Stop the car.”

  “What? Why? You surely don’t think I’m going to let you walk—”

  “Stop the damn car!” He was fumbling with the door handle even as he spoke.

  Jenny pulled over.

  Mace flung himself out just in time. He was sick all over his boots and the side of the road.

  He retched and retched and retched. Every ounce of tequila had multiplied. Every glass of beer had increased geometrically. And with the coffee . . .

  He sank back against the tire and shut his eyes. His stomach still clenched spasmodically. He sucked desperately at the cool night air and felt the breaths come shuddering through him.

  This had to be rock bottom—at last.

  A gentle hand touched his forehead, tipping his hat back, brushing against his clammy skin. “Mace? Oh, God, I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault,” he managed, his voice little more than a croak.

  “Are you . . . are you all right?”

  He swallowed. “Swell,” he lied.

  He heard Jenny’s sigh, and he opened his eyes just far enough to see her kneeling beside him and looking at him worriedly. Her hand continued to brush his hair away from his forehead. It was cool and gentle and the softness of it made him ache with longing. He couldn’t stop the tremor that shuddered through him.

  “Oh, Mace,” she whispered. In her voice, he heard despair and dismay and a hundred other painful emotions. Emotions he’d put there. Emotions he felt himself and didn’t know how to deal with in himself any better than in her.

  Her hand brushed his cheek, curved under his chin to turn his face so he would look at her. He couldn’t look at her. “Don’t,” he pleaded. All his strength was gone. All his reserves depleted.

  He couldn’t fight her now. He shut his eyes. “Just take me home.”

  To the cabin, he meant. He thought she understood that. He thought she’d drive him up to his two-room hideaway, open the door, shove him out and leave him there.

  She took him home.

  To their home.

  “No,” he said when he opened his eyes and realized where they were. “Not here. I didn’t mean here,” he said desperately.