by Emily March
“Want me to show you around?” Angelica asked.
“Now Angelica,” Celeste chided. “Don’t be a buttinsky. Can’t you see they are on a date?”
“No!” said Caroline.
Simultaneously, Jackson said, “No we’re not.” He added, “We’re friends.”
“I’m a widow. I don’t date.”
“I’m divorced. I really don’t date.”
Celeste and Angelica shared a look that Jackson couldn’t read, and then Celeste said lightly, “Our mistake. You two go on and enjoy your tour. Angelica and I were just about to sit and discuss activities for our soft opening. A number of my friends from Eternity Springs are coming in for it, and we’re planning some special events.”
“I’ll be one of your guests,” Caroline shared. “I won the Chamber of Commerce drawing.”
Celeste smiled widely and clapped her hands. “I am delighted. I think we’re going to have a wonderful weekend.”
Jackson said, “Boone told me he’ll be here for it.”
“Yes. It’s such a shame that Tucker won’t be able to join us. I do so hope I get the opportunity to meet him soon.”
“So do I, Celeste,” Jackson replied with fierce sincerity. That would mean his cousin had made it home, at least temporarily, safe and sound. “Now, if you ladies will excuse us, I’ll show Caroline around.”
“Show her the suites upstairs,” Angelica suggested. “I believe the Chamber contest winner is assigned to the Edna Milton Suite.”
“Angelica! This has been settled.” Celeste smoothed away the scowl she’d directed toward her cousin and smiled serenely toward Caroline. “It’s the Bluebonnet Suite. You’ll be in the Bluebonnet Suite.”
“It’s right next door to the Etta Place Suite,” Angelica called with a sharp edge to her voice.
“The Indian Paintbrush Suite!”
As Jackson led Caroline inside, the sound of the women’s bickering followed them. “We are not naming our suites after infamous Texan prostitutes and that’s final,” Celeste declared.
“Well, neither are we using Texas wildflower names,” Angelica fired back. “That’s boring and mundane.”
“And easily decorated!”
“I agreed to put angels all around the place, didn’t I?” Angelica continued.
“After you broke their wings!”
“Wing. Singular.”
“That’s a step too far. The dented halo on our logo is enough!”
Caroline and Jackson’s amused gazes met. His mouth twisted with a rueful grin as he said, “Why do the words ‘cat fight’ come to mind?”
She laughed aloud, and the sound vibrated through Jackson like the strum of a perfectly tuned guitar. Caroline asked, “What do you want to call the Fallen Angel suites?”
“Like I said, the dance hall is my baby. I’m staying far, far away from this one. However, they need to come to a consensus PDQ. The decorator is chomping at the bit to order window treatments and knickknacks, and the opening is right around the corner.”
Jackson decided to conduct his tour from the top down, so he led her to the suites on the attic level first. Caroline oohed over the size of each of the suites and aahed over all the bathrooms. “I covet those soaker tubs. I may need to call my contractor. Do you know how much lead time would be required for me to get my hands on one of them for my apartment?”
“It’s possible … for the right price … I might just have a connection,” he told her as he led her downstairs to tour the guest room on the second floor.
“Oh, yeah?” she asked with suspicion in her tone. “What price?”
“I am bribable with brownies.”
“Oh, really?”
“Angelica doesn’t make them.” Jackson watched with contented pleasure as she inspected the suites, opening drawers and wardrobes and verandah doors. In the third suite, she shot him a knowing look. “Has Angelica not taken a good look at the fireplace mantles?”
“Noticed the wildflower carvings, did you? I don’t know her well, but Boone tells me that it’s useless to attempt to resist Celeste once she makes up her mind about something.”
A grin flickered on Caroline’s lips. “I doubt that Angelica agrees with that viewpoint. Have you taken a good look at the blades on the ceiling fan?”
Jackson glanced upward. He saw tulip-shaped frosted glass globes and gold scrollwork on dark wooden blades. “I don’t … oh. Well now.” The scrollwork wasn’t a freeform decoration like he’d previously believed. He chuckled softly. “Broken angel wings. I hadn’t noticed.”
“The design is very pretty. It’s subtle.”
“I thought the mantles were sneaky, but the fan blades top those. I’ve been told never to bet against Celeste, but now I don’t know. I’m beginning to think I may have been wrong about Angelica. I suspect there’s more to her than we think.”
“You do appear to be a man in the middle.”
“Tell me about it,” he groaned. “I think it’d be a good idea for me to make myself scarce around the Fallen Angel for the next week or so.”
He led her downstairs to the ground floor, where they toured the large chef’s kitchen, the dining room, and the enlarged parlor. Caroline was obviously impressed. “You’ve done a fabulous job, Jackson. It’s as enchanting as the canyon.”
“I agree it’s a great place, but I take no credit for the house or the cottages in back.”
“Cottages?”
Jackson nodded. “Celeste convinced us we should have a private honeymoon cottage. We decided we’d build it and three other freestanding suites that offer a little more privacy. That gives us an even dozen rooms. Want to see them?”
“I’d love to.”
He led her out the back door and along the garden walk to an area made private by clever landscaping. Each of the three freestanding structures had a gabled tin roof, rough wood siding, and a covered front and back porch.
“How cute!” Caroline said when she spied the first.
“These three cottages are all two-bedrooms to make the Fallen Angel a little more family friendly,” Jackson explained.
Each of the cottages had a fireplace, a king-sized bed, a small kitchenette with a sink and a small refrigerator, and a pair of fabulous rockers on both porches. The honeymoon cottage was a dream. When she walked inside she gasped aloud with delight. “Oh, wow. It’s like stepping into a suite at the Four Seasons.”
“I know. Celeste had very definite ideas about this place. Angelica nipped at her heels the entire time, too.” He gave a little chuckle and added, “Once or twice the argument drifted to which of them had superior expertise when it came to honeymoon sex, and I had to cover my ears.”
Caroline laughed. “I do believe I adore both Celeste and Angelica.”
“They are a trip,” he ruefully responded as he led her onto the back porch, pulling the door shut behind them. “A fun, interesting trip, but definitely a trip.”
She marveled over the small in-ground pool and hot tub, the pots of flowers, burbling fountain, and double hammock. “What a romantic oasis!”
“That was the plan.” He gestured toward an unobtrusive gate in the back corner of the fenced-in yard. “Ready to wander on over to the saloon?”
“Absolutely.”
He guided her through the gate and along the stone path that meandered through what Celeste called a meditation garden—Angelica referred to the area as the pollen factory—before taking her into the saloon through traditional saloon front doors.
”Fabulous!” Caroline said. “You’ve added swinging doors.”
“The building cried out for them,” Jackson replied, preening a bit. He’d had more to do with the saloon remodel than he had with the inn.
Her brow furrowed. “I love them, but … how do you lock the building?”
“Pocket doors,” he said, pointing them out.
“Ah.” She moved farther into the building and made a slow circle, a faint smile on her face. “It’s really nice, Jackson. Y
ou’ve kept all the charm and atmosphere, but made it warm and inviting and fun. Is that a player piano?”
“Yes. Want to hear?”
“I’d love that.”
He crossed to where the piano stood against the north wall, explaining as he loaded a music roll and prepared it to play. “We’ll serve breakfast and tea in the dining room next door, but this will be our restaurant for lunch and dinner and if Boone has his way, eventually our backup wedding venue for when the weather is bad.”
“You’re planning to host weddings?”
“Eventually. Boone and the Blessings think we should do it. Celeste says she does a bang-up bridal business at Angel’s Rest, and we have a perfect spot beside the river for ceremonies. Boone believes the dance hall is a good place for a reception, but I don’t agree. I say we put up another building to use for weddings and meetings and the like. We’re still discussing it. It’ll certainly be a Phase Two or Three type of thing.”
“Hmm.” Caroline replied noncommittally.
He closed his eyes. “I know. I know. I’ll probably lose the battle. At least in the near term. But I have a vision for the dance hall, and I’m going to stick to my guns.”
“I think you should. I also think I’d like to see your dance hall.”
Jackson discovered he wanted to show it to her rather desperately. He’d imagined having Caroline Carruthers back in the dance hall again for months now.
They exited the saloon a few minutes later, and approached the Last Chance Hall. “After seeing the renovations of the other two buildings, this might not be what you’re expecting,” he warned as he climbed the front steps. He opened the hall’s screen door, held it, and motioned for her to precede him. As she stepped past him, he caught a whiff of her perfume. Spicy and exotic. Sexy. A surprise. Not what he would have expected from her.
He would have pegged her for a floral, friendly, girl-next-door type of fragrance. Well, sure as hell wasn’t the first time he’d been wrong where women were concerned.
She walked to the middle of the hall, stopped, and made a slow, full-circle turn. Once she’d finished, she shot him a look of confusion, then made another turn. Finally, she said, “Okay, I admit it. You’ve confounded me. Except for clean shiny windows and the absence of cobwebs, I don’t see any changes.”
“Excellent. That means I’ve succeeded.” He launched into an explanation about updated wiring and various safety measures taken to bring the building up to code. “We stayed true to the history and heritage of the hall. For example, we didn’t install air-conditioning.”
“What?” Caroline gazed at him in shock. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“But … but … this is Texas! You must have air-conditioning. People will expect it. They need it! Shoot, there’ve been plenty of February days when I ran my air-conditioner.”
“No air-conditioning at the Last Chance Hall. Not in its heyday and not now.”
“But people dance at a dance hall. They sweat!”
“That’s why they built the side-wall flaps. Besides, dancing yourself sweaty is all part of the fun.”
“You have a peculiar concept of fun, Mr. McBride.”
“You know you’ve just issued a challenge to me, don’t you? I’m going to have to show you just how much fun you can have getting sweaty in a dance hall.”
Just like that, the atmosphere in the building changed. It grew heavy, hot, and electrified, like the air in advance of a violent thunderstorm. Without making a conscious decision to do so, Jackson dropped his gaze to the fullness of her lips. He took an inadvertent step toward her. Caroline went still, her chin up, her spine straight, like a rabbit in a field upon sensing a predator.
Jackson wanted to kiss her. He wanted to close the distance between them and bury his fingers in that sassy, silky hair of hers and capture her lips with his. He wanted to explore her mouth with his tongue and discover the taste of her, the essence of her. He wanted … Whoa. Whoa! Stop right there. What the hell is wrong with you?
He tore his gaze away from her and focused on the stage, breaking the spell. To give his hands something to do rather than reach for her, he shoved them into his pockets, and his right hand found the harmonica. He grabbed hold of it like a lifeline, tugged it from his pocket, and said, “Look at this. We found it along with a gold watch and a journal in a box in the house next door that first time we visited. I kept the harmonica, Tucker went for the watch, and Boone snagged the journal. This thing is pretty darned old. I took it apart and cleaned everything. This was the first instrument I learned to play. My great-grandfather played. He was really good.”
Then, because he was babbling and needed to stop, he brought the harmonica up to his mouth and blew a bluesy rift.
Caroline reached for the rescue line herself by observing, “An antique harmonica. How cool is that? Will you play something for me?”
Gladly. Anything for a distraction.
He launched into the first song that came to mind, “Isn’t She Lovely,” and played it through to the end. With the final notes still hanging in the air, he lowered the harp from his mouth and gave a beaming Caroline a sheepish smile.
“That was fabulous, Jackson,” she said. “Simply fabulous. And not what I expected. I thought I’d hear ‘Turkey in the Straw’ or something like that.”
The admiration in her gaze made him want to show off. “I can do ‘Turkey in the Straw.” He proved it by playing the chorus, then saying, “And then there’s this.”
He watched her closely as she identified the next song he played as a classical piece, and her delight made him feel ten feet tall. “That is the most beautiful song,” she said. “I admit I don’t know my composers. Is that Mozart? Schubert?”
“Bach. ‘Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring.’”
“I’ve never heard classical music played on a harmonica. You’re very talented, Jackson.”
“Thank you.” As he tucked the instrument back into his pocket, he realized just how much he’d enjoyed performing for her. It felt good. Really good. Better than it had in ages. Maybe tonight after dinner, he’d drag out his guitar.
The fact that he’d even considered it filled him with joy, and Jackson acted on instinct. This time, he actually did it.
He leaned down and kissed her.
Chapter Ten
Caroline’s heart leapt as his lips touched hers. Her eyes closed. A part of her wanted to melt into him, to lose herself in the pleasure of a man’s mouth … in this man’s mouth … to sink into the heat and scent and sensation. The taste of him. She liked Jackson McBride. She liked his boyish grin and the wicked glint in his eyes. His kindness touched her, as did his obvious love for his cousins. His in-your-face masculinity attracted her like a spring-fed creek on a hot summer day. It’s been so long.
Simultaneously, she experienced a stabbing sense of grief. Lonely. Alone. Hollow and aching and empty. Single. Widowed. Lonely. So lonely for so long.
His tongue slid across her lips and they parted. Shivers skidded along her nerves and she began to tremble. Began to respond. Caroline kissed him back. She kissed him back and the emptiness receded. Jackson. Jackson. He stepped closer. His arms stole around her waist and drew her against him. Drew her out of the loneliness. Her head fell back. She lifted her hands to his shoulders. Those broad, muscular shoulders.
Tears stung her eyes. So long. So long. She’d missed this. Oh, how she’d missed this.
She made a sound. A moan? A sob? She wasn’t sure. But it was enough to catch Jackson’s attention. His arms fell away from her and he lifted his head and stepped back. For a long, breathless moment, their gazes locked. His green eyes burned into hers.
She blinked. Once. Twice. She sensed the tear pool at the corner of her eye, swell, and spill.
Jackson winced as if it pained him. He lifted his hand and used the pad of his thumb to wipe away the wetness. His voice barely above a whisper, he said, “Caroline. Ah, Caroline. You break my heart. Don’t cry. I’m so
rry.”
Don’t be sorry. She wasn’t sorry. “Sorry” wasn’t the right word. “Sorrowful,” perhaps.
He closed his eyes, gave his head the slightest of shakes, and took another step backward. “That was way out of line. Really. I apologize. I should explain, try to explain, anyway. It’s the music.”
The desire still humming through her veins made her thoughts sluggish. She licked her lips, tasted him, and then cleared her throat. “The music?”
“Yeah.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “See … the way it has always worked for me—or, used to work for me, anyway—is that the music lived inside me. It was part of me. But when all the crap happened with my daughter, I had my ‘American Pie’ moment.”
It was the first time he’d mentioned his daughter since the day they’d met. Hearing the continued pain in his voice cooled her blood. American pie? What did pie have to do with this?
Oh, wait. The fog finally cleared from her brain. He was a songwriter, and he was talking about music. A particular song. That old seventies ballad “American Pie.” Caroline recalled the lyrics and finally made the connection. “Your music died.”
He nodded. “Flatlined. Vaporized. Went silent as a stone-cold grave. But you…” He hesitated. Looked away and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Playing for you just now was the first time in forever that I not only heard it, but I felt it again. It felt good, Caroline. Really, really good. And that revved me up, and so I, well, I got carried away.”
Oh. Hmm. She wasn’t sure whether she felt hurt or happy for him.
“I didn’t intend … this wasn’t what I … ah, well, I know this isn’t a date.”
The slight note of panic in his voice settled the question. Hurt. Was the idea of going on a date with her that awful?
Jackson continued to dig his hole deeper. “I’m really sorry. It’s a line I shouldn’t have crossed. A mixed message I shouldn’t have sent. I’m not looking for a relationship, Caroline. At all. Well, except for friendship. I could use a friend. Actually, I’d very much like for you to be my friend, but I can’t … I’m not…” He shut his eyes and murmured a curse beneath his breath. “I totally screwed this up, didn’t I?”
