by Sharon Sala
Shock at the news of Charlotte “Charlie” O’Brien’s illness and subsequent death had brought an outpouring of sympathy and support for her daughter, Honor. It had helped to know so many cared, but all the words in the world weren’t going to get Honor through her grief. That strength had to come from Honor herself. And she was trying. It was just harder than she’d imagined.
She totaled the last column of figures, entered them in the ledger, and then slammed the book shut with a sigh of satisfaction. As usual, Charlie’s was very much in the black. With her usual diligence and a little hard work, Honor would be able to live quite comfortably. Thanks to her mother’s foresight, money was not a problem.
Suddenly, Honor realized the normal restaurant noise had ceased outside her office. An ominous silence sent her toward the door to investigate. And then the familiar strains of “The Tennessee Waltz” drifted faintly into the quiet.
“Oh, no!” Honor moaned, and stepped slowly into the shadowed hallway leading into the main dining area of Charlie’s.
The place was nearly full, yet not a sound could be heard, except the music coming from the old jukebox in the corner of the room. People watched, puzzled yet honoring the sudden silence, while some regulars understood. Honor swallowed a sob at the sight of the middle-aged trucker crying unashamedly as he stared blindly at the flat black disk going round and round before his unseeing eyes.
She took a deep breath, rubbed a weary hand across her eyes and willed them not to tear, then started toward him, dreading the confrontation, yet knowing it couldn’t be avoided. Slipping quickly through the maze of tables and booths, ignoring the stares and the whispers of concern, she hurried toward her uncle Rusty.
Russell Dawson was not actually her uncle, but he’d been her mother’s suitor for as many years as she could remember. Rusty had proposed to Charlotte O’Brien on an average of six times a year. Finally he’d realized that Charlie had let him as far into her life a she ever would and loved her enough to take what he could get. He became the intermittent father figure in Honor’s life. Every time he came through their area, he would announce his arrival with three long blasts of his truck horn. Charlie would come running, waving and laughing, and wind up being danced between the maze of tables to whatever tune was playing on the jukebox. The merriment would always end with “The Tennessee Waltz.”
“Rusty,” Honor said quietly, as she came up behind the stocky, balding man.
He was wearing his usual garb of blue jeans, two sizes too small, that rode beneath a pudgy stomach. His blue plaid western shirt was tucked haphazardly into the dangling waistband of the denim pants. And as always, the same shiny black cowboy boots, so well worn the pointy toes tended to curl upward. Honor was a good two inches taller than his five-foot-ten-inch stature, and she loved him dearly.
“Uncle Rusty,” she repeated, and caught back a sob at the look of utter desolation in his eyes.
“How am I gonna make it without her, honey?” he asked hoarsely. He turned and patted Honor awkwardly on the arm.
“I don’t know, Uncle Rusty,” she answered shakily. “But I do know this. Momma would have a fit if she could see us now, feeling all sorry for ourselves.”
Rusty blinked. He nodded, took a deep breath, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and blew loudly. His pale-blue eyes twinkled at the noise, as he stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket.
“You’re right, girl. Damn, but Charlie would be havin’ a fit now. Well, sweetheart, I wonder if you’d do your old uncle Rusty a favor?”
“You don’t have to ask. You know I will,” Honor answered softly, and kissed the bristly side of his unshaven cheek.
“Well, now,” he said gruffly, trying hard not to break down again in front of all the silent witnesses to his misery. “Would you do me the honor of sharing this last dance? I hate to let the music go to waste.”
Honor fought back the rising tide of despair. Her smile was frozen on her face as she stepped into his arms and gave herself up to the music and her uncle Rusty’s need.
In and out they wound between the clusters of seated customers, dipping and swaying in familiar waltz fashion to the soulful strains of the familiar tune. More than one customer, aware of the significance of the dance, buried their faces in their hands.
Trace Logan pulled into the dusty parking lot of the busy restaurant, crawled wearily out of his rented car, and entered the air-conditioned comfort of the dining area just in time to see the drama unfold before his eyes.
His gut had twisted into a painful knot of shock as he saw a tall, leggy young woman enter the dining area from the back of the building. All he had was a glimpse as she wound her way toward the short, older man at the jukebox, but it had been enough to get his attention. Every place God had intended woman to curve had been generously exaggerated to perfection on her elegant height. The form-fitting blue jeans she wore, as well as the soft, clingy pink shirt that barely met the tiny waistband of her pants, added to her womanly aura.
Unaware he was holding his breath, he watched in fascination as the dance began. Suddenly, his breath escaped in a rush as his starving lungs yanked him back to sanity. He stepped backward and bumped into one of the bar stools. It met the back of his legs as he sank down on the leather-cushioned seat, unable to take his eyes from the dancers.
An odd, unreasonable anger made his mouth twist into a thin line of objection. He resented the older man’s right to hold her that intimately as they waltzed between the seated patrons of Charlie’s. The emotion startled him and made him take a second glance at the girl. What was there about the fleeting look he’d had that had drawn him so quickly into her spell?
And then the music stopped. Honor leaned down, hugged her partner gently, and whispered in his ear, “Come on over to the house, I’ll fix you your favorite fajitas.”
“The invitation will have to wait, honey,” Rusty replied. “I shouldn’t have taken time to come this far, but I couldn’t help it. I have a load of perishables due in Los Angeles by tomorrow night. It’ll take some truckin’ to get there on time as it is. Can I take a rain check?”
“You know it,” she answered. “And I’d better see your face back here soon or I’ll come looking for you, Uncle Rusty.”
“I promise,” he said quietly. “You’re still my little sweetheart, even if my best girl is gone.” He cleared his throat, blinked watery eyes, and kissed her soft cheek. “Thanks for the dance, Honor.” Then he walked quietly out the door, unaware of the curious look the tall man seated at the bar gave him.
Honor fought down a rising tide of tears as she walked quickly toward the heavyset man behind the bar.
“Hank, I want that damned song taken out of the jukebox. Call the service man now. I can’t take any more surprises like that.”
An overwhelming pain in her throat sent her stumbling into Trace’s outstretched arms.
She didn’t see the look of total shock come in his dark-brown eyes, nor did she see him struggling with words that refused to come from his lips. She was too busy trying to get outside into the anonymity of approaching nightfall. She wasn’t going to let all these people see her cry.
“Excuse me,” she mumbled softly, unaware of her key ring that fell at his feet, and pushed her way out of Trace’s arms into the Texas night.
His arms felt empty as he watched her disappear through the door. Before his world had been turned upside down. He couldn’t believe what he’d just seen. His search was over before it had begun. He would have to look no farther for the woman known as Honor O’Brien. The woman he’d just held in his arms was the living image of the picture that hung over J. J. Malone’s fireplace in the library. Either that was the missing granddaughter or he’d just seen a ghost.
He shook himself, suddenly aware that he’d just let her walk out of his life, and started to follow her when his shoe kicked something metal. He looked down, startled by the sound, and reached for the ring of keys lying on the floor. He grabbed them and dashed out into
the arrival of night.
She was standing to the right of one of the big eighteen-wheelers, using it as a shield. He could hear her sobs, and the utter desolation tore at his heart. If she was this devastated at the loss of her mother, and he could only assume this was the cause of her sadness, what was his news going to do to her? He didn’t know how to approach her, or even what to say. Damn J. J. for sending him to do this! He didn’t want this woman to hate him, nor did he want to frighten her. Suddenly, the approval of a total stranger was very important to the rest of Trace Logan’s life.
“Miss!” he called out, as he walked toward her.
She looked up, startled and embarrassed at being discovered. But she couldn’t seem to stop the flow of tears that had finally been released. A twinge of apprehension surfaced as the tall, dark man approached. He was obviously a stranger. Not many Texas workingmen wore such casual clothes with as much aplomb as this man.
The soft fabric of his dark slacks moved with the stride of his long, muscled legs. His shirt outlined the finely toned structure of his upper body. His face was shadowed in the quickly disappearing light, but she could see very defined, very appealing angles and planes and a hint of stubborn chin. A straight, perfectly formed nose sat just above the sexiest mouth she’d ever seen. His firm, shapely lips were twisted in an expression of concern. She stopped him with a motion.
“Do I know you?” she asked, and wiped helplessly at the tears that continued to flow down her face.
“No.”
His voice came softly through the lowering darkness, straight into her heart.
“What do you want?” she continued, suddenly afraid of being caught alone, outside, with a total stranger.
“You dropped your keys.”
He held them toward her and knew he’d frightened her with his uninvited presence.
“Oh,” she said quietly, and held out her hand. The keys dropped into her palm with a familiar jangle. She breathed a quick sigh of relief as he took a step backward.
“Are you a nice man?” she asked, surprising herself by the need to keep him within her reach.
“My family thinks so,” he said with a grin in his voice. And then he watched a strange, lost expression come over her face.
It was the word family that had done it. At that moment, Honor felt unable to cope with anything else alone.
“Good,” she said with a choked sob as she stepped forward into Trace’s arms. “I don’t want anyone I know to see me cry.”
His quick reflexes caught her, but he couldn’t have spoken a word to save his soul. Shock warred with dismay, and quickly flared into a possessive feeling that scared the hell out of him. He knew in his heart, he wasn’t going to be able to turn this one loose.
Honor refused to listen to the reasoning and common sense telling her what she already knew. She was doing the most foolish thing she’d ever done in her life. She’d just thrown herself into this handsome stranger’s arms, with no thought of safety or reason, and had never felt so safe and comforted in her life. She let herself absorb his strength and reveled in the softly murmured words of assurance he was whispering in her ear. It was going to be all right.
Trace wouldn’t let himself think of how she felt in his arms. He refused to acknowledge that she fit perfectly into every curve of his body as if she’d been molded to size. Her head rested just beneath his chin and he inhaled the faint but lingering scent of her shampoo. It was as fresh and inviting as the woman he held. How in hell was he ever going to get past this feeling? How was he ever going to be able to do what J. J. Malone had sent him here to do? He didn’t want to think about the look of betrayal he knew she would wear when he had to tell her the truth.
“I’m sorry,” Honor managed to whisper, as she pulled away in embarrassment. “I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Trace, Trace Logan,” he answered softly, and wisely let Honor regain a measure of her composure.
“Trace? As in ‘disappeared without a’?” Honor questioned, and smiled through her tears. She was desperately struggling to regain her sense of self and sanity.
Trace watched in fascination as he saw, even in the darkening shadows, the single dimple appear at the left corner of her mouth. He had to force himself to remember what she’d asked.
“Yes,” he finally managed to answer. “As in disappeared without a trace. But it’s actually a shortened version of my full name, Tracey. I just don’t ever use it.”
“Why not?” Honor asked. “I think Tracey is a perfectly acceptable name.”
“Not when the name Richard precedes it,” Trace drawled. “It’s not easy being called Dick Tracey all your life. After five fights in as many weeks, my sixth-grade teacher wisely started calling me Trace. My family followed suit, and I’ve been Trace ever since.”
“Well, Trace Logan,” Honor whispered softly, as complete darkness finally swallowed them. “I want to thank you for letting me borrow your broad chest and strong shoulders. I desperately needed a leaning post, and I can say without hesitation, you were the most comforting stranger I’ve ever hugged. Thank you for being so considerate, even if you don’t understand.”
Trace started to speak, when he felt her lips at the corner of his mouth. His head turned like a magnet, needing to capture the imagined sweetness of her kiss. But he was a heartbeat too late as she sighed, touched his arm in appreciation, and disappeared into the night.
He meant to call out, but he forgot what he wanted to say. Instead he let her walk away into the Texas night, and stood for many minutes in silence as he struggled with a multitude of conflicting emotions.
He finally pulled himself together, fumbled in his own pocket for keys, and headed for his car, food forgotten in his need to get back to the motel room in nearby Odessa, Texas, and call his boss. He didn’t know what to say other than he’d found Honor O’Brien.
Chapter 2
Trace walked into his motel room, slammed the door shut behind him, and slipped the safety chain through the slot. He threw the room key on the dresser and then sat down wearily on the bed. He ran his hands through his wind-blown hair in angry frustration and heartily wished he’d not been the one to open that damned letter. This was going to be nothing but trouble. Hell, it already was. The first woman he’d been attracted to in years, and he was going to ruin it with a phone call.
He looked at his watch, knew J. J. would be waiting for his call no matter what the time, and picked up the phone. He answered on the first ring.
“I found her,” Trace stated shortly, allowing no hint of his personal involvement to cloud the issue. He listened to the old man’s excited voice and then frowned at himself in the mirror as he continued. “Yes, it’s her. There can be no mistake about that. She’s tall like you, and she’s your wife’s living double. I’ve never seen any two people look more alike.”
He listened again, allowing J. J.’s excited orders to sink in before he continued.
“Remember what I told you before I left, J. J. She’s not going to receive this news as gladly as you have. I can tell you for a fact that she’s still grieving very much for a mother she obviously held dear. She’s not going to like what I tell her. Hell, she may not even believe me. I don’t know where to start. Just give me a few days. I’ll let you know more later. Yeah, sure,” he answered, in reluctant response to his boss’s orders. “I’ll keep in touch.”
He hung up the phone, wearily began to undress, and headed for the shower, ignoring his empty stomach’s complaints.
* * *
The porch swing creaked in a repetitive rhythm as Honor watched the steady stream of customers going through Charlie’s.
Her home was just across the wide, graveled parking lot, far enough away for a little privacy, but close enough to dash over if the need arose. The staff at Charlie’s was just like family. They’d worked for her mother for years.
There wasn’t that much work to be had in the middle of nowhere, which was more or less where Charlie’s exis
ted. The closest town was Odessa to the north, and a little bit north and east was Big Springs. The towns were few and far between in west Texas, as were the homes. It was ranching land. The only other thing that had managed to make its mark in the area was the presence of the oil industry, whose fortunes rose and fell with predictable irregularity.
If there was a job to be had out here, it was kept with faithful attendance.
Honor loved the immense expanse of flat country landscaped with tumbleweeds and the ever-present clumps of sturdy mesquite that held on to its meager existence with fierce determination. Little else, except people, grew well here.
The night breeze felt cool against her freshly showered skin. Honor sighed, listlessly dragging her bare feet on the redwood floor of her front porch as she let the gentle wind rock the swing. She was unwilling to go back inside to the waiting emptiness.
Her breakdown earlier this evening had not come as a surprise. It had been long overdue. But she couldn’t forget the tall, dark stranger, nor how she’d walked into his arms with no warning. It was so unlike her. And it had felt so right. She wondered if she’d ever see Trace Logan again and then scoffed at her own foolishness. She didn’t know a thing about him; not even where he was from. He could even be married. She’d hardly given him a chance to refuse her cry for help.
Honor sighed as the phone inside the house began to ring. The only time it rang at this time of night was when she was needed at the restaurant. She hurried inside, walking confidently through the unlit rooms with the sureness born of long years of familiarity.
“Hello.” Her answer was soft and weary as she fumbled for the light switch on the wall beside the phone and then forgot what she’d been about to do as the man’s deep voice pulled at her memory. Instead, she stood quietly in the dark silence and listened to her heart race.
