She peered up at him from beneath her lashes. “I hope you like red.”
Truthfully, he was more of a beer guy, but with any luck, this was a special occasion. “Red is perfect.”
“I have a confession to make,” she said. “You remember when I told you that you’d have to be gone for more than a night for me to miss you?”
He nodded.
“I lied. Turns out I did miss you last night. Does that sound ridiculous?”
“Not even a little.” Should he admit that the whole time he was out with his buddies, surrounded by pretty women, he couldn’t get her off his mind? “I—”
The phone rang, and Becca swore. He almost laughed; her uncharacteristic cursing perfectly matched how he felt about the interruption.
Leaning over to glance at the caller ID, she frowned. “It’s the deputy. Probably just festival red tape, but I’d better take it.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Now that he was sure they were both feeling the same way, he was suddenly calmer, more centered. He didn’t have to wonder what if anymore; he could afford to be patient for the space of a phone call.
She gave his hand a brief, grateful squeeze, then picked up the cordless receiver. “Hello?” A second later, she paled.
“What is it?” Sawyer blurted. He hadn’t meant to interrupt, but worry for her eclipsed courtesy.
She barely seemed to hear him, anyway. Wearing a dazed, shell-shocked expression that was very un-Becca, she nodded into the phone. “I... Yes, thank you. I’ll be right there.”
As soon as she hung up, he stepped closer, folding her in a loose hug. Despite the erotic thoughts he’d had about her, he didn’t have any ulterior motives for holding her now; he was simply driven by the need to comfort. “Everything okay?” Dumb ass. Police officers don’t call at night for no reason.
“Fine.” She expelled a shaky breath. “Except for my underage sister being loudly drunk and kicked out of the dance hall.”
He winced. Molly certainly wasn’t the first teenager in the world to have a couple drinks—Sawyer was relieved the news hadn’t been worse—but this must be a blow to Becca. She’d been working hard to shape her sister into a model citizen; he wouldn’t be surprised if Becca saw this as a failure on her part.
She moved her glass of wine away, suddenly eyeing the alcohol as if it was corrosive acid. “I need to go get her.”
“Want me to come with you?” The offer was automatic. As much as he hated family drama, it turned out that he hated seeing her upset even more. He desperately wanted to make this better for her.
A half-formed smile ghosted across her lips. “That’s sweet, but no. Can you stay with Marc while I run out?”
“Of course. And Becca?” He gave her his most solemn expression. “I promise not to adopt any more pets while you’re gone.”
She laughed then, a peal of pure amusement, and in that moment, he felt every bit the hero Mrs. Spiegel said he was.
* * *
WHEN BECCA ROLLED into the gravel parking lot, she spotted her sister immediately. It was difficult to miss Molly, who was gesticulating wildly next to a police car parked in the corner. Becca squinted, studying the scene in the dim orange glow of sporadic light poles. Molly looked furious even though she was at fault, not at all grateful that Deputy Thomas had called her sister instead of hauling her to the station.
On the rare occasions Becca had overimbibed, she tended to become chatty, giggly or weepy. The lesser-known dwarves. It occurred to her for the first time since the deputy’s call that Molly might be an angry drunk. While Becca couldn’t bring herself to believe her sister would turn violent or ever hurt Marc, she had no trouble imagining Molly dropping f-bombs from one end of the house to the other.
Turning off the car, Becca hurriedly scrolled through her contact list. A moment later, Lyndsay Whittmeyer answered with a chirpy hello.
“Hi, Lyndsay. It’s Becca. I hate to ask this on such short notice, especially on a school night, but is there any way Marc could sleep over? I’m having a bit of a...situation.” This was Cupid’s Bow. Lyndsay would hear all about Molly’s public intoxication by tomorrow, but Becca didn’t have time to get into it now.
“Of course. Coop’s baseball game went into extra innings, and we’re on our way back from Turtle, but we’ll swing by and get Marc just as soon as we can.”
“Thanks! You’re a lifesaver.” Becca disconnected with a mental promise to make a batch of her friend’s favorite pecan bars in the very near future. She opened her door. Time to get this over with.
She briskly crossed the lot. “Deputy Thomas—”
“Great.” Molly stumbled, propping herself up on the hood of the deputy’s car. “My big shister comes bargin’ in.”
“I’m not ‘barging’ anywhere. I’m your ride.”
The deputy stepped between them, his expression sympathetic and his voice soft. “I got a cup of coffee in her, ma’am. Not sure it’s done much good yet. She’s...in a state.”
“I’ll make sure she doesn’t end up in this state again,” Becca vowed. “Come on, Molly. We’re going home.”
“Your home,” the girl slurred. “Your rules. It’s ridicu...it’s rid...it’s stupid!”
Becca took her by the arm, trying to keep her steady. Molly pitched to the left, and they almost went over.
Gritting her teeth, Becca recovered her balance. “How did you even buy drinks? Fake ID?” Most of the bartenders could spot them, especially Jace Trent, who’d been coached by his brother, the sheriff. Plus Molly was supposed to have been with Vicki. Everyone around here knew Vicki Ross wasn’t yet legal drinking age.
“Didn’t buy ’em. My friend did.”
“Let me guess—a male friend. One older than you.”
“Larry likes me.” She managed to make it an accusation.
I like you. Not so much right at the moment, but there was potential for the two of them to be friends. Or was there? Maybe Becca had been fooling herself about her ability to be a good influence, about their being able to find common ground. She leaned over to make sure Molly’s seat belt was buckled properly.
“You don’t have it in the slot,” she said.
“Can’t do anything right for you!” Molly cried, swatting away Becca’s attempts to help. “Mama never cared if I finished the last of the cereal! Or smiled at a guy.”
Odette didn’t care—there was breaking news. And Larry Breelan hadn’t been feeding an eighteen-year-old drinks because he’d been hoping for a smile. First thing tomorrow, Becca was calling the sheriff and asking him to kindly go tase the offending Breelan.
“Well, I do care,” Becca said. “I care about you not making self-destructive choices. And I care about your future. And I care about how this is going to look to the people in my community.” She’d been trying so hard to help Molly make friends, wanting her to know that same sense of belonging Becca felt here in Cupid’s Bow.
“You care about the election!” Molly smacked her hand on the dashboard. “You’re afraid someone might not vote for you because your sister got a little tipsy!”
“You passed tipsy four or five exits ago. What happened to Vicki? Did she see you get thrown out? I don’t want her worried.”
“She went home—said her legs were starting to bother her. I told her I had another ride.”
“Larry Breelan?” Forget going through the sheriff; Becca would tase the opportunistic lech herself. “Do you have any idea how—”
“Vicki talked about you all night. How you were there for her when she was in a wheelchair last summer, how you’re always there for this town. When the hell are you there for me?”
Since the minute you showed up at my door needing a place to live, you ingrate. Becca had been introducing her to people, giving her rides to and from work, encouraging her t
o want more for herself. But making those points now would be wasted breath. Her sister was too irrational.
Within seconds, Molly went into a full-on rant about the injustice of life, including how her ex had taken her for granted and how it wasn’t fair both of her sisters had met their perfect men. She must be using an alternate definition of perfection, one that included shady real estate deals and divorce.
Needing to be free of the escalating verbal abuse, Becca pulled into the driveway at a crooked angle. Then she dutifully came around the side of the car to help, but Molly shoved at her arm.
Becca took a deep breath, fighting the urge to say something she couldn’t take back. Oh, go ahead. She probably won’t remember it in the morning, anyway.
Molly spilled from the car, unsteady but managing not to face-plant on the driveway.
“Need a hand?” Sawyer’s voice came from the porch, and Becca glanced his way, torn between gratitude that he was there and humiliation that he was witnessing this.
“Not you, too!” Molly wailed. “Bad enough I’m her pity project.” She stomped up to the front porch, removing her shoes as she went. One landed sideways on a step. Cinderella goes on a bender.
Becca hurried after her, pausing to ask Sawyer, “Where’s Marc? Did he—”
“I got him out of the tub and suggested he read in bed, told him you were giving Aunt Molly a ride.”
“Could you help him pack a bag with his toothbrush and clothes for tomorrow? He gets to have a rare school-night sleepover. The Whittmeyers are on their way.” Recalling how she’d joked about Marc spending too much time at their house made her feel guilty; she was damn lucky to be friends with a family who always had her back.
“On it.” Sawyer held the door open for her, then headed up the stairs.
Becca found her sister in the kitchen, trying to pour orange juice and spilling it all over the counter. Molly gave her a look of pure malevolence. “You’re outta OJ. Better write it on the damn list.”
Retaliation burned on the tip of Becca’s tongue, the urge to snap. And you wonder why Odette didn’t want you under her roof and your boyfriend didn’t love you? Because you’re awful. “We’ll discuss this tomorrow. When you’re sober. For now, you need to go sleep this off.” Before I stick your ass on a bus to Oklahoma.
No. She would not dump this on Courtney the way Odette had always dumped her parenting responsibilities on Becca.
She was a little surprised when Molly actually headed toward the stairs instead of doing something to spite her. Still, she didn’t fully trust her sister to get into bed without causing further destruction, so she followed along.
Her presence seemed to enrage Molly. “Go away!”
“It’s my house.”
“Mama?” Marc appeared at the top the staircase, freshly bathed and wearing monster truck pj’s. His voice was tremulous, the note in it one she normally heard only after a nightmare or during tornado watches.
Her maternal instincts superseded the rage she was feeling, and she softened her tone. “It’s okay, baby. Just go wait with Mr. Sawyer.” But this wasn’t okay, and the fact that her little boy was witnessing any of it made the rage bubble hotter.
“Yeah, be a good little boy, Marc, and do what Mommy says,” Molly sneered. She grabbed the newel post at the bottom of the steps, pivoting back toward Becca. “You. You think I’m seven, too, but I’m not. And you aren’t my mommy. You barely want to be my sister!” She wobbled on the second step.
Becca jerked forward to help. “Be careful.”
“Stop telling me what to do! I’m. Not. A. Kid.”
“Then grow the hell up!” Becca realized she was shaking. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d lost her temper.
Molly glared at her, angry tears shimmering in her eyes, and whirled around to resume her climb. She made it three more steps before misjudging one, losing her balance and grappling unsuccessfully for the banister.
Marc gasped as his aunt tumbled to the hardwood floor below, narrowly missing Becca, who’d flattened herself against the wall. Molly shrieked, either in fear or pain, but the scream quickly gave way to sobbing. Becca realized her own cheeks were wet.
Kneeling beside her sister, she gingerly poked and prodded to make sure nothing was broken. “Can you wiggle your fingers? Do you think you can stand?”
Suddenly Sawyer was there, strong and steady, first helping Molly to her feet, then picking her up and carrying her upstairs.
As Becca watched the cowboy she was crazy about disappear into her sister’s bedroom, she had to bite back hysterical laughter over how wrong the night had gone.
* * *
THE NIGHT AIR was cool, and the relative peace of the neighborhood was a relief after the yelling and tears inside. Sawyer darted a sideways glance at Marc, who wasn’t saying much as they waiting on the porch for his friend’s family.
“You okay, buddy?”
Marc seemed startled by the question. “I’m not the one who fell.”
“Your aunt will be okay. Your mom’s taking care of her now.” From the noises Molly had started making before he’d backed out of the room, Becca was probably holding Molly’s hair back while the girl heaved. Having been in Molly’s position himself a time or two, he wasn’t without sympathy. Still, he figured a hellacious hangover might make the teenager think twice before reaching for a drink again.
“They’re both really mad,” Marc said.
“Yeah, but not at you. Brothers and sisters fight sometimes.”
“Kenny and Coop call each other names. But Coop is nice. He helps us with math sometimes and got us to the next level of Ultimate Fortress Strike.” The little boy stared into the distance. “I don’t have a brother. I don’t even have a daddy. He went away.”
“I’m sorry, kid.” Your dad sounds like a jackass. “But you’ve got your mom. And she’s special. Having her in your corner is like having three or four parents.”
“I only need two.” Marc sighed. “Mr. Sawyer?”
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Are you gonna leave, too?”
The lump in Sawyer’s throat made it difficult to answer. He hadn’t expected so much sadness in Marc’s eyes, eyes that were a lot like his mom’s. Sawyer hated to let the kid down, but he cared about him far too much to lie. “Yes. You and your mom have been great—everyone in Cupid’s Bow has been—but this is your home, not mine.”
The boy’s lower lip trembled, but he nodded. “Where’s your home?”
I don’t know. Luckily, the Whittmeyers pulled into the driveway before Sawyer was forced to explain that.
How could he summarize his life in a way that made sense to a seven-year-old when Sawyer himself was starting to have questions he couldn’t answer?
* * *
MRS. WHITTMEYER KEPT knocking on the door to Kenny and Coop’s room to check on the boys. That’s what she claimed, anyway. “You boys okay? You boys need anything?” But they all knew she was really checking on Marc, peering down at him in a way that made him wish he could shrink into the beanbag chair the same way turtles hid in their shells.
He started to tell her he was fine, just so she’d stop looking at him like that, but Kenny interrupted. “Marc’s sad. Brownies would cheer him up.”
She was quiet for a moment. “All right—I’ll whip up a batch, but after that, you guys have to go to bed. School tomorrow.”
Once she was gone, Kenny grinned from the other beanbag. “Video games and brownies on a school night! This is the best.”
“Uh-huh.” Marc tried to smile.
Coop glanced over from the homework he was doing at his desk. “Wait. Are you actually sad?”
Marc shrugged. Tonight had been a little scary. He didn’t like seeing Mama mad or seeing Aunt Molly fall, but Sawyer promised his aunt would be oka
y. What made Marc’s tummy hurt was the rest of the conversation he’d had with Sawyer. I don’t want brownies. He just wanted the cowboy to stay.
“I think Mama likes Mr. Sawyer.” She was different with him here. Still Mama, with her rules and her election stress, but Sawyer made her laugh. She said yes to more stuff, like milk shakes and bath crayons. And Trouble! I have a dog. Before Sawyer came, Marc had asked if he could have a pet about a million times. She always said no.
“Does the idea of her dating bother you?” Coop asked. “Some of the kids at my middle school have divorced parents, and it can be a difficult transition—”
“Shut up!” Kenny tossed a pillow at his brother. “I hate when you try to talk like a grown-up.”
“It’s called maturity, butt face.”
“I wouldn’t mind if she dates Mr. Sawyer,” Marc said. “But how can she if he’s leaving town? He doesn’t want to stay in Cupid’s Bow.”
“That’s dumb,” Kenny said. “Cupid’s Bow is great.”
Coop put his chin on his hand. “He just needs a reason to stay.”
Marc had learned in social studies that there was a president and a vice president; even the school had a principal and a vice principal. Was there such a thing as a vice mayor? Maybe Sawyer could work for Mama after she won.
Coop rolled back his chair—it was the cool kind with wheels on it, the same as the one Marc sat in when he was at his mom’s office. “You said she likes Sawyer. Does he like her?”
Marc shrugged. “How do you tell? He doesn’t take her flowers or kiss her or anything.”
Kenny always made throw-up sounds when his parents kissed, but Marc didn’t mind if his mama wanted to kiss Mr. Sawyer. Daddy was never coming back, but sometimes Marc still wanted a family. A family like Kenny and Coop had, with two parents who fought sometimes but who also made each other laugh and snuggled together.
“Does he wear a lot of stinky body spray?” Kenny pinched his nose. “That’s what Coop does when he likes a girl.”
The Cowboy Upstairs Page 13
