by Toni Blake
Dahlia smiled wistfully, thinking back on that big, loving hunk of a man. “Never the most handsome,” she said to Giselle, holding up one finger, “but the most guileless and the most giving of perhaps the purest love I’ve received. He asked little and rewarded me with much. He was the kind of rich that poor girls like me could only dream of. And for entirely different reasons, my favorite of my three husbands—which is why I went back to using his name later, long after he was gone from my life.”
“What happened? What’s the story of you and Tom Delaney?”
Dahlia sighed, remembering the whirlwind of it all in just a few seconds. She’d never understood how someone’s entire life could flash before them when they faced death, but maybe it was something like the way her entire marriage to Tom flashed in her mind as she began describing it to Giselle.
“He gave me the world. Literally. Spain, Belgium, Italy, the Maldives. We spent the first three months of our marriage in Hawaii—I learned to hula dance and he tried to surf, but was, sadly, too big and tall a man. I admired his spirit for attempting it, though. Later, we spent a month in Alaska, but it was too dark for me—we went on a lark, during the wrong time of year.
“We stayed in London for a period. And Tuscany—ah, Tuscany. The hill towns captured my heart and whisked me back in time. He was a great fan of Paris—I suppose most people are—but I never felt as embraced there as I did most places we ventured. And it rained for a great deal of our stay, which just puts a damper on anything if you’re not a fan of it.
“We came back to his ranch in Montana, but I was quickly bit with wanderlust again, and we spent a winter in Puerto Vallarta sipping tequila and soaking up the sun. The following summer we rented a cabin in the Canadian Rockies—and oh, the lakes in that region, Giselle. Have you ever been?”
Giselle shook her head. “No.”
“Put it on your bucket list. You’ve never seen water so vibrantly blue. It’s the minerals in the lakes that make them that way. Feels like canoeing across heaven. And then...”
“Then?” Giselle prodded.
“Then he began to get tired. He was older than me. Not old, mind you, but in my opinion people got older faster back then—they considered themselves over the hill far too young. He wanted to stop traveling, become more involved in running the ranch.
“I thought I would be happy enough, but I wasn’t. He knew it even before I did. And as I said, he gave me the world—but when the world ran out, there didn’t seem to be any particular glue that held us together. Perhaps I should have been more patient. I’d been more patient with Pete. But then, that patience had, ultimately, felt like wasted time. And I didn’t want to waste Tom’s time any more than my own. I wanted him to find the kind of woman who could be content on a big ranch in the middle of nowhere for the rest of her days so he wouldn’t end up alone. And I wanted...whatever I suddenly wasn’t finding with him.
“Soon came more adventures, another man, and then a year later, my mother died around that time. And I went home for the first time since leaving. In one sense, I was a very different person at thirty than I’d been at sixteen. In so many ways I just had my shit together. I knew how to function in the world. I’d become confident, capable. And yet, I wasn’t quite...whole. I was still running, still running away from home even all those years later. I realized that when the travel stopped—that I was still trying to get away from something, afraid to stay in one place too long.”
“Wait—back up. I have to ask you a question,” Giselle interrupted, eyebrows slyly raising. “What about the money? You said he was rich. Or was there a pre-nup?”
Dahlia shook her head. “No pre-nup. I could have taken half, but I’m not that greedy. I took less than he wanted to give me, bless his heart, but more than I could have conceived of ever having before I met him. It was...a nest egg. It went into the bank. At times he even added to it without telling me. I used some of it when I needed it, but mostly, I just saved it. Part of my new life was...living normally, not like a rich divorcée. In fact, my third husband never even knew about that money.”
Giselle blinked her surprise at the statement. “And how did you meet him?”
“I moved to New Mexico. And I became a waitress.”
Giselle just shook her head, smiling. “All that money, and you waited tables?”
Dahlia shrugged. “It was never about money and things for me—it was about adventure and the journey. I thought it would be a good way to meet people. Turned out I was right. I hadn’t been on the job two weeks when a man named Blake Browning walked into the restaurant where I worked and swept me right off my feet.”
* * *
“WELCOME TO BIG PORTER’S STEAKHOUSE, home of the best porterhouse this side of the Pecos,” Dahlia said. Her uniform included blue jeans, a red-and-white checked shirt topped with a brown suede vest, and a red neckerchief.
“I love your hair.”
Dahlia looked down at the customer. This wasn’t the usual response to the spiel she was required to give at Big P’s. And her hair wasn’t much different than many women’s. Current 1983 styles called for it being flipped back on the sides, a line of bangs curled under across her forehead, and her blond locks now hung only to her shoulders. But the cow-eyed party of one in a rumpled business suit gazed up at her like she was Rapunzel.
“Thank you,” she said with a dry, obligatory smile. “What can I get you to drink while you look at the menu?”
“I’m stumped on that, see,” he said. “Thing is, I’ve had too much to drink already.”
That explained a lot.
“I’m in town for a convention, the kind where the alcohol flows, and I’m afraid it’s got the best of me. And so here I am suddenly faced with the most beautiful cowgirl in the world, and I want to make a good impression on her, so I figure I better sober up fast. I’m not much of a drinker,” he continued, “so I’ve never had to sober up fast. What do you suggest?”
Oh, so many things. A taxi back to your hotel room and a good night’s sleep. A gallon of water. A better pickup line. She settled on, “I’ll bring you a big cup of coffee and a glass of water.” Then turned to go before he could reply.
“Oh my God, what a cutie,” said a waitress named Lorena as Dahlia reached the drink station.
“Where?” Dahlia asked absently. Many of her new friends at Big P’s were girls on the hunt for love. Dahlia wasn’t sure what she was hunting for, but she didn’t mind playing along.
Lorena giggled beneath the bi-level haircut that made her look like a punk rocker. “Your customer, silly. The one you were just talking to.”
Dahlia flicked her gaze from the coffee cup she’d just picked up back to Mr. Cow-Eyes across the room. And...oh. He actually was. With dark brown hair and a classic chiseled jaw, once you got past those mooning eyes and the slightly skewed tie, he was quite handsome. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Lorena laughed as if Dahlia were kidding. But it had been a long night in too-tight cowboy boots on swollen feet. Thirty more minutes and she’d be in the car, heading home to her apartment. She could afford better with the money from her divorce, but she was saving that for a rainy day. Or...maybe she didn’t think she deserved better. Having left a good man who loved her. Having taken less than he wanted but still more than felt fair.
Lowering the drinks to Mr. Cow-Eyes’s table—hopefully her last of the evening—she pulled out her order pad, smiled pleasantly, and said, “What sounds good?”
He peered up at her in the same adoring way—only this time, something in his gaze appealed more. And normally when a man stared at her so openly it made her feel ogled, and a little creeped out. But his gaze held admiration tempered with...dare she think respect? Or was she tired and just being wooed by a pretty face?
“That’s a dangerous question to ask a man not in full control of his faculties,” Mr. Cow-Eyes said with a surprisingly endearing g
rin.
“I’m sure you won’t make me regret it,” she offered optimistically.
“I may be intoxicated, Miss Beautiful Cowgirl,” he said, “but I’m still a gentleman.” Then he tipped an imaginary hat, making her laugh when she least expected it. “I’ll have the twenty-ounce rib eye, medium, with mashed potatoes and green beans. See if it won’t soak up some of the liquor.”
She wrote it down and said, “That sounds like a good idea.” Then, against her better judgment, asked, “What’s the convention for? What do you do?”
“I’m an accountant for Goldwater’s in Phoenix. It’s an accounting convention.”
Different answer than she’d expected, and she let out a laugh. “The accountants party hardy, huh?”
He shrugged, grinned. “Our big chance to cut loose. And have a killer hangover.”
She pointed to the water glass. “Drink as much of that as possible. It’ll help.”
“Hope so. I have a couple more sessions tomorrow—then heading back home.”
“I’m sure your wife and kids will be glad to see you.”
He shook his head. “Oh, no wife and kids for me. Not yet anyway.”
He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but he looked older than her, mid-thirties at least, and by that age most men had a family—especially the handsome ones with the steady jobs. And intoxication and flailing attempts at flirtation aside, this guy was suddenly striking her as, indeed, the steady type.
“Why not?” she asked, head tilted.
He looked up at her, a little less cow-eyed, a little more somber. “Haven’t found the right girl. I’ve tried,” he announced, holding up one finger. “But I haven’t found her. Truth is, Miss Beautiful Cowgirl, I’d love nothing more than to settle down with my soul mate and raise a family. It’s how I always saw things going, you know?”
Yes, she knew. The American dream—nice home, nice car, married with kids, a nine-to-five job with a pension, and time to grill out in the backyard on the weekend. It had never been her dream exactly—but she saw the appeal. And his disappointment made her sad.
Until, that is, he smiled flirtatiously up at her and said, “You applying for the job?”
From most men, that would have hit the creep button, but she’d actually started liking him more and more. Typically, drunk men were obnoxious—but this one was just...genuine. The alcohol had knocked down any walls inside him, had him being honest and forthcoming with a woman he’d only known for three minutes.
“Afraid not,” she answered on a light laugh.
He was quick to smile his endearing smile and say, “I’m striking out already? You should give me a chance now, not count me out so fast. I’m not usually drunk and forward. If you met me in real life, you might just like me.”
His honesty drew the same from her. “I think I might—but I just got divorced. I’m in no hurry to get married again, if ever. In fact, I’ve already screwed it up twice.”
He cast a puzzled look. “That’s impossible. You’re too young to be divorced twice.”
“I just turned twenty-nine, and I agree—two failed marriages before the age of thirty is a pretty bad track record.”
He still eyed her curiously, and she could tell that rather than turn him off, this new information had intrigued him, made her more of a mystery he wanted to solve. “What two imbeciles could have been stupid enough to divorce Miss Beautiful Cowgirl?”
She gave him a sweet smile, truly finding it hard not to like him. “As it happens, the decision was mine, both times.”
He tipped his head back. “Ah, now that I believe. You leave a trail of broken hearts behind you.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” she said. Though she knew she had broken the hearts of both her husbands, she didn’t like thinking about that.
“Let me buy you dinner,” Mr. Cow-Eyes said.
“What? No. I mean, I’m working.”
“When do you get off?”
“Soon, but...” She looked around the restaurant. “I can’t just sit down and have dinner with a customer.”
“All right,” he said, nodding. “Then cancel my order.”
“What?” She blinked.
“Let’s go somewhere else,” he suggested eagerly.
“Oh-h-ho no,” she quickly replied. “Sorry, but you’re going to be sleeping alone tonight, mister. Or at least not with me.”
At this, he shook his head. “You got me all wrong, Miss Beautiful Cowgirl. I just meant let’s go somewhere else to eat.”
“Oh.” She’d jumped to conclusions—a mere two weeks of smarmy men devouring steaks had jaded her.
He pointed out the window, across the street, where the golden arches of a McDonald’s lit the night in a strip of neon retail. “Meet me after you get off. Big Macs are on me.”
She simply stood there shaking her head, trying to figure him out. “You’d rather eat fast food than steak?”
“Correction,” he said. “I’d rather eat fast food with you than steak alone.”
Good answer. And almost tempting. But she still asked, “Why?”
“You’ve got mystery in your eyes. I want to play detective.”
Oh, that was good, too. He was hitting his stride. Still, she said, “I don’t know. I’m tired, my feet are killing me, and there’s a bubble bath calling my name.”
He just peered up at her and said, “See, there are so many things I could say to that—about giving you foot rubs or sharing baths, but all I want to do is eat a hamburger with you, Miss Beautiful Cowgirl. That’s all I’m asking.” With that, he got to his feet, pulled out a wallet, and slapped a five-dollar bill on the table. “For the coffee and conversation. I’m gonna go across the street now, and I hope I’ll see you there soon.” Then he took her hand, raised it to his mouth, and delivered a kiss—that echoed all the way to her sore toes. And only as he walked away did he look back to say, “My name is Blake, by the way. Blake Browning.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“AND SO I WENT,” Dahlia said, having given Giselle a shorter version. She’d never been one to give everything away—she believed a wise woman had some secrets and was more interested in others than in herself. And she hadn’t given everything away to her suitor that night at McDonald’s, either. But she’d given him some—some about running away from home thirteen years earlier, some about her heavenly hippie life with Pete, some about world travels with Tom. “And I told him I was a bad bet. Laughingly, mind you, but that’s what I told him.
“He said he was coming back the next weekend to take me on a proper date. It was a seven-hour drive, which I pointed out. He said he’d stay the night at a motel. And that’s what he did. After that first weekend, I let him stay with me—but there was no hanky-panky, my dear Giselle,” she said, lifting one finger in the air. “No, ma’am. I was determined to go slow. After all, I hadn’t started over with an eye toward romance—I’d wanted to finally see what life was like on my own. But then along came this wonderful guy, wooing me.”
She thought back to her little apartment near Old Town, just a few rooms but each brimming with authentic Southwestern flair. “I liked Albuquerque and wish I’d gotten to stay longer,” she told Giselle. “If I could rewrite the story of my life, I would have made Blake show up a year or two later. But who can say how that might have changed things, and I’m a believer that things unfold however they’re supposed to—even now I believe that—and soon it just made sense to pack my bags and move to Phoenix.”
“So you still didn’t get to live on your own,” Giselle said, sounding disappointed for her.
But Dahlia shrugged. “Yes and no. I insisted on getting my own place and continuing not to rush. And bless my sweet Blake’s heart, he didn’t push me too hard. Though he wanted to marry me. He made that clear from the start. And I held out, committed to being sure this time. I got a catering job,
going back to what I was good at—cooking. Only now it was for masses of people. But I was good at that, too, turned out, and I made a decent living.
“The whole time, though, Blake was the man in my life. I met his parents, his siblings, their families. I went to work functions with him. And it began to be...comfortable. But I still kept insisting I wasn’t ready to tie the knot. Not yet. Until...I was.”
“What changed?” Giselle asked. “What finally made you say yes?”
“Well, that’s a rather long story.”
Giselle looked around them. “We have nothing but time, Dahlia,” she said pleasantly. “Unless you’re tired of talking about your life. You’ve shared a lot with me lately.”
Dahlia tilted her head, thinking it through. “Actually, it’s...helped me sort some things out. So I’ll gladly finish the story—soon. But right now, it’s past our dinnertime.”
* * *
“OW!”
“Sorry,” Suzanne said.
“This sounded a lot more fun than it is.”
Zack lay on his stomach and she massaged his butt. Mainly the right side—stimulating tightened muscles in an attempt to relax the nerve pain down his right side. They were managing it with topical treatments—but she wanted to make it better.
“I know,” she told him. “But this is going to benefit you in the long run.”
He let out a groan. “Damn, Suzie Q—lucky I trust you.”
“Lucky I like you,” she told him, “enough to put up with your continuous complaints.”
“Come on, now,” he said, “if I didn’t complain, you wouldn’t recognize me.”
“That’s true,” she said on a light laugh, then scooted back from him on the sofa bed. “Okay, done. Turn over and show me what you can do with that leg today.”
Propping himself on his elbow, he took a deep breath as they both focused on his right leg. And he moved it a little. A little more than yesterday, when he’d moved it a little more than the day before that.
