A Man to Hold on to (A Tallgrass Novel)

by Marilyn Pappano

  “Thank you,” Ilena said, her own gaze darting from him to Therese and back again. “Ooh, chivalry is not dead. I’ll be getting up again every half hour or so in case you’re available.”

  “Just send your friend in to the bar. I’ll be there until the game is over.”

  Ilena made that little squeaky ooh again. “What game?”

  “Don’t know. I’m just here for the food. My friend’s watching the game.”

  “If it’s baseball and you get bored, I’ll take your place for an inning or two. We’re watching all the baseball we can because Hector Junior”—she patted her stomach—“is going to play and I’m going to coach.”

  Ilena really intended to name the baby Hector, along with a string of other names (including Juan, his father’s name), but at his daddy’s wish, once he made his appearance in this world, he would be called John. Still, “Hector” always gave Therese a smile. Now she laughed at the image of slim, delicate Ilena with her thin, delicate voice shouting instructions to a rampaging bunch of five-year-olds. Keegan chuckled, too, gazed at Therese a moment, then went inside the restaurant.

  Ilena didn’t wait for the door to swing shut before locking her attention on Therese. “Who is he?”

  “His name is Keegan Logan. He’s…” A friend of Paul’s, she’d been about to say, but she wasn’t sure that was entirely true. Paul had been a good man, but he’d liked the class distinctions in the Army. As a major, there’d been a buffer between him and the enlisted personnel who served under his command. Socially…well, there’d been no socializing—fraternization was the official word for it—between him and any enlisted people. If he were still alive, if Ilena’s and Carly’s and Jessy’s husbands were still alive, no matter how close friends the women had become, Paul never would have felt comfortable with their husbands.

  “He knew Paul in the war,” she went on as, in the parking lot behind Ilena, Lucy and Marti got out of Marti’s Suburban. Ten spaces away Carly and Fia were climbing out of their vehicles. “He didn’t know…”

  Ilena’s nose wrinkled in an expression of sympathy. “When did you meet him?”

  “Sunday.”

  “You seemed awfully cozy.”

  Therese’s face heated. “Cozy? No. We were just talking about…” About what? Not last night, when they’d gone out on a date. Not when he’d taken her home and she’d wanted him to kiss her. Chips, salsa, beer. That was it. “Food. The game. His friend.”

  After studying her a long moment, Ilena smiled. “Okay.”

  Therese sighed in relief. When Ilena said okay like that, it meant end of discussion. Carly might not let things go so easily, and Jessy definitely wouldn’t, but Ilena was pretty respectful of others’ feelings.

  By the time Therese had exhaled that bit of tension, their friends were crowding around the tables. She shifted into the empty chair nearest Ilena to save someone having to squeeze past one of them to get in, then noticed after she resettled that now she had the advantage of being able to look through the nine-paned window and across a half dozen tables into the bar.

  Where she could easily see Keegan sitting with several men at one of the bar’s tall round tables. Looking up, he lifted his beer in a salute. She smiled, then heard Ilena softly say, “Oh-kay.” Therese knew what that meant, too: this is interesting.

  It was, wasn’t it?

  By 6:10, the usual seven, plus Bennie Ford, were seated around the tables, with pink margaritas in front of each of them but Ilena. Her matching glass held sparkling water. Everyone had given the waitress their orders and a momentary lull fell over the group. Beside Therese, Carly took a breath, then raised her left hand. “It’s official, guys.”

  In place of the wedding band she’d worn so long was a gold band with a lustrous pearl nestled in the center of the filigree. It was as different as could be from the sleek platinum-and-diamond ring Jeff had given her. This one was softer, more old-fashioned. It looked like the ring of a marriage that would last decades.

  Squeals of delight erupted around the table as everyone leaned closer for a better look. Therese hugged Carly, then sat back to watch the others. They were happy for her, just as they’d all said they would be a few months ago when they’d discussed whether falling in love again would affect their friendship. After all, what man wanted his wife hanging out with a group that was started expressly to deal with the loss of her first husband?

  Dane Clark, apparently. He was a good man, and Carly was blessed to have him.

  When life was good and calm and held at least a semblance of normal, Therese would like to be blessed, too.

  * * *

  The sun had set, the light fading, as Dalton turned into the main gate at the Fort Murphy National Cemetery. There was a time the staff had been stricter about enforcing the hours, locking the gates at five in winter, seven in summer, but over the past few years, they’d relaxed their policies, trying to accommodate the families as much as possible. This evening, it appeared he was the only person making a late visit. It wouldn’t take long.

  The section with Sandra’s grave was located toward the rear of the cemetery. The highway and businesses on either side kept it from expanding in three directions, so newer graves were to the south. The entire section he drove to—more marble markers than he wanted to count—was filled with graves of service members who’d died in the Iraqi/Afghani conflicts.

  He parked in his usual spot, picked up the yellow flowers he’d bought at the grocery store since Pansy’s Posies was closed, and walked across the new-mown grass. Though all the markers were alike, the format of the inscriptions the same, he could find Sandra’s grave without looking. His feet led him there automatically. Bending, he placed the flowers at the base of the stone, then touched his fingers lightly to it. It was cool, smooth. Lifeless.

  Specialist Sandra Ann Jones Smith. She’d joked about trading one all-too-common name for another, but at least she hadn’t had to spell it for people. She’d been twenty-seven when she died. Too damn young.

  But it had been her choice. The doctors and nurses at the hospitals could have saved her. The medics in the field had saved her. She was the one who’d chosen to loosen the tourniquet. She was the one who’d thought bleeding to death in the desert preferable to coming home a double amputee.

  She was the one who hadn’t loved him enough to try.

  Sometimes he hated her for it. Sometimes he hated himself. Had he said or done anything he couldn’t remember to make her think he wouldn’t want her that way? Hadn’t her life back here meant enough to her to at least try?

  Apparently not.

  It was a burden, keeping a secret like that. Her parents didn’t know. Dalton’s own parents didn’t know. No one knew she’d chosen death over them, besides Dane Clark.

  More than a week had passed since Clark had come out to the ranch. They were practically strangers, but there had been something…If Dalton were a religious man, he might think bringing the soldier to his house not once but twice had been some kind of plan of God’s. Clark had been keeping a secret, too, from the woman he was in love with about his war injury. He had accidentally exposed his own damaged leg that day, but telling him the truth about Sandra’s death had been a conscious choice on Dalton’s part.

  It seemed to have helped. Clark had proposed to his girlfriend, revealing his prosthesis in front of all her friends at Three Amigos last Tuesday.

  And if Dalton were honest, maybe the telling had helped him, too. Now that someone else knew about Sandra, his own knowing didn’t seem so hard.

  Slowly he turned away from the marker and started back to the truck. Instead of taking the shortest route, he followed a weaving path that took him to another marble stone, another set of engraved information. The fading light cast shadows, but he could make out the words. Corporal Aaron Marlon Lawrence. Jessy’s husband. Twenty-six when he died in Afghanistan.

  This was where Dalton had met her. Was that weird, meeting the only woman he’d felt any interest in s
ince Sandra’s death in a cemetery? Noah had given him a day off from the ranch, and Jessy had invited him for burgers and beer at Aaron’s favorite watering hole. One burger. Too many beers.

  Then she’d pretended not to recognize him the next time he saw her. Had flirted with Noah right in front of him. And yesterday…

  Hell, he didn’t want to think about yesterday. Didn’t want to think about her at all.

  He climbed into his truck and headed for the cemetery gates. A left turn put him on Main Street, and he drove past the fort. He had all the privileges any other not-remarried spouse/widow had: medical care at the hospital, shopping at the commissary and PX, access to all the morale and welfare stuff. But he’d never set foot on the post since the day he’d kissed Sandra good-bye for her last deployment. He’d watched her get on the bus that would take them to Tinker Air Force Base, where they were departing from, and he’d felt so damn empty.

  Now he knew what real emptiness felt like.

  His stomach growled as he pulled to a stop at a red light. He could go home and stick something in the microwave. He bought plenty of frozen dinners and pizzas, and every time his parents visited, Mom fixed enough casseroles to last until their next trip. He could grab a burger from Sonic or a sandwich from Subway or a roast beef from Arby’s…

  His gaze settled on the structure that filled the middle section of the parking lot of the Tallgrass Center. Vivid colors, bright lights, damn good food…Granted, it was Tuesday, which meant Jessy and her friends would be there—were there; he could see the herd of women on the patio from a hundred feet away. But they were on the patio. If he stopped, he would find a table at the dimly lit bar. She would never notice he was there.

  Slowly he drove past the restaurant, his gaze scanning the women just long enough to find a head of fiery red hair. His fingers knotted, but he turned in at the next entrance anyway. He parked on the west side of the lot, in front of a liquor store that would soon close for the evening. He didn’t listen for sounds of conversation as he opened the restaurant door, didn’t look toward the patio at all, just followed a slender woman in a short skirt into the bar and, at his request, to a table in a dark corner.

  He hadn’t done more than open the menu when running shoes squeaked to a stop on the concrete floor. Looking up, he saw Dane Clark. “How’re you doing?”

  Dalton shrugged. Last Tuesday, Clark had been wearing shorts, had even gone down on one knee on the patio to propose to his girlfriend. Tonight he wore jeans, and no one watching him would guess that the denim covered pitifully little of his left leg.

  “Things worked out pretty well last week.”

  Dalton was about to say I know, then he remembered that he’d hidden in the corner last week, too. He had come to Three Amigos to check out the support group the girlfriend belonged to. He’d thought—Clark had thought—they might have some advice that would help him, since they’d all been where he was. But after realizing that Jessy was one of them, he’d tried to fade into the background until he could pay his tab and disappear.

  “Congratulations,” he said instead. “So she’s okay about your leg.”

  “Yeah. She’s okay.” Clark hesitated a moment, then said, “I’m watching the game over there”—he gestured to the opposite corner—“with some friends. Why don’t you come on over?”

  The game. Dalton had to stop and think what season it was, what game might be on. There’d been a time when he followed football, basketball, and baseball, when he’d arranged his free time around the college schedules. Hell, he’d even played in high school, him and Dillon both. Now he doubted he’d taken an interest in any game since…

  It was tedious, a line he could repeat in his sleep and apply to so many things: since Sandra died.

  A week ago he’d wanted to know how to start living again. Maybe he couldn’t take advantage of the support group, thanks to Jessy, but they weren’t the only people who’d suffered and managed to move on.

  His chair scraped back across pebbled cement, and he picked up his drink. “Sure. Why not?”

  * * *

  One nice thing about the Army: they might send you a hell of a lot of places, but odds were, you could find someone you knew there. If not, it wasn’t hard to get to know someone.

  Keegan glanced around the table. Zeke Jefferson, on his left, had been stationed at Fort Polk last year. Now he was assigned to the hospital here at Murphy. Jefferson knew the guy on his left, Dane Clark, from the hospital. Clark was with the Warrior Transition Unit and, Keegan knew from past experience, had spent enough time with medics, doctors, nurses, and therapists to last three lifetimes.

  The fourth man was a friend of Clark’s. Dalton Smith was big enough to play linebacker on any professional team, but the only critters he wrestled to the ground were the cows and horses he raised. He was a quiet guy, but with Jefferson, a man who’d never met a silence he couldn’t fill, it didn’t matter much.

  Keegan kept one eye on the game, one on the group of women on the patio. It didn’t take both eyes to see that they were having a good time. Two more women had joined the original eight, one about his mother’s age, the other so young he hoped she was the first woman’s daughter. She couldn’t be more than eighteen, too damn young to be a widow.

  But so was the one his mother’s age. So were they all.

  He’d thought he was being pretty covert about watching Therese and her friends, but during a break in the baseball game, Jefferson said, “If you’re looking for a pretty woman, our waitress tonight is single and available. Better than hooking up with any of them.”

  When caught, play dumb. That was Keegan’s old man’s motto. “Any of who?”

  “The widows, man.” Then he added, with a gesture toward Clark, “Well, one of ’em’s about to be a bride again. But the rest of ’em…This is, like, their support group. Their grief management group.”

  At that moment a burst of laughter came from the patio, loud enough to be heard across the small dining room that separated the bar and patio. Clark lifted his beer with a grin. “Laughter’s good medicine, right?”

  “Which one’s yours?” Keegan asked.

  “Carly. The side closest to us, this end on the right. Burnt orange sweater.”

  Keegan glanced at her—light brown hair, average size, sitting next to Therese—then back at Clark. “You a Texas fan?” According to the older of his sisters, men only grasped the nuances of colors when they matched a sports teams’ colors. A regular guy might not know the difference between UT’s burnt orange and the Halloween shade of Oklahoma State’s orange, but football fans did.

  “Born and bred,” Clark replied.

  “I’m partial to LSU myself. When’s the wedding?”

  “First weekend of June.”

  “Congratulations.” Since Jefferson, Clark, and Smith were all still watching the women, Keegan looked back, too. Therese was leaning close to the pregnant blonde, listening intently to whatever she had to say. Had the blonde’s husband known he was going to be a father? Had he suspected he might not live long enough to hold his baby? Would his kid grow up calling someone else Daddy, feeling no connection at all to the father who’d died before his birth?

  If he were the blonde’s husband, dead or not, he’d resent the hell out of someone replacing him in his child’s life. But wasn’t Mariah in the same position? She was never going to know her father, and the only resentment Keegan felt was that Sabrina had dragged him into her mess.

  Besides, there was a difference: presumably the blonde’s husband had every intention of coming back to her and raising his child. Therese’s husband’s only intent with Sabrina had been to break his marriage vows, have a little fun for the weekend, and never confess his infidelity to his wife.

  They watched the women a moment longer—Clark’s gaze fixed on his fiancée, Smith locked in on someone at the other end of the table, Keegan looking at Therese—then the game came on again, and gradually each of them turned their attention back to the big scree
n.

  It was around nine when the widows’ club—damn if that name didn’t suck—when the margarita club started the standing/shuffling/getting ready that signaled an end to the evening. Dalton Smith drained the last of his beer, muttered something like nice meeting you, clamped the cowboy hat on his head, and stalked out of the bar.

  Clark finished his beer, too, and eased to his feet. “See you around, Zeke. Logan, if you’re here next Tuesday, drop in.”

  “Wonder if he’s ever been married before,” Jefferson said as Clark headed toward the patio. “I’d say no. He’s too eager to tie himself down to have been through it before.”

  Keegan’s only response was a grunt. Marriage had problems; his parents were proof of that. Marriage to a woman who would likely still be married to someone else if he hadn’t died must have problems of its own. But if the benefits outweighed the risks…

  Jefferson yawned, then dropped his feet to the floor. “I’d better head home myself. I’ve got stuff to do before work in the morning. Give me a call before you leave town, man. We’ll do this again.”

  “Yeah, see you.” Keegan waited until he’d walked away a few yards before looking out again. Therese hugged the blonde, then a black woman from the other end of the table, then clasped the hand of the youngest girl in both of hers while they talked. She looked so calm, serene, the mother hen doling out affection and reassurance to her chicks.

  But a good deal of the serenity was an act. Did her friends know that?

  So what was he going to do? Sit here and see if she came inside? And what if she didn’t? What if she just went on home?

  He left the table, circling out of the bar and into the dining room, losing sight of her for a couple moments—big burly guys standing up from their table and talking instead of moving on. By the time he cleared them, the place where she’d stood was empty. He stepped out the door, scanning the parking lot where her friends were leaving in groups of two and three, but he didn’t see—