by Ruth Wind
Zeke grabbed a french fry from his plate. "What's their story?"
"Broke down just outside of town. The car's in the shop – Jerry's working on it, but the motel is full. I don't think they were thrilled to have to come into a bar, but there isn't anyplace else open." She smiled wryly. "Poor baby."
Zeke ate slowly, tapping his foot against the floor in time to the music. When he was halfway through the burger, the baby started to scream in earnest, pushing away the bottle his mother tried to give him.
"He sure is tired," Sue said slowly.
With narrowed eyes, he glared at her. "Don't even start, woman."
"But you're so good with babies, and that mother is so tired she can't see straight. Come on – you know you want to."
The baby shrieked and settled into the steady, low crying of pure, miserable exhaustion. Zeke sighed and tossed his napkin down. He stood, ignoring Sue's smile.
With reluctance, he let his feet carry him across the room. "That's one tired youngun," he said to the exhausted couple.
"I'm sorry," the mother said. "Is he bothering you? I just can't calm him down – I think he knows I'm worn-out, too."
She was near tears.
He cleared his throat. "I got five sisters back in Mississippi – why don't you let me take him for you for a minute so you can eat and wash your face?"
Doubt crossed her weary features, and warred with the hope of relief.
"I work here – ask the bartender. I won't go anywhere with him," he said. "I'll just stand right over there and we'll dance a little. Y'all can keep an eye on us." He held out his arms.
The mother looked at the father. He gave her a quick nod. "It can't hurt, honey. Go wash your face and order a hamburger." He touched her hand. "Have a beer, too."
"If you're sure," she said, looking at Zeke.
He grinned and winked. "Give him here."
The baby had quieted a little at the sound of Zeke's voice. When he took the hefty, soft weight from his mother's arms, the baby was surprised into silence for an instant. He stared up at the stranger holding him with wide blue eyes, swollen and red from crying. "Hey, sweet pea," Zeke said quietly. "Let's go dance a little while. I'll make you feel better."
He wandered a little closer to the jukebox. Another soft bluesy Allman Brothers piece was playing and Zeke started to dance gently, cradling the baby close to his chest. He sang along, quietly, and the baby stared at him in amazement. Zeke grinned. "You're so tired, sweet pea. Come on and go to sleep. Your mama's tired, too."
The baby found his fingers and started to suck. A shuddering breath passed through the round little body as he settled into the crook of Zeke's arm. "Yeah, that's it," he crooned. "Go on to sleep now. I'll just dance awhile with you."
He started to sing again, quietly. From the corner of his eye, he saw the mother slip into the ladies' room. Her husband called the waitress over. From behind the bar, Sue grinned at Zeke, shaking her head.
He looked back at the small face. Through half-open eyes, the baby looked back. For just a minute, Zeke felt lost in time. How many times had he rocked his sisters this way, helping his mother? Or held a cousin while an uncle danced with some girl?
Give the baby to Zeke. He'll take care of it.
And he always did. He had a weakness for babies.
All of them – their sweet round faces and tiny hands and feet, the smell of baby powder and the incredible softness of their cheeks. Only thing as soft as a baby's skin was a woman's breast. He liked the way they went together sometimes, too.
The baby drifted off, but Zeke kept dancing and singing quietly. No hurry. The mother emerged from the bathroom, a little calmer, and she smiled in gratitude. He nodded.
With a sigh, he looked back into the baby's face. "I got you, sweet pea," he murmured, and touched the downy head.
His only regret in life was the lack of babies to cuddle. But he'd vowed a long time ago there would be none. Ever. Babies had to grow up and suffer and he just couldn't stand it. He'd fled Mississippi after watching too many suffer at the hands of those who supposedly loved them the most.
But that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy holding one now and again. With a smile, he swayed lazily along with the music, comforted someplace deep inside by the round softness against his chest.
* * *
"Oh, good grief," Roxanne said as she pushed in the door of the bar.
"What?" Mattie asked, coming in behind her.
"Look at that."
"What?" Mattie scanned the room. It was crowded. That was good. Not all locals; equally good. There were a few people dancing, and a couple of pool games going on in one corner. Mattie smiled. Excellent. But she didn't really know what disgusted Roxanne so much. "What?" she repeated.
Roxanne stepped aside and lifted her chin in the direction of the jukebox. Two couples danced close together on the little cleared section of floor, a common enough sight.
And then Mattie saw him. Zeke. Swaying gently in time with the music, a baby cradled in the crook of his arm. He wore a sleeveless black T-shirt that left his powerful, muscular arms bare, and the tiny head of the baby looked as if it could be crushed if Zeke bent his elbow.
Except there was such gentleness in his hold, and his head bent over the sleeping child to murmur sweet nothings. Mattie watched his mouth move.
Yesterday in the restaurant, she'd seen his sex appeal and roughness. At her house, she'd seen his danger. This morning, at the river, she'd seen his beauty and teasing, and again that danger.
Of all of them, the tenderness she saw now was the most compelling. And terrifying.
With some alarm, she looked at Roxanne. "I don't think I want to stay here, after all."
"Oh, don't be silly. Where are we going to go? The Plaza?" She grabbed Mattie's arm and pulled her into the room. "I'm sick of being cooped up in my house."
Mattie kept her eyes averted as they settled in a booth and ordered a beer. She wasn't much of a drinker, but beer and Kismet seemed to go together, and there were rules about the game Jamie had taught her. A beer in hand was important.
From the corner of her eye, she watched Zeke take the baby back to its mother, then take a seat at the bar. "You think he did that for effect?" Roxanne asked.
"What?"
"Danced with a baby."
Mattie frowned. "Why would he do it on purpose?"
"Well, it's a known fact that women can't resist a man who likes children. Maybe he's got his eye on the bartender."
Mattie shrugged. She'd already spent too much time thinking about Zeke Shephard, as it was; she didn't want to get drawn in now. Deliberately, she shifted to get a better view of the pool tables.
A tourist with a sunburned nose played cheerfully, sipping a beer and nodding his head in time with the music. A recreational player, and probably a father with kids to get back home, too. No good.
His opponent was thirtyish, a local who worked on the road crew. He smiled at her. Mattie waved. He was single, with plenty of money to spend, and he probably dropped at least a third of his paycheck in this bar every week. He also played well, with honed concentration and a sharp break.
Roxanne tapped her arm. "I didn't come here with you to talk to myself, you know," she said curtly.
"I'm sorry," Mattie said pleasantly, as if life and death did not hang in the balance. "I just like pool. Do you play?"
"A little. Not too well." She sipped her beer with a dark glance toward the bar. "How do you think he got that tattoo?"
"Are we back to Zeke again?"
Roxanne grinned, and the strained look of peevishness disappeared. "Yes. Do you think I can't see how carefully you're ignoring him?" She shook her head. "I can't believe what a dress and a haircut did for you."
Mattie touched her hair, pleased with the sleek swinging feel of her new cut. "You like it?"
"It looks great." She eyed Mattie's new dress, too. "And I love the dress. With a body like that, I'd wear skintight everyday."
Mattie
shrugged. She never wore skintight clothes, and even this new dress was a bit too risqué for her usual taste, but there wasn't much selection in her price range or in the tiny little shop she'd found. It would do the job; that was all she cared about. If Roxanne thought she'd dressed up for Zeke, all the better.
"So," Roxanne prodded, "how do you think he got that tattoo?"
Mattie wanted to get back to her examination of the games in progress, and Zeke was in her line of vision. She examined the tattoo impassively, an exquisitely rendered stallion that emblazoned his right shoulder. "Same way everyone else gets one," she said. "With a needle."
"You know what I mean. What possesses a person to sit down and let somebody stick a needle in their arm like that, over and over?"
Mattie had seen what she needed to see of the remaining pool players, and she looked back to Zeke's tattoo. The sight of it, moving with the muscles in his arms, sent a sharp tiny spiral of heat through her middle, and she hastily tore her gaze away. "I don't know," she said, turning back to Roxanne. "Why don't you ask him?" She slid out of the booth. "I'm going to play pool."
This was the hard part for Mattie, the walk through the room in her close-fitting dress. She'd learned how important it was, but it shamed her to know the men in the room were examining her body – looking at her breasts and hips and legs as if she were fried chicken. Jamie had insisted she learn how to do it; he had forced her to try making the game work in a loose pair of jeans and old blouse and no makeup.
It didn't work nearly as well.
There was only one really bad moment this time. Zeke caught sight of her as she neared his spot at the bar. His face didn't change, but she saw a hard, cynical shimmer light his eyes.
"Well, Miss Mary," he said in greeting. "Looks like I underestimated you all the way around." His gaze swept her head to toe and back again. "Guess you do know the rules."
His mouth was tight, as if he was disappointed, and it was nearly enough to send her scuttling right back to her spot at the table with Roxanne.
Instead, she met the judgment in those harsh pale eyes and called up a memory of three men lying in their own blood in a warehouse in Kansas City. She squared her shoulders. "You bet," she said, and passed him. Her thigh brushed his knee.
At the pool table, she grinned at the man she knew from the café. "I've been watching. You play pretty well."
"Thanks. You play?"
This was the critical moment. Jamie always wanted her to pretend she couldn't play until the stakes were high. She never could fake bad pool well enough, nor did she feel comfortable with a true hustle. "Yes," she said honestly. "Five dollars a game?"
His eyebrows rose in surprise. "You sure, honey? I've been playin' since I was three years old. Not many folks can beat me."
Mattie smiled. "I can."
The game was on.
* * *
Chapter 4
«^»
From his perch on the bar stool, Zeke watched Mary in action, cursing himself for believing she was an innocent anything. How could he have been so blind?
Tonight she looked as sweet as an ice cream sundae in her blue chess and bare legs. And she knew it, knew it in the way she moved her body as she studied the table; knew just exactly where men were looking when she bent over, just exactly how little attention they were paying her game and just exactly how far to push before pulling back.
Why the hell was he so disappointed?
The dress, to her credit, wasn't particularly suggestive. Women all around him wore a lot worse. It was a simple blue T-shirt knit, belted at the waist, with a modest scoop neckline. Short sleeves and plenty of room to move in.
It was the way she wore the damn thing that was so alluring. Her hips swayed, and her breasts moved gently, and when she bent over to take a shot, he could glimpse just the smallest expanse of creamy flesh. Just enough to tantalize, not enough to satisfy.
She was a pro. He drank beer, watching her manipulate the macho boys clustering around to watch and place bets and wait for their turn to play. They didn't care if they lost, and Mary knew it.
Once, she caught sight of him staring at her, and she blushed. At least she had the grace to look ashamed, he thought darkly.
He didn't know why he sat there so long. His shift was over. He could have gone home any time. But he couldn't seem to make himself take that first step. Like every other idiot male in the joint, he was transfixed.
She didn't act like a siren or a coy courtesan – she wasn't even the slightest bit beautiful except for those pretty lips and big eyes – just played a good game of pool over and over again, winning consistently. No one could beat her, and the more she won, the more they wanted to try. The stakes went up as some of the challengers drank a little more. She met them all with friendly smiles and good grace.
By one, Zeke had enough. He stood up and counted out a hundred dollars. "I'm next," he said. "You've all had a chance to beat the lady. Let me show you how to do it."
Mary met his eyes. No fear. But he caught the flicker of her eyes on the stack of bills in his hand. She lifted a shoulder. "You can try."
He stuck his cigarette in the corner of his mouth and chose a stick from the wall, holding it up to eye level to check the true. She watched him calmly, but he could see she was a little more tense by the time he rounded the table.
The bartender blinked the lights. Last call. Zeke waved at her to bring two beers.
The crowd had already thinned, and at this signal, most of the rest of the watching group shook their heads and ambled away. "Let us know, Zeke," called one, "if you beat her. I want to see how it's done tomorrow."
Mary stood by the table, her cue clutched before her. When Sue delivered the beers, he made a show of giving Mary hers. "Thought that other one might be getting a little warm by now."
She slid a guilty look toward the half-full bottle. "Maybe a little." Glancing around, she said, "It's getting awfully late. We can meet tomorrow to play this game if you want to."
Zeke shook his head slowly. Unless he sorely missed his guess, Miss Mary would be halfway to Timbuktu by tomorrow evening. "Nope. I lock up most nights, anyway."
She lifted an eyebrow in concession. "Your break."
"Let's play a warm-up, first, shall we?" It was a measured ploy – maybe she'd take it, maybe she wouldn't. He watched her weigh the choice, biting on the inside of her cheek as she looked at him through narrowed eyes.
He could almost see the gears turning. If she played him cold, she might lose because she didn't know his game. She wasn't fool enough not to take him seriously. On the other hand, a warm-up game might give him an edge.
"All right," she said, evidently opting to check out his game. "One warm-up."
He'd watched her through innumerable games over the evening and had learned a lot more than she would have liked. Her bank shots were a little weak. Not much, but enough. She didn't get cocky or lose her edge when she was winning, and that was to her benefit because she could shift a hip just so and an opponent might be more interested in the play of her legs than the table.
She was very, very good. Honorable if you didn't count the sweet curves beneath her modest and all-too-alluring dress. And that honor would be her downfall.
Zeke didn't have but one rule about pool: he played to win. Even after drinking a little bit more than his share, his wits were sharp, and he was irritated enough by her manipulations tonight that he thought she deserved to be taught a lesson.
The first game, he held back. Missed a shot or two, carefully. A bank shot that missed by a sixteenth of an inch; a corner shot that bounced on the edge.
She won with the eight ball, but it could have gone either way. As she bent over the black number eight, he found his attention straying to the simple straight muscle in her upper arm, noticing the sleek way it moved as she shot. Her hair swung forward, the brown strands taking on a golden shimmer as the light over the table struck it.
He mentally shook himself. Damn. He knew w
hat she was doing and fell for it, anyway.
"I'm leaving," Sue called. "I already checked the back door."
"Thanks, honey. See you tomorrow." Zeke looked around in satisfaction. The bar was empty. He crossed the room and locked the door behind Sue, then took a couple of dollars in quarters out of his pocket and dropped them in the jukebox.
Then he turned and met Mary's gaze with a small grin. "You nervous?" he asked.
She straightened. "No."
"Good. Let's play."
* * *
It was the hardest game of pool she'd ever played in her life. Mattie had been lulled a little by his warm-up game, and it had been a mistake. Now she didn't dare let down her guard. If he took her for a hundred dollars, she'd be in sorry shape, and had already tipped her hand in this little town. She'd have to go to Flagstaff and start over. The idea made her feel ill.
Now he bent over the table, eyeing a tough bank shot for the two-ball. Light from the fixture hanging low over the table swam over his flesh in long, loving strokes, catching on the sheen of sweat that glossed his skin and caressed his muscles, each and every one.
He was the best player in the bar tonight, and like Jamie, he was dangerous. He didn't care about hurting someone who was game enough to play. He played ruthlessly and played to win.
He swung back to shoot and she closed her eyes tight to whisper a prayer. "Oh, please, let him miss!"
The clunk of a ball falling home told her he hadn't. With a sigh, she opened her eyes to check the damages. The eight ball hung on the edge of the corner pocket. A whisper would knock it in.
Zeke picked up the chalk and lazily rolled it over the tip of his cue. He gave her a slow grin. "Well, Miss Mary, it looks bad for your side."
She glanced at the table and shrugged. "Win some, lose some."
"We could go double or nothing." He bent over, and with a graceful move, nudged the cue ball to kiss the eight. It tumbled home.
"I don't have that much money," she said. It wasn't strictly true, but she sure didn't have enough to gamble two hundred dollars.
"Sure you do." He rounded the table to stand in front of her. "I saw you tucking it away in your shoe all night."
