by Kim Law
“Were you two together?” she asked.
“We tried to be a long time ago.” He threw his first dart. “When Nikki first got pregnant.”
There were so many questions that could come from those two sentences. “How did she—”
“My turn,” he interrupted, and she paused at his words.
“What do you mean your turn?”
He threw another dart. Both earned a decent score. “My turn to ask questions. Your two are up.”
“But I didn’t agree to answer more questions.”
He threw his third dart. “So you just want to play without speaking?”
Their drinks arrived, and while Waylon chatted with the server, Heather contemplated his question. They didn’t have to play in silence. There were things they could talk about. The show that they weren’t watching. Ranching. Construction.
The weather.
She downed a couple of swallows of her martini as he went after the darts, then admitted to herself what she’d known when she’d led him back there. They were going to go through far more than two questions.
“Fine.” She waved a hand in the air as he returned. “Ask. But then I get two more.”
“Of course.” He handed her the darts. “Why do you call Blu ‘Aunt Blu’?”
That’s what he wanted to know? “I don’t know.” She took another drink, enjoying the tartness of the fresh lemon. “It was just easier, I think. Jill, Trenton, and I showed up, and we had to call her something. She wasn’t our mother, and Ms. Johnson was too formal. But Blu was too informal. So”—she hit a bull’s-eye—“she became Aunt Blu.”
“And how long have you had a thing for redheaded men?”
Her entire body lurched as her arm came forward for the next toss, but instead of releasing the dart, she spun to face him. “What?”
He grinned. “I met Big Red earlier tonight.”
She just stared at him.
“He said it’s a thing with you,” he went on. Then he scratched the whiskers on his cheek, simulating the sound of sandpaper, and pursed his lips. “So it’s the hair, then? And not the Prince Harry thing? Because I have to tell you, for most women it’s the Prince Harry thing.”
Again, he grinned. And she downed her drink. She was going to kill Len.
“Big Red even said—”
“Stop,” she finally interrupted him. “Just shut up. And say good-bye to your new friend, because I’m going to kill him.”
Waylon laughed at her words. “Something tells me he’d enjoy your attempts.”
She shook her head at the idea of the two of them talking about her. She’d seen Len come in earlier in the evening, but every time she’d glanced his way, he’d been busy chatting up one woman or another. She’d totally missed him talking to Waylon.
Turning back to the dartboard, she fired a missile, hoping to wow him with two bull’s-eyes in a row, but it dinged off the metal ring and bounced back.
“I’m still waiting on your answer,” Waylon pointed out, and though she was no longer looking at him, she could hear the smirk on his face.
She stared at the dart now lying at her feet, trying to figure out how to get out of the moment, and then decided “Why try?” She might as well give the man what he was looking for. So she turned back. And then she looked him over from boots to hat. “I’ve had a thing for redheaded men my whole life, okay? It’s weird, I know. But it’s my thing.” It was one of the things she’d gotten from her mother. “So there. That knowledge make you happy?”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
She rolled her eyes at him—and ignored the heat sparking in his. “Men,” she grumbled. Then she kicked at the dart. “And I didn’t even notice that you look like Prince Harry, by the way.”
“Liar.”
“I am not.”
He stooped to retrieve the dart. “You are,” he said as he stood. “And I know this because you suck at lying. Just like when you said you didn’t wait for me in the barn. But you did.”
“I didn’t.” She had trouble pulling in air.
“You also said that Big Red was nobody.”
Oh, for crying out loud. “He’s not,” she insisted.
“Yet you went out with him once.”
Waylon’s eyes glinted as he spoke, humor dancing in his dark pupils, and she suddenly realized that they were standing chest to chest. She pushed him away from her. “Stop flirting with me. We’re not doing that anymore.”
He laughed. “Since when?”
“Since we agreed to forget what happened Saturday night.”
His gleeful smile was back. “First of all, nothing actually happened Saturday night. If it had, I would remember that for sure. But if you’re talking about you and your trench coat . . .” He threw three bull’s-eyes in a row. “I already told you. I couldn’t forget that in a million years. Not even if I wanted to.”
She stared at the darts. Then at him. She was screwed in so many ways.
She motioned for the server to bring her another drink, and Waylon added a request for a plate of nachos, then she climbed onto a stool at a high-top and propped her arms on the table. “My turn. Why have you kept Rose a secret from everyone?”
He sat across from her. “Because it’s no one’s business until I decide to make it so.”
“How many rumors floating around this town are true?”
“Not nearly all of them. Why don’t I get a second chance?”
Because she shouldn’t have given him a first.
She knew, though, that if time were rolled back, she’d likely do the same thing again. That was her MO, after all. Fall fast and fall hard.
Not that she was falling for Waylon.
“Because, like I told you last week,” she answered, “I don’t do casual.”
“Then what was Saturday night?”
She wanted to be pithy. Witty, as he’d called her. But nothing clever came to mind.
Instead, she answered with the truth. “Saturday was a mistake.”
His gaze didn’t waver, but she could read nothing of his thoughts.
It was her turn, so she forged ahead, ignoring whatever might be going through his mind. Her voice lowered. “How many women in this bar have you slept with?”
Waylon cast his gaze around the room. “None.”
He gave no other words and no explanations, and Heather wanted to believe him. Terribly. She wanted him to be the dad she’d seen Saturday night, and not the man living in Cal’s barn.
But she didn’t think she could count on that.
She turned to the crowd, unable to keep from sizing up the women and taking a guess at who he might have slept with, but at the realization that tonight’s viewing party had ended—that many of the women he may have slept with had already left the bar—her stomach bottomed out. It was easy to say “none” when there were practically none to choose from.
On to the next rumor. “Where did you learn to cheat at poker?”
“Self-taught.”
“Do you—”
He pressed a finger to her lips. It was no longer her turn. “Tell me about your parents.”
Adrenaline pumped at his words, and she was suddenly ready for the game to be over. She could tell by the trepidation in Waylon’s eyes, though, that he wasn’t looking to hurt her. He lowered his hand, and Heather went through the pros and cons of continuing their game.
Before she could make up her mind, the server arrived, and by the time she and Waylon were alone again, she’d decided to stay. At least for the moment.
She licked her lips. “That wasn’t a question.”
“Okay.” Waylon picked up a chip. “Then why don’t you talk about your parents?”
“Who says I don’t?” Hadn’t she told him about riding horses with her mom just last week?
“Gut feeling,” he answered. “Why don’t you?”
“Because I just don’t.” Her voice went thin.
Waylon nodded as if absorbing her words, and
put away a couple more chips. When he spoke again, she had to lean forward to hear him. “You still miss them?”
Her eyes felt too dry. “Terribly.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
She took a drink, her head swimming a little as she tipped the glass back, and she moved on to her turn. She thought about what else she wanted to ask. There were so many things that she could ask. That she had a desire to know about. But she had a sense the evening wouldn’t provide too many more chances. The game seemed to be wrapping up.
She reached over and helped herself to a bite of nachos, piling on plenty of beans and pico, and thought through the remaining rumors about him. One in particular seemed to be all over the place, and she nodded to herself. She had her next questions.
She looked up at him. “What caused your limp?”
“Broken femur.”
She waited, expecting more, but he simply stared back at her. Finally, she graced him with a pointed look. “You’ve got to give me something other than that.”
“You asking another question?”
“No. But I’m saying your answer isn’t exactly enlightening.” Broken femur had been the one part of the rumors that had remained consistent. Clearly, he’d already shared that fact with others.
“Ask your next question,” Waylon said by way of reply, and Heather growled in frustration.
“Fine. But I’ll be revisiting the limp one again next time.”
Interest lit his eyes. “We get a next time?”
“It’s not your turn to ask a question.”
She ate another bite of his nachos. Did she want a next time?
She thought she might.
“Why don’t you have custody?”
Trenton appeared the instant the words left Heather’s mouth, and though Heather glanced up at her friend, she immediately turned back to Waylon. But the man had shut down. The genuineness that had filled his features only seconds before was gone, and in its place was the flirtatious charm she’d seen—and heard about—so many times.
“Ah.” He stood from his chair. “The friend, come to rescue the damsel.” He stuck out his hand. “Hi. I’m Waylon.”
Instead of shaking his hand, Trenton dipped her chin and locked her gaze on his. “And I’m your worst nightmare. The damsel is finished here.”
He dropped his arm back to his side. “I’d heard you were the tough one.”
Heather snickered at the outraged look that crossed Trenton’s face, then quickly straightened when Trenton’s brown gaze snapped to hers. “You’ve had too much to drink,” Trenton announced. “And the party is over. I’m taking you home.”
Heather looked at her drink, realizing she’d finished it yet again, and acknowledged that she likely was a wee bit tipsier than she’d realized. She hopped down and stuck out her hand. “Nice chatting with you . . . Mr. Peterson.”
His eyes darkened at her formality, and Trenton pulled her away. The night was over.
Chapter Eight
“And sometimes you just need to say ‘No’ until you’re ready to say ‘Yes.’”
—Blu Johnson, life lesson #53
The mid-September sun had been hot that morning, and though Waylon wouldn’t want to be anywhere else or doing anything other than exactly what he was doing, he was ready for a break. One that included shade and a long guzzle of something cool. He and Dill rode side by side across the north pasture as they made their way back toward the barn.
They skirted a copse of hickory trees, turned east, and Waylon could pick out the barn in the distance. He caught Dill glancing at his watch, and Waylon nudged Beau into a trot.
“What’s your first class today?” he asked. Dill was in his first year at Texas Tech.
“Programming.” Dill’s lanky legs wrapped around Apollo, and if Waylon hadn’t known better, he’d think the kid was closer to fifteen than eighteen.
“Are you enjoying it?”
“I like riding a horse better.”
Waylon chuckled. “Of course you do. But it’s good to stay up on technology.” A hot breeze washed over his face, and he wiped away a bead of sweat. “Much of the world relies on it nowadays.”
“I know,” Dill mumbled in a way that only teenagers seemed able to do. “And I promised my dad I’d give it a try, so I’m showing up every day. But I really just want to do this for a living, so I don’t see the point of wasting the time or money on school.” He looked around at their surroundings. “I like being outdoors. Knowing I’m contributing.”
Waylon liked that part of ranching, too. Plus, it was man’s work—running fence, protecting the land. It’s what he’d grown up on, and what he intended to do for the rest of his life. But he had once wished he could at least have the opportunity for an education.
He glanced at the younger man as they passed the pasture where the cattle had been unloaded that first day. “College is good for you,” he told Dill. “Broadens your horizons, teaches you to think.”
Keeps you out of trouble, he added silently.
“I already know how to think.”
“True. And working here will only give you more experience to draw from.” He caught sight of a brown SUV parked near the barn. “But life isn’t lived in a day. Or in a year.” His gaze traveled to the house’s backyard where he could see at least six people busy at work—none of them Heather. “So take the opportunities you’re given, and enjoy them. Don’t rush things.”
Dill grew quiet, and though Waylon wondered if the boy was actually contemplating the words or brushing them off as inconsequential, he didn’t look over to find out. Instead, he kept his eyes peeled for a particular auburn-haired woman who had finally given him more than two minutes of her time the night before.
She’d given him several, in fact. And greedy as he was, he wanted more.
Granted, it was the least optimal time for him to be pursuing a woman. He had too much going on in his personal life. Preparing for his custody hearing, doing everything he could to offset Rose’s grandparents’ lies, meeting with his social worker to discuss how best to position himself to ensure he got his daughter back. And that didn’t even touch on needing to make his house livable before bringing his daughter home full time.
Yet personal busyness or not, he wanted more minutes with Heather. He wanted to ask her more questions . . . and he wanted her to ask more of him.
He wanted to matter.
The thought threatened to drag him into a place he’d spent far too much of his life, and he subconsciously gripped the edges of the dark sucking hole and heaved himself out. Whether he was alone in life or not, he would not feel sorry for himself.
He did, however, allow the briefest thought that he’d love, just once, to find himself someone’s priority instead of their afterthought.
“Did you go?” Dill asked, and Waylon looked over, mentally shaking the cobwebs from his mind.
“Did I go where?”
Dill stared at him as if Waylon had physically removed and then misplaced his own head. “To college. That’s what we’re talking about.”
“Oh.” Waylon quickly remembered that he’d been trying to impart wisdom upon the kid. “No.” He shook his head. “I was too busy getting into trouble to be bothered to fill out the entrance applications.”
That and the fact it would have been a miracle to pull even a partial scholarship with the grades he’d accumulated.
“Then what do you know about it?”
Dill’s question forced Waylon to think about the years leading up to his high school graduation. Mostly about the years between when his dad had left and when he’d done the same.
“I know that if I’d had the opportunity for an education, I’d have done a hell of a lot of things differently.” At least, he wanted to believe he would have.
Dill stared at him for a moment, no words coming from either of them, and Waylon wondered if anything was getting through. Likely not. There weren’t so many years separating the tw
o of them that he didn’t remember what it had been like to be eighteen.
“If nothing else,” Waylon added, “focus on staying out of trouble. Trouble is no place to be, and it tends to follow you around a heck of a lot longer than you want to follow it.”
Dill nodded as if he seriously meant it.
As they brought the horses into the paddock that connected to the barn, Waylon caught sight of dust trailing a gray four-door pickup. It was a truck he’d seen around town over the past few weeks, and therefore, one he knew the owner of. But what he didn’t know was if that owner was there to see her friend . . . or if she’d made the trip special to talk to him. Because something told him she was coming for him.
Their brief introduction the night before had been laced with animosity, and given the protectiveness he’d sensed Trenton held for Heather, he couldn’t say that Trenton showing up was at all surprising. Especially given the I’m-watching-you look she’d tossed over her shoulder before disappearing out the door.
He smiled at the memory. He thought he was going to like Trenton.
He also liked that kind of protectiveness.
“What’s so funny?” Dill asked. They’d entered the barn and dismounted.
Waylon told the truth. “Just thinking about women.”
Dill’s face broke into a wide grin, the smile highlighting a lone pimple at the left corner of the kid’s mouth. “You thinking about Heather?” he asked.
Heather had come up in conversations with Dill a time or two, and Waylon suspected a bit of a crush had developed in the boy.
“I wasn’t,” he answered. “But I am now.”
He and Dill both turned to look out the open barn doors, where a single female could be seen from their position inside the barn. Her hair was pinned to the top of her head, with dark sunglasses perched just in front of the pile of curls, and Waylon couldn’t help but wonder how she always looked so put together on worksites. He’d never seen another person be able to pull that off.
Then he was no longer staring at Heather, but at a long-haired blonde. And he acknowledged that this was what most outdoor workers looked like. At least the female ones.
