The Last Good Man in Texas

by Peggy Moreland

  He dropped his gaze, his fingers sliding up and down the watering can's handle. "Not much to see. Just plants."

  "They may be just plants to some," she informed him. "But I recognize quality when I see it."

  He dragged a hand uneasily down his thigh, then nodded and turned for a rear door. "The other house is where I keep my tropicals," he said as he led the way out. "Keep it a hint warmer. More humidity in the air."

  Macy followed, immediately adjusting her mind to his economy words, even finding comfort in their natural rhythm and the huskiness of his voice.

  She spent the next hour trailing along behind him, listening in fascination as he described the different plants and told her how he'd obtained his cuttings of the rarer species.

  By the time they reached the end of the tour, Macy wasn't at all ready to leave.

  "Could you use any help?" she asked, then blushed and ducked her head. "I know that's presumptuous of me to ask," she said, then looked at him, her eyes filled with hope. "But I really miss working around plants, and I've got nothing but time on my hands."

  He shuffled his feet a moment, seeming reluctant, then gave his chin a jerk. "I suppose you could deadhead the plants in the front garden if you want. That's where I was headed next."

  Though deadheading plants was a boring job that required very little brains, Macy would have agreed to do almost anything that would keep her from sitting in her trailer all day.

  Barely able to contain her excitement, she spread a hand. "After you," she said, then followed him out.

  * * *

  Later that night, Macy lay propped up in her bed, the legal pad on her lap and the phone book open at her side. She scanned the pages looking for a listing for Willie Cyrus, the name of one of the men Rory had recognized in the picture. Not finding the name, she began her search again, looking for one that might be close. Spotting a listing for a W. L. Cyrus, she quickly jotted the number and accompanying address beneath Willie's name on her pad, then placed a question mark after it, as a reminder to herself to verify the man was in fact Willie before approaching him.

  Her eyes burning from looking at the small print so long, with a sigh, she set the pad aside and stretched. A glance at her wristwatch drew a frown. It was after ten and she hadn't heard from Rory yet. She hesitated a moment, then picked up her cell phone and punched in his number. She was tired after working in John's garden all day and was ready to go to sleep.

  Settling back against her pillow, she listened to four rings, then frowned when his recorded message clicked on. She waited for the click, then said, "Hi, Rory. It's me. If you get this message tonight, don't call me back. I'm going to bed." She covered her mouth, stifling a yawn, then added wearily, "I'm really sleepy. I worked with John—Spook to you," she added wryly, "and I'm pooped. I'm going out to his house again tomorrow, but I'll have my cell phone with me, so call me when you have a chance. Later."

  After punching the disconnect button, she placed her phone on top of the pad, then gathered the clutter into a pile and set it down on the floor beside her bed. Yawning again, she stretched to switch off the light, then curled up on her side and pulled the sheet to her chin.

  A smile curved her lips as she imagined herself as she'd been that day, standing in the middle of John's garden, surrounded by the beauty of his flowers and breathing their perfumed scent. The only thing that would have made her day better was if Rory had been with her to enjoy it.

  She missed him. He hadn't been gone a day, and she missed him. She had so much to tell him, so many things she wanted to share with him. She wanted to tell him about her day. Share with him her impressions of John. Discuss with him the possibility of her opening a business in Tanner's Crossing. She wanted to stay here with him. Be near him. She prayed that's what he wanted, too.

  "Tomorrow," she promised herself, and closed her eyes. She'd talk to him tomorrow when he returned from Houston.

  * * *

  Rory popped the last bite of his hamburger into his mouth, then shut off his truck's engine and opened his door. Eating on the run wasn't something he usually did, but things had been so crazy at the store that day, it was either grab a burger and fries from a fast-food joint on the way back to his apartment or starve. Starving held little appeal.

  With a glance at his wristwatch, he loped up the steps that led to his apartment, anxious to get inside and call Macy before it got any later. He felt badly that he hadn't already called her, but he simply hadn't had the time.

  No, he corrected. He could have called her while he was driving to his apartment. But he'd wanted to be piled up in his bed with her when he talked to her, not driving his truck. He wanted to hear her voice coming from the pillow next to his. Needed to hear it. He chuckled as he dug a hand into his pocket for his keys. What he really wanted, was her in his bed. Not just her voice.

  He stuck the key in the lock, then stilled, realizing for the first time how strongly he felt about Macy. Stronger than he'd ever felt about anyone. He waited for the panic to hit, the urge to run as hard and fast as he could in the opposite direction. But he felt nothing. Not panic, anyway. The only urge he had was to talk to Macy. To hear her voice.

  "Hi, Rory."

  Startled, he glanced over and bit back a groan when he saw Andrea, a neighbor with whom he'd shared a brief and regrettable affair, walking his way. He wasn't thrilled to see her. To be honest, he'd thought she'd given up the chase months ago.

  He twisted open the door and stuffed his keys back into his pocket, hoping to get rid of her quickly. "Hey, Andrea. How's it going?"

  "Not very well. It seems I've locked myself out of my apartment." She pushed her lips out into a little-girl pout and dragged a finger down his arm. "I was hoping you'd let me crash at your place."

  It was a lie and Rory knew it. It was a ruse to get into his bed.

  And he only wanted one woman in his bed. Macy. "Call a locksmith," he suggested, and stepped inside his apartment and out of her reach.

  "I can't. My cell phone is in my apartment."

  Stifling a sigh, he dragged open the door. "You can use mine, but make it quick. I want to get a shower."

  Looking pleased with herself, she breezed inside and closed the door behind her.

  He gestured toward the phone on the end table as he toed off his boots. "There's the phone."

  Instead of crossing to the end table, she headed for him. Caught with a boot half on and half off, Rory was a sitting duck.

  She slipped her arms around his neck. "I know where the phone is." She pressed her breasts against his chest and added in a sultry voice, "The same as I know where your bed is."

  Scowling, he kicked off the boot and reached to drag her arms from around his neck. "No way, Andrea. I told you. It's over." He gestured at the phone again. "You said you wanted to make a call."

  With a huff, she stalked to the phone and picked it up. She placed it to her ear, then held it out to him. "It's dead."

  Swearing, he snatched his cell phone from the clip on his belt, tossed it to her, then turned for his bedroom. "Lock the door behind you when you leave," he called over his shoulder.

  To make certain she didn't attempt to join him in the shower, he slammed the bathroom door behind him, then twisted the lock.

  Ten minutes later, he stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, and took a quick glance around. Relieved to find Andrea was gone, he blew out a breath and headed for the kitchen. He pulled a beer from the refrigerator, popped the top, then crossed back into the den to retrieve his cell. Frowning, he looked around, wondering where Andrea had put it. It wasn't on the coffee table or the end table. He flipped up the sofa cushions, thinking maybe it had slipped between the cushions. Not finding it there, he spun angrily for his bedroom. "The bitch," he muttered darkly. She was using the phone as a ploy to get him into her apartment. Well, she could have the damn phone, he thought as he ripped off his towel. He wasn't going anywhere near her.

  Groaning, he dropped down
on the side of the bed. But without a phone, he couldn't call Macy. He started to rise, planning to dress and go in search of a pay phone so that he could call her, then sagged back down again. Hell, he couldn't call her. He didn't know her damn number! He had it saved on his cell phone, but that wasn't going to do him a damn bit of good now.

  Sighing, he fell back across his bed. He'd call one of his brothers in the morning. Have one of them get a message to Macy to let her know he wouldn't be home for at least another day. It was a hell of a way to communicate with the woman you'd just realized you'd fallen in love with, but it was the best he could do at the moment.

  * * *

  As Macy sipped her morning cup of coffee, she flipped aimlessly through the stack of photos lying on the table. It wasn't that she found the pictures particularly interesting. She just didn't have anything else to do. With no TV, no radio and no Rory around to entertain her, the photos were her only escape from total boredom.

  Selecting one from the pile, she sank back, sipping her coffee as she studied the people pictured. She had to agree with Elizabeth, she thought, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the ladies' fashions. She'd never be caught dead wearing a skirt that short, either.

  But Darla Jean certainly hadn't seemed to have a problem with her skirt's length. In fact, judging by the way she had her legs crossed, showing off a shamefully long length of leg, she appeared to enjoy the style.

  With a sigh, she leaned to toss the picture back onto the table and snagged another before settling back and taking another sip of her coffee. She bit back a smile when she spotted the man Elizabeth had said reminded her of Whit. He did have Whit's mannerisms, she thought. He stood on the fringes, his hands stuffed into his pockets, as if reluctant to join the group. Though everyone else was smiling at the camera, he was looking away, frowning slightly, as if he didn't like having his picture taken.

  She glanced at the time again, then dropped the photo onto the pile and stood, draining the last of her coffee in one greedy gulp. She'd told John she'd arrive early that day, so that she could help him transplant some antique roses that needed moving, and she didn't want to be late.

  Knowing John, he probably wouldn't wait on her, and she didn't want to miss out on all the fun.

  * * *

  Macy braced her shovel against the ground and dragged a weary hand across her brow. They'd been at it a good two hours and she was in need of a break. Thinking a drink of water would go down good about now, she turned to ask John's permission to go inside his house. But the request lodged in her throat as a sense of déjà vu swept over her. He stood in profile to her, frowning at something off in the distance, his cap pushed back far on his head and his hands shoved deeply into his pockets. She strained, trying to think what it was that was so familiar about the scene, why she felt such a strong sense that she'd experienced it before.

  The blood drained from her face as she realized the reason. The pictures she had looked at that morning. The man who had stood on the fringes, his face turned away. The man had looked like Whit, she remembered thinking. A part of the group, yet separate from them. Different. Aloof.

  Her heart pounding, she glanced around, taking in her surroundings. The cottage-style garden that surrounded his house. The greenhouses behind it. His love of plants that mirrored so closely her own.

  No, she told herself, and gulped back the panic that squeezed at her throat. John Sullivan wasn't her father. It wasn't possible. Her mother would never have been interested in a man like John. He was plain, uninspiring. Poor.

  But then she remembered catching him staring at her necklace. The expression on his face. She closed her fingers around the locket, its miniature hinges cutting against her skin as she clutched it tightly in her palm. It wasn't possible, she told herself, and made herself look his way again. Tears welled in her eyes as she stared at him, unable to bring herself to ask him the question that burned in her soul.

  "John?"

  He glanced her way and she stared into eyes the same shade of amber as her own.

  She gulped, swallowed. "Did you know a woman named Darla Jean Keller?"

  He didn't move so much as a muscle for what seemed like an eternity. When he did move, it was to look away.

  He dragged his cap low over his forehead and picked up his shovel. "Maybe."

  Her heart seemed to stop, then wedge itself in her throat. "She was my mother," she whispered, her voice trembling.

  He thrust the shovel into the soil surrounding a rosebush. "Figured she was."

  She waited for him to say more. When he didn't, she dropped her own shovel and crossed to him, her legs wooden, each stride that brought her closer to him seemed a mile long. "Are you my father?"

  He lifted the shovelful of dirt and dumped it into the pile he'd made. "No."

  Frustration boiled up inside her. "Look at me!" she cried. "Look at me and tell me that you're not my father."

  He braced the shovel against the ground, then slowly turned to meet her gaze, his eyes flat, emotionless. "I'm not your father."

  He was lying. She knew he was. Anger and grief welled inside her, each fighting for dominance of her emotions. She wouldn't cry, she told herself. She wouldn't let him see her tears. But they were there, burning behind her eyes.

  She grabbed the locket and ripped it off, snapping the thin chain in two. With her gaze on his, she threw it down at his feet, then wheeled and ran for her Jeep.

  She made it as far as the main highway before she was forced to pull over, blinded by tears. Folding her arms over the steering wheel, she dropped her head on them and gave in to the tears. She wept until there were no more tears left to weep, until only a gaping hole remained in her heart.

  Rory.

  She needed him. Needed to feel the comfort of his arms around her. His strength.

  She groped blindly for her cell phone and punched his number. She sniffed and dragged a hand beneath her nose while she waited through two rings.

  "Hello?"

  Startled by the feminine voice that answered, for a moment she couldn't speak.

  "Hello?" the voice said again.

  "I'm sorry," Macy said quickly, then sniffed again. "I must have dialed the wrong number." She started to draw the phone from her ear, but stopped when she heard the woman say, "Were you calling for Rory?"

  She slowly drew the phone back to her ear. "Yes."

  "I'm sorry," the woman said. "But he's … indisposed at the moment. Can I give him a message?"

  Macy shook her head, then made herself say. "N-no, thank you."

  She dropped the phone to her lap and stared out the windshield, trying to think of a logical explanation for a woman answering Rory's phone. She was an employee, she told herself. Someone who worked at his store.

  But the woman's sleepy voice, her smugness when she'd finally offered the word indisposed to explain why Rory couldn't come to the phone ruled out that possibility and made Macy face the ugly truth.

  Rory might be the only man in her life, but she wasn't the only woman in his.

  * * *

  Living in a trailer made it easy to put a town behind you. Macy accomplished the task in less than thirty minutes, after returning from John's. She latched down the cabinets and doors inside, unhooked the trailer from the electrical and plumbing connections, then hitched it to the rear of her Jeep and pulled out of the park that had been her home for the last month.

  There was no one to say goodbye to, no one to wish her well on her journey. She left Tanner's Crossing the same way in which she'd arrived.

  Alone.

  * * *

  Rory made the turn into the trailer park, then jerked his foot off the accelerator and did a double-take, sure that he wasn't seeing what he thought he was seeing. But when he looked the second time, Macy's trailer was still gone.

  Stunned, he pulled to a stop in front of the empty space where the trailer had been and stared. She was gone, he told himself. But where? Thinking Woodrow would know, since it was Woodrow he'
d asked to deliver his message to her, he reached for his cell phone then swore when he remembered Andrea had it. Hopping down from his truck, he strode across the street and knocked on the door of the trailer parked there. The door opened a crack and a woman's face appeared in the narrow opening.

  "Yes?" she asked suspiciously.

  "Could I borrow your phone, please?" Rory asked. "I need to make a call."

  She glanced over his head at his truck, then shifted her gaze back to his. "If you're looking for that woman whose trailer was parked ever there, she's gone."

  Rory bit down on his impatience. "Yes, ma'am. I can see that she is. But I need to call my brother and find out if he knows where she went."

  "Is your brother a big man?"

  "Yes."

  "I doubt he knows. He was here a couple of hours ago looking for her, too. I told him the same as you. She's already gone."

  Dragging a hand over his hair in frustration, Rory turned away. "Thanks," he muttered.

  Once behind the wheel of his truck again, Rory headed for Maw Parker's store. Not that he expected Maw to know where Macy was. But Maw did know where John Sullivan lived, and he figured if anyone knew Macy's whereabouts, Spook would be the one who'd know.

  * * *

  Rory pulled up behind the old blue truck, then jumped down. "Sullivan?" he called as he swung open the garden gate that led to the house. "Sullivan!" he shouted impatiently.

  When he didn't hear a reply, he stopped and looked around. Seeing freshly turned dirt near the low fence, he walked over to take a closer look. A shovel lay on the ground near the pile, and Rory, out of habit, stooped to pick it up. As he did, he saw a glimmer of metal in the dirt. Dread filled him and he tossed aside the shovel and dropped to his knees to smooth the dirt away. "Oh, God, no," he moaned as he drew the broken chain and locket from the dirt.

  "What are you doin' here? This is private property."

  Rory spun to his feet, the necklace clenched in his fist. Anger boiled inside him as he met John Sullivan's gaze. "Where is she?" he growled. "What have you done with Macy?"