When Love Comes

by Leigh Greenwood

  The bartender didn’t leave, so Broc figured he hadn’t found out all he wanted to know.

  “Are you interested in that waitress?” he asked, indicating Amanda, who had taken off her apron and approached the piano.

  “Any man would be interested in a woman like that.”

  The bartender grinned. “It wouldn’t do him any good. She’s taken.”

  Broc shrugged. “The pretty ones always are.” But Amanda didn’t act like a woman whose affections were engaged. “Extend my congratulations to the lucky man.”

  The bartender’s grin grew even broader. “That’s him over there.” The bartender pointed. “Corby Wilson. He owns the saloon.”

  Broc had noticed the man before. He had paraded about the saloon all evening with the self-conscious manner of a man who considered himself a person of importance. He was skinny, had a drooping mustache, and wore clothes that were so tight his lack of muscle was evident for anyone to see. “Thanks for the information.” Broc offered his hand to the young bartender. “I’m Broc Kincaid.”

  “Gary Liscomb,” the bartender replied as he took Broc’s hand. “Amanda is my sister. Gotta be quiet now. She’s about to sing.”

  Broc should have guessed. Not only did the bartender resemble Amanda, but Eddie had also said his brother had sneaked off to the saloon.

  Amanda’s performance surprised Broc. Not just that she had a nice voice or that she could sing well. She seemed to enjoy it. She definitely made a connection with the audience. When she sang a funny song or something a little suggestive, they hooted and acted like young men out on the town for the night. But when she shifted to a ballad, the room got quiet. She held her audience spellbound. Afterward, he pulled out of his abstraction enough to applaud her performance.

  She disappeared, and the saloon noise quickly returned to the mild roar that deadened the ear drums after a couple of hours.

  Broc tried to keep from making judgments based on appearance, but he didn’t understand how Amanda could be interested in a man like Corby. Forget that he wasn’t attractive, that he needed to learn how to take care of his mustache, and that his complexion was sallow from spending all his time inside. The man struck Broc as having all the integrity of a snake. Okay, it was a snap judgment, and there may have been some jealousy involved, but there was no way Corby Wilson could be a suitable husband for Amanda. She’d be better off marrying Leo. Even Andy.

  Broc swallowed the last of his drink and was about to get up when Amanda came back into the saloon. She walked over to where Corby was talking with a man at the bar.

  “I need to leave a little early,” she told Corby.

  “We’re not ready to close yet.”

  It irritated Broc that Corby thought he had the right to question Amanda’s reason for doing anything.

  “I had a hard day on the ranch, and I have to stay late tomorrow night. I need the rest.”

  “Neither Gary nor I can leave yet.”

  “I don’t need anyone to see me home.”

  “You know your mother will raise hell if I let you leave here alone. She acts like you’re some goddamned princess or something.”

  Broc pushed away from the bar. He could do one of two things: he could punch Corby in the nose, or he could see Amanda home. He strode up to where the two of them were standing. “I’ll be happy to escort Miss Liscomb home.”

  Corby took a single look at Broc and pulled his gun. “Lay one hand on her, and I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.”

  Chapter Three

  Broc’s reaction was instinctive. Before he had time to think, he had knocked Corby’s gun hand upward, causing it to discharge a bullet into the ceiling. A quick jab from his left fist sent Corby crashing into the bar behind him. The saloon fell silent. It was into this vacuum that Broc spoke.

  “Your father should have taught you it’s unwise to draw a gun on a man until you’re sure you have better reflexes than he does.”

  “I’ll have you in jail for this,” Corby threatened.

  “You drew a gun. I only used my hands.”

  “You caused the gun to go off. I could have killed someone.”

  “I was trying to make sure it wasn’t me.”

  The saloon seemed to come to life all at once. Men started shouting, threatening.

  “Let me at him,” one man shouted. “I’ll teach him to insult a lady.”

  Amanda stepped between the men. “He didn’t insult me. He just offered to see me home.”

  “An offer from anyone as ugly as him is an insult,” another hollered.

  “I can’t allow a stranger to escort you home,” Corby told Amanda. “Even if I would, these men wouldn’t stand for it.”

  “He’s not a stranger,” Amanda said.

  “I’ve never seen him before,” Corby said.

  “I knew him from before we moved here.”

  Broc hoped his face didn’t reflect his shock at Amanda’s lie.

  “I never saw him,” her brother said. “I’d remember a face like that.”

  “He hadn’t been injured then,” Amanda said. “He got that in the war.”

  As usually happened, once people learned he’d been injured in the war, they started to feel sorry for him.

  “What’s he doing here?” Corby asked. “Where did he come from?”

  “I’ve been in California,” Broc offered. “I dropped by to see Amanda and her mother on my way through.”

  “How long are you staying?” Corby asked.

  “I’m thinking about heading out tomorrow.”

  “I hope you’re satisfied,” Amanda said to Corby.

  Corby didn’t look happy, but a wounded war veteran outranked a saloon owner. Amanda’s claiming him as an old family friend settled the matter.

  “I’ll stop by after closing,” Corby said.

  “There’s no reason to ride out that late. I’ll be asleep.” She turned to Broc. “I’m ready to go.”

  With that she turned and walked out of the saloon. Bemused and curious, Broc followed. “How were you planning to get home?” he asked once they were outside.

  “I have a buggy.”

  “Give me a few minutes to saddle my horse.”

  “There’s no need. You can drive the buggy back. Gary will bring it home when he comes.”

  It was one of those clear, starry nights when the moon’s pale glow lent even the roughest setting a romantic feeling. “Why did you tell them I was an old friend?”

  Amanda had insisted on driving, which gave her an excuse not to look up at him. “To stop Corby from making such a fuss, and to keep those men from tearing you apart.”

  “I can defend myself.”

  “Whatever you might have done would have only made things worse.”

  Broc wondered if she would still feel that protective of him when she learned of the debt. “Isn’t your brother a little young to be working behind the bar?”

  “He’s seventeen.”

  Broc didn’t think that was old enough to be a bartender in a saloon like the Open Door, but it was none of his business. Nor was Amanda’s relationship with Corby, but he had to know if what Gary had said was true. “Corby seems very protective of you.”

  Amanda shook the reins, more as a show of irritation than dissatisfaction with her horse’s performance. “I can’t make him understand I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  “I would have to agree that any woman who could handle that bull could handle this buggy for the few miles between town and your ranch.”

  “I wish you’d tell that to Corby. He stands over me worse than my father did.”

  “According to Gary, that’s his right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Gary told me you were spoken for.”

  This time she did look up. “Corby thinks because he was Papa’s partner, he’s responsible for me.”

  “I don’t think that’s what Gary had in mind.” He couldn’t tell in the dark, but he thought she blushed.
>
  “I’m not spoken for by Corby Wilson or anyone else. And when I get through with my brother, he’ll wish he’d kept his mouth shut.”

  Broc was surprised at the glint of fire in her eyes, the sharp edge to her voice. He suspected Gary would hear a few truths that wouldn’t sit well with him.

  They rode in silence for several minutes before Amanda asked, “Why would Gary say something like that to you? You’re a stranger to him.”

  “I think he felt I was looking at you with too much admiration.”

  Even in the dark, it was easy to see her look of surprise.

  “You’re a very attractive woman. I’d think you’d be used to being stared at.”

  She turned away. “Being used to it doesn’t mean I like it.”

  That was something to ponder. In Broc’s experience, it was rare that an attractive woman didn’t enjoy being the object of male attention.

  “At least the response you get is positive. I wish people could look at me without such a strong negative reaction.” He was surprised at the bitterness in his voice. “Sorry, I don’t mean to complain, but I just want to forget my face and get on with my life.”

  What was wrong with him? He hated people who whined about the unfairness of life. He was alive. He was healthy. He had a job, friends, and an adopted family. He had more than most people.

  “You probably won’t believe this,” she responded, “but sometimes I wish I’d been born plain. It gets old when people can’t see anything but your face.”

  A chuckle escaped him. “It’s not as comfortable when you’re looking at it from the opposite viewpoint. I’ve been on the other side. I know.”

  “I guess it does sound ungrateful, but all my life my mother has told me all that matters is my looks. That’s all Corby cares about because it brings in the customers.”

  “What about your singing?”

  “He wouldn’t care if I squawked like a hen. He only lets me sing because I can’t wait on all the tables. He says I can pay attention to all the men when I sing.”

  “What about your father?”

  “I wish I had a nickel for each time he told me he married the most beautiful woman in Mississippi. He’d have had my mother work in the saloon if she hadn’t flatly refused because she said it was beneath her. I wish I could refuse, too.”

  Ironic that both of them should be preoccupied with their looks but for opposite reasons.

  “If you don’t like working in the saloon, why do you do it?”

  Amanda’s shoulders drooped. “I work there because the ranch doesn’t make enough money for us to live on.”

  “Then why did your father sell his interest in the saloon and the diner?” He was asking for information that was none of his concern, but if he was to stay out of jail, he had to know everything he could about the Liscomb finances. Right now it looked like they had no way of raising seven hundred dollars in less than two weeks.

  “He did it for my mother. She never liked the saloon.”

  Broc’s parents had never concerned themselves with the gambling, drinking, or anything else that took place on Mississippi riverboats. He wondered if they were too uncaring or whether Mrs. Liscomb was too sensitive.

  Broc would have liked to prolong his time with Amanda, but she drew the buggy to a stop in front of her house. A light shined from one of the front windows.

  “Mother never goes to bed before I get home,” Amanda told him.

  “She’s concerned about your safety.”

  “She needs more sleep. She hasn’t been well recently.”

  Mrs. Liscomb hadn’t seemed unwell to Broc, but he hadn’t been around her long enough to judge. He got down from the buggy and walked around to help Amanda down. “One can’t tell it by hearing you sing, but I suspect you could use more sleep as well.”

  Having put on the brake and looped the reins over the handle, Amanda let him help her down. “I do get tired once in a while, but I can quit as soon as the first calves from our bull go to market. Gary wants us to sell them as yearlings, but that wouldn’t bring in a quarter of what we’ll get when the steers are four or five.”

  If they still owned the ranch then.

  The front door opened to reveal Mrs. Liscomb. “Amanda, come in immediately. You know the night air isn’t good for you.”

  Amanda smiled at Broc. “She forgets it takes me twenty minutes to drive home in the night air. It gets a little wearing when I’m treated as if I’m still in pigtails.”

  Broc found it impossible to imagine Amanda in pigtails, but he was certain she had been adorable.

  “Thanks for seeing me home. I’m sorry about telling Corby you were an old friend, but I can’t stand him fussing over me, and I didn’t want to stay until Gary could leave.”

  “Who normally sees you home?”

  “Gary, but the regular bartender was sick tonight, so he had no one to take over for him.”

  Gary hadn’t seemed concerned his sister might have to go home alone, but that was none of Broc’s business. He just had to collect the debt, hand the money over to the judge, and go home. He had no intention of coming to this part of Texas again.

  “I’m surprised Eddie hasn’t insisted on riding with you.”

  “He has tried,” Amanda said with a laugh, “but I won’t let him.”

  “Amanda, come in immediately,” her mother called. “Have you no concern for my health? I can’t stand in this open doorway forever.”

  “I’ve got to go. Thanks for helping with the bull and seeing me home. If you ever come through here again, you will be an old friend. Good night.”

  Broc waited until Amanda had disappeared inside before turning back to the buggy. He doubted she’d claim him as a friend after he told her about the debt. He climbed into the buggy, took the reins, and released the brake. Then he turned the buggy around and headed back down the lane toward town. He’d return tomorrow. It was probably best to time his arrival with dinner. That way he was likely to find the whole family at home.

  “What were you doing with that man?” Mrs. Liscomb’s lips were compressed in disapproval.

  Amanda unwound the scarf from around her head. “He offered to escort me home.”

  “Why didn’t Gary come with you?”

  “Gil is sick, so Gary had to work the bar alone.”

  “Then Corby should have brought you.”

  “You know he won’t leave the saloon as long as it’s open.”

  “Wasn’t there anyone else?”

  “Who would you choose? Bodie? Nick? Barney?”

  “Stop,” her mother ordered impatiently. “You know I don’t permit myself to recognize men who frequent saloons. And you needn’t be rude like Gary and say I married a saloon owner. I married the owner of a respectable plantation. It wasn’t your father’s fault that the war ruined us.”

  The growth in the cattle industry had turned their little town into a supply stop for cattle being trailed north, leaving her father prosperous enough to buy the Lazy T. Unfortunately nothing had been able to turn her mother from a Mississippi belle whose ambition had been to preside over her own plantation home into a Texas rancher’s wife willing to do what needed to be done to survive.

  “It didn’t ruin us. We’re doing what we have to in order to survive. I can drive a wagon, ride a horse, and handle a rope,” Amanda said. “If I have to, I will help with the branding and turning young bulls into steers.”

  “Amanda!” Her name wasn’t spoken. It was shrieked.

  “We live on a cattle ranch in Texas, Mother. This is not, and never will be, Mississippi.”

  “I’m painfully aware of that.”

  “But you haven’t tried to make the best of things. Gary, Eddie, and I work on this ranch every day. Then Gary and I go into town and spend our evenings working at the saloon. I know you don’t like it, but that’s what we have to do to make a living.”

  “We wouldn’t have to do it if we could sell the bull’s services.”

  “We’ve
tried, but between his getting out to service Carruthers’s cows for free and Sandoval’s insistence that his cows don’t need to be improved, that hasn’t worked.”

  “If only—”

  “Don’t start with the if only’s,” Amanda begged. “Saying the same things over again won’t change anything.”

  “I was only going to say that had this been Mississippi, our neighbors would have been glad to help us rather than do everything they could to make sure we fail.”

  “Well, we’re not in Mississippi, so we have to depend on ourselves. Now I’m going to bed. Gary will check on the bull when he gets home.”

  Amanda hurried from the room before her mother could say anything else. She tried to have patience, but it was always the same.

  Light from the small oil lamp her mother kept ready for her cast a pale yellow glow over the room. Its contents looked out of place in a ranch house in Texas. It was in essence the bedroom her mother had grown up with in Mississippi. Being an only child, her mother had inherited everything when her parents died. She had insisted upon bringing every piece of furniture, every piece of china, every item of decoration when they moved to Texas. She spent most of her day keeping the inside of the house as close as she could to what she remembered from Mississippi. Amanda had given up trying to convince her mother that the boys didn’t appreciate her efforts and considered the elaborate furnishings a nuisance rather than a birthright.

  Amanda did appreciate it, but she didn’t want to build her life around handcrafted cherry and walnut furniture or china imported from En gland. Trunks in the attic were stuffed with dresses she would never wear, hatboxes that would never be opened, shoes that would be unusable after a single trip to town. She was not immune to the lure of pretty clothes, but she wanted clothes that fitted the life she was leading now. She had been born in Mississippi, but in her heart she was a Texan. She liked the openness of the prairie, enjoyed working outside, and didn’t mind the rough manners of cowmen.

  Taking off her dress and petticoats, she hung them up carefully and slipped her nightgown over her head. She crawled into bed and settled the covers over her, but sleep didn’t come right away. She couldn’t banish a certain stranger from her thoughts.