THE BACHELOR PARTY

by Paula Detmer Riggs

  "No, really, Ford. I'd rather just call it a night."

  "Humor me, honey. Beau and I never were the best of friends, and if I bring him back in a bad temper, Miss Rose Ruth will blister my ears but good."

  Sophie couldn't help laughing at the image of the tiny septuagenarian blistering anything of Ford's without his permission. "Oh, all right, but only for a few minutes. I'll go get a jacket."

  "No, you can use mine." He hooked a hand under her elbow and drew her to the door.

  "But what'll you wear?" she protested, but he shoved Beau into her arms and opened the door, hooking his jacket from the brass hall tree as he ushered her out onto the porch.

  "Nice night," he said as he took Beau's leash from his pocket and clipped it to the old dog's new red collar. "Here you go, old son," he said, lifting the dog from her arms only to deposit him on the porch floor.

  "Now you hold on to this," he said, handing her the leash.

  "Ford—"

  "Here, slip into this before you get chilled." Before she could make him understand, she found herself wrapped in his suit coat, her free hand tucked into his, and a very anxious Beau straining at the leash she still held in her left hand.

  "You're impossible, you know that?" she said as Ford led her down the porch steps.

  "But lovable, right?" His teeth flashed white in the glow from the porch. He seemed younger tonight, and more relaxed than she'd ever seen him.

  "Lovable isn't exactly the word I'd choose," she admitted, pausing to let Beau sniff the azalea bushes by the steps.

  "Irresistible, maybe?" He bent his head to nuzzle her neck. Pleasure chased down her spine, followed by an invasive warmth.

  "More like irritating."

  "Good thing I'm not sensitive, or my ego would surely be hurtin' about now," he said, his breath warm on her neck.

  When she realized she was in danger of wanting more than a few lazy, teasing kisses, she tugged Beau away from the flowers. The old dog gave an annoyed, "Woof," and then settled into his usual shambling rhythm.

  This time they headed north, toward Clover's business district. Clover Street itself was deserted, but Christmas lights blazed from every house along the tree-lined thoroughfare, giving the night a festive air.

  At the corner, Beau decided to turn left, taking them down Atlantic Avenue

  . It was one of Clover's older areas, and the houses were all one of a kind. Nearly all of the yards were beautifully landscaped, many surrounded by ornate iron fences.

  "I really do love it here," she murmured. "Everything's so different, so interesting. The people, the antebellum architecture—just walking down the street is a living history lesson." She took a breath, then laughed self-consciously as she lifted her gaze to his. "I guess I must sound pretty naive."

  "Not to me."

  "Wells always said I was a sucker for old things. In a way I suppose he was right." She laughed as Beau detoured toward his favorite tree, intent upon marking his territory with the frantic fervor of a pup.

  "Was your husband from Montana, too?" Ford asked when they'd walked almost a block in silence.

  "Yes," she said, staring straight ahead.

  "Where'd you meet?"

  "In school."

  Ford cursed himself for being a nosy bastard, but the need to know her feelings about her dead husband was like a painful knot in his belly.

  "Guess you must miss him a lot this time of year."

  When they reached the circle of light from the next street

  lamp, she stopped short. "Please, Ford, don't ask me any more questions about my marriage," she said, turning to face him.

  His first instinct was to wrap himself around her and hold her close. Because it wasn't sex that motivated him, he hesitated. The same fragile look was back in her eyes, as though she would shatter if he touched her.

  "Just tell me one more thing," he said quietly. "Are you still in love with your husband?"

  Her gaze flickered. "No," she murmured. "I'm not in love with him, but I haven't forgotten him, either, or the pain I caused him and his family."

  Without planning it, he stepped closer—physically, emotionally. He was touching her hair before he gave himself time to weigh the reasons—or the consequences. When she didn't protest, he skimmed his mouth over her temple, breathing in the spring-rain scent of her shampoo.

  "Tell me what I can do to make you happy tonight," he murmured, easing her into his arms.

  "It makes me happy to know that you cared enough to ask." She tilted her head back so that she could see his face. "I think you're a very nice man, Ford Maguire. Even though you don't smile nearly as often as you should."

  Ford lifted his eyebrows. Since he'd been no taller than a thistle weed, he'd put up with people he cared about pointing out his faults to him, but that wasn't one of them.

  "How do you know how often I smile when I'm not around you?"

  "I don't," she admitted, lowering her gaze from his eyes to his mouth and pursing her lips. It was all he could do to keep from covering that provocative pout with a kiss. He couldn't remember ever wanting a woman as much as he wanted Sophie—or found himself as willing to wait for her.

  "Are you telling me it's my fault you scowl more than you smile?" she demanded softly.

  "Must be. Nobody else in thirty-six years has ever complained. But just for you, I'll try not to scowl so much."

  "Starting now?"

  When he continued to scowl at her, Sophie pushed at the tight corner of his mouth with her fingertip. Obediently, he curved his lips, looking self-conscious, and yet disturbingly attractive. Without warning, she felt desire gathering again, stronger this time, based more on emotion than sexual excitement and thus harder to resist.

  "You really do have a gorgeous smile," she murmured before she could stop herself.

  She saw surprise in his eyes, and hunger, and then his mouth was covering hers and warmth was spreading inside her. His mouth made gentle demands, and pleasure exploded. His arms drew her closer, and she responded by pushing to her tiptoes, needing the pressure of his chest against her suddenly tingling breasts.

  She heard whimpering, then knew that it was her making the small greedy sounds. His mouth lifted, and she forced open her eyes.

  "More?" he whispered hoarsely, his eyes glittering between thick black lashes.

  "Yes," she murmured, scarcely recognizing that sultry panting voice as her own.

  Even though Ford was driven to take her there and now, in the soft earth beneath the fragrant winter azaleas, with the sounds of Christmas carols ringing in their ears, he managed to curb the savagery of his own need, even as he deepened his kiss.

  It stunned him to realize that he wanted more from her than one night. And knowing that, admitting that, had him banking fires he'd never banked before.

  Drawing back, he waited for her to open her eyes. They were the color of deep twilight in the glow from the streetlight and glazed with pleasure he'd put there.

  "I think it's time we headed back. Otherwise, I'm not sure we'll make it before sunrise."

  Sophie was still sleepy when she went to work the next day at 6:00 a.m. The morning rush was lighter than usual, something Peg had already warned her usually happened when December 26 fell on a weekday. A lot of the people who worked in Clover's business district had the day off.

  Because she'd needed the money, Sophie had jumped at the chance to work Evie's shift again so that Evie could spend Christmas with her husband's family in Atlanta. But now that she was actually at work and looking at a long day, she was wishing she'd said no when Evie had asked.

  It didn't help that Peg seemed grumpier than usual. Did she wish she were somewhere else, too? Sophie wondered when she entered the pantry for another jug of blueberry syrup and found Peg muttering to herself over the year-end inventory.

  "Instead of caterin' to make money on the side, why don't you buy this place so's I can get me some rest," Peg grumbled when she spied Sophie entering. "I'll make you a real
good deal."

  "Thanks but no thanks," Sophie said, reaching for the syrup. "I'm having enough trouble trying to figure out what to charge for my catering services."

  "Did you have those flyers printed up yet?"

  "Not yet. Friendly Printers wants to be paid up front."

  "Not very friendly, are they?" Peg drawled.

  Sophie laughed. "No, but they are the cheapest. That's why I picked them."

  Peg gave her a sympathetic look before returning her attention to the shelf of canned vegetables. "Oh, I almost forgot," she said as Sophie was on her way out. "Ask Ford to stop by to see me before he leaves, will you please? I got this letter from the prosecutor's office I need to ask him about."

  "He hasn't come in yet," Sophie said, glancing at the hands of the nearby time clock. To her shock, she discovered that it was almost eight o'clock.

  Peg raised her eyebrows in obvious surprise, then shrugged. "I guess he's entitled to sleep late one day of the year."

  "I'll give him your message when he shows up," Sophie promised before shutting Peg in. But even as she filled one of the pitchers she'd carried into the kitchen she was thinking about Peg's words.

  In her mind's eye she saw him asleep, his arms hugging the pillow, his body not quite relaxed, his face still taut with tension that didn't ease, even when he closed out the world. Even though she knew he hadn't lived the life of a cloistered monk, and Sissy certainly proved that, she pictured him lying there alone. Always alone.

  Perhaps that was the reason she kept imagining him as that proud solitary wolf, taking on the heaviest burdens, accepting the loneliest of tasks so that others would be free to live as they wished, just as he'd shackled himself to a small-town job and a small-town life so that his sister could grow up feeling secure and protected. And loved.

  For all her gentle complaining, Lucy knew that above all. Ford might fuss about the length of her skirt and her choice in men, but he would always let those choices be hers. And, Sophie suspected, he would always be there for her, no matter what mistakes she made.

  Smiling to herself, Sophie exchanged a full pitcher for an empty one, and tipped the heavy bottle over the lip. Her parents had loved her without reservations, the way Ford seemed to love Lucy. Perhaps that's why she hadn't understood how devastating it could be when love came with conditions. Conditions she hadn't been able to meet, no matter how hard she'd tried.

  A small shudder ran through her as she remembered the frustration seething in Wells's eyes when she'd refused his repeated demands that she give up teaching for a full-time job as wife, mistress and hostess.

  Gradually, like a virus sapping her strength, she'd realized just how pathologically insecure he'd been under that glossy, constantly refined image of the powerful, dynamic, sophisticated professional. He'd been all flash, and no steel. Just the opposite of Ford Maguire, she thought, licking a drop of sweet syrup from her finger before switching to the next pitcher.

  Ford seemed tough because he was tough. It wasn't simply a matter of steely muscle and sinew, though he was a magnificent man in the physical sense, no doubt about that. No, his toughness came from some inner code that wouldn't allow him to bend a rule he considered fair or violate a principle he believed just, no matter what personal grief he might suffer.

  Such a man would never flinch from duty.

  Such a man would be impossible to ignore, and even more impossible to love. There was a third "impossible," she realized, stunned into immobility. It was all but impossible to keep from loving such a man once you'd found him.

  "Good gracious, child, where is your mind?"

  Jerked back to reality by Mrs. DuPuis's incredulous tone, Sophie was mortified to discover the pitcher she'd been refilling had overflowed onto the fussy cook's spotless counter. Gooey syrup the color of ink was already dripping onto the equally spotless linoleum.

  "Uh, guess I was daydreaming," she told the imperiously majestic cook with an apologetic smile.

  "Must have been some daydream, that!" Mrs. DuPuis retorted, a smile flitting across her teak brown face. "I recollect one or two of those myself, especially after I first laid eyes on my Henri."

  Feeling her face flame, Sophie hastily put down the jug and grabbed a towel. It took three towels and a great deal of elbow grease and liquid soap before the last of the sticky syrup had been wiped away. By the time she was finished, she'd convinced herself that she couldn't possibly be in love with Ford Maguire.

  He came in at ten, looking tired and out of sorts. His long rope-muscled body was dressed in the familiar khaki uniform, the well-cut trousers laundered to a chamois softness that only made the hard musculature of his legs and calves that much more noticeable.

  Only a few of the tables were still occupied, and none of the counter stools. Presented with a choice of seats, he nevertheless headed straight for the last stool on the left, walking with a loose, easy stride that only enhanced the air of command he wore as easily as the blue steel pistol on his hip.

  Sophie drew in one deep breath, then let it out again, trying to relieve a sudden and definitely unwanted case of nerves. Instead of easing the annoying flutters in her stomach, it only seemed to make them worse.

  "Good morning." Sophie set a brimming mug of steaming coffee in front of him before readying her pad for his order. "'Mornin'."

  He favored her with a far-from-seductive look as he lifted the mug to his mouth. Waiting for him to finish, she noticed suddenly that the back of his hand was crisscrossed with angry red scratches.

  "What happened to your hand?" she asked, indicating the superficial wounds with a pointed look.

  His gaze followed hers. "Tangled with some briars down at Deadman's Slough. A couple of my boys and I went lookin' for Frenchy this mornin'."

  She winced. "Any luck?"

  He shrugged. "Some. We found where he'd been set up only a short time back. Figured he'd relocated when Talley was arrested."

  "Speaking of that, Peg would like to speak with you before you leave, something about a letter from the county prosecutor. She's in the back."

  His mouth firmed, giving him a harsh, angry look. Outside, a semi rumbled past, shaking the window glass. "Looks like Rans is gonna get out on bail today. Word around the courthouse is that the same someone who put up the money for bail also hired him a big-city lawyer."

  "Any idea who that someone might be?" she asked, dreading the answer.

  "My first guess would be Frenchy. Be my last guess, too, come to think of it."

  Sophie's felt a chill. "Should I be worried?"

  His mouth softened slightly. "Not as long as Rans stays away from the booze."

  "What happens if he doesn't?"

  "If he stays inside his place, nothing. If he even looks like he's leavin', he'll find himself headin' back to jail, like right now."

  Sophie drew a breath. "How would you know if he was drinking?"

  His eyes narrowed. "Because he's being watched." He glanced past her at the blackboard, his expression nonthreatening. Only someone observing him closely would notice the taut pull of his jaw muscles.

  "Who's cookin' this morning?" He shifted his gaze to her face, pinning her. It was then that she noticed the ice in his eyes.

  "Mrs. DuPuis."

  He leaned back, drawing his coffee closer to his flat belly. "In that case, I'll have some of her fried bread and sausage."

  "Toast and juice?"

  "Might as well."

  "Anything else?" She glanced up, her pencil still poised.

  "Now that you mention it, yeah." He tilted his head, a cynical smile playing over his hard mouth. "Now that you and I are gettin' on so well, I'd like to hire you to handle the doings for Mike Flint next month."

  "I should have said no," Sophie muttered, rummaging through the sparse contents of her closet. "No to the party, no to the catering job."

  While Jessie watched from her favorite spot on the floor, Sophie pulled out her ivory blouse and held it against her while inspecting her im
age in the mirror affixed to the closet door. Almost new when she'd found it at the resale shop, the blouse was a lovely color, a classic design and… "Frumpy," she muttered, suddenly more dispirited than ever.

  It didn't help to remember the lovely, silky gowns she'd had before she was married. Her mother had helped her make them, and each one was special. She had no idea where they were now. After she'd been sent to prison, Anita Manwaring had taken it upon herself to sell everything left in Sophie's house. Sophie had had to sell the house itself in order to pay her legal fees. The few dollars that had been left over had gone into a trust for Jessie.

  "It's hopeless, Jess," she muttered, returning the blouse to the rod. "I don't have anything festive enough for a party."

  Jessie furrowed her brow as though deep in thought, and Sophie laughed. "Yes, I know. It's not a date, and no one will notice what I'm wearing, anyway."

  Bored with watching her mother, Jessie flipped to all fours and crawled to her crib. Using the bars, she pulled herself to a standing position, then glanced over her shoulder to see if her mother had been watching.

  "What a clever girl!" Sophie exclaimed softly, clapping her hands.

  Distracted by her own giggles, Jessie blinked, then lost her grip and fell hard on her bottom. Her face started to crumple, and Sophie scooped her into her arms.

  "Don't be ashamed of falling down, Jessie Bear," she murmured, kissing the baby's crown of curls. "That's how we learn. The important thing is to keep on trying, no matter how badly you want to quit, and before you know it, you'll be walking all over the place."

  With a sore heart, Sophie realized that her little girl would soon be talking more, too, and asking question after question in the way of all children—about everything and nothing. Why is the sky blue? Where does the sun go at night? Why didn't she have a daddy or grandparents or any family at all besides her mother?

  Sophie drew a shallow breath, feeling sick at heart. A lot of children grew up with only one parent, she told herself staunchly as she carried Jessie to the bed and sat down.

  "Look at Katie," she said to Jessie brightly, cradling her close. "She was raised by her Aunt Peg and she turned out just fine. And Lucy, she lost her parents when she was only nine. You couldn't ask for a nicer, more well-adjusted person." She drew a breath. "Ford must have been a good father to her, don't you think?"