“You always did know how to cheer me up,” he said.
“Yeah, I did.”
There’d been days when his mom had just about driven him insane with her overbearing ways, and he would come to school quiet and brooding. Violet had always known that Mrs. Jackson had been overprotective—everyone said it was a symptom of losing her husband so suddenly to a heart attack, and she no doubt thought that she could somehow save Davis from the unexpected, too, if she could just keep him in her sights.
Somehow, he’d come to stand close to her—close enough so that his shirt brushed her bare arm.
Goose bumps prickled her skin up and down. If she didn’t lay down the law right now, she wouldn’t have the strength to do it later. She’d barely been able to manage it the other night, at his mansion.
She tried to make light of their proximity. “If you need cheering up, I hear there’ll be some rodeo clowns around during the burro race.”
Her comment fell flat, but at least it got the message across. From the way he took a casual step away from her, she knew that for certain.
The distance, as short as it was, hurt. It even hurt that they were standing here together, and she would be going back to her real home in the city without him.
He surprised her then, extending a hand. “I get it, Vi. Friendship is the best thing for us.”
“Yes,” she said before she could think again. Before her goose bumps turned into something more serious.
Even so, she stared at his hand for a second, wishing…
No. No more wishing.
Grasping his hand, she shook it. “Friends?”
“Friends.”
A million volts traveled up her arm, lighting her up, but then he loosened his grip, sparing her.
And making her hurt that much more.
Chapter Seven
After Davis and Violet let go of each other’s hands, they said their goodbyes for the day, then he watched her walk through the aisle of tents.
Friends.
It was probably a good thing, because it meant they wouldn’t be enemies. It was probably the most he should ask from her, too.
But it’d been such a long time since Violet had been the closest he’d ever had to a female friend that he wasn’t sure he knew how to be that way again. He certainly hadn’t been true “friends” with any other female afterward.
He headed down the street, through the growing crowd of homegrown attendees and the tourists. People stopped him to say what a great weekend this was shaping up to be, and it made Davis think of how Violet had wanted him to pay attention to what he’d done for the town, to feel some pride in it.
Amazingly, he did, maybe for the first time ever.
He passed the buildings decorated with bunting and the artisan tents on his way to the town square, where a banjo trio was plucking away at their instruments and drawing a crowd. Davis circled to the back of the performance tent, finding Jennifer Neeson and Lianna Hurst arguing about logistics for the apple pie bake-off, and he took a detour.
Over a week ago, before Violet came, he would’ve gone right over to them to flirt. But now?
It didn’t seem that alluring. Violet made other women seem out of the question, even if she was off limits.
Friends, he reminded himself, as a weight sank within him.
Under the nearby gazebo, a group of older men—ex-miners—were seated in a circle, and Davis left Jennifer and Lianna behind to check in with the guys. He came around the back of the structure as they were talking and using their knives to whittle blocks of wood. A few handmade signs announced that they were selling their work, which perched on the gazebo railing—everything from little horses to woodland creatures and totems.
These men weren’t exactly big fans of Davis’s since they’d been forced into an early retirement due to the mine shutting down, but that never stopped Davis from being affable.
Their voices rose even above the banjos. “Have you seen him with that Osborne girl?”
They must’ve spied Davis roaming the square but didn’t know he’d come around to their area. He almost spoke up before they could say something they might regret, but he was too late.
“Well,” said another ex-miner, “her daddy turned his back on us. Why wouldn’t she do it, too, by hanging around another man who screwed us out of a job?”
They were talking about how Violet’s father had blown the whistle on the kaolin mine’s safety conditions. What burned Davis even more was that they were insinuating that Violet had inherited the title of “betrayer”—that she was a turncoat because she was friends with Davis, who’d attracted the Mine Safety and Health Administration’s attention with his newspaper stories.
The third man chimed in. “I’ll bet Violet Osborne learned a few things in the city—she’s probably fast enough to keep up with Davis Jackson these days.”
“He’ll probably follow her anywhere now.”
As they laughed, Davis sauntered from around the corner of the gazebo, picking up a whittled flower that reminded him of Violet. Her name and even her personality were as colorful as these painted petals.
At first, the men sat up straight in their chairs, then hunched over in sullen defense. One had a beard, one a long mustache, the other was clean-shaven. All averted their gazes.
“How’s business?” Davis asked. On the outside, he was still friendly. On the inside, he was a mess of steaming ire.
The men weren’t quite so bold now. The one with the beard, Trevor Thomas, answered.
“Things’ll pick up.”
Davis reached into his pocket for his wallet. “We could get some better signage for you to step up the traffic.”
The men didn’t say anything, probably surprised that Davis wasn’t calling them out for their rude comments.
He leafed off a $50 bill from a wad of them as the ex-miners resumed their work with stiff, jerky movements.
“You know,” Davis said, “it’s been five years since the mine closed. Things have been tough since then, but everyone in this town wants what’s best for its people, including me and, believe it or not, Violet Osborne. I’m sure you’ve heard about the article she’s working on to develop St. Valentine’s profile as a tourist destination.”
They didn’t look up from their whittling.
“Just to make my point clear,” he said, his voice lowering, “Violet had nothing to do with that mine closure, and her dad was only looking out for you. I thought I was, too, and I never expected to hurt anyone.”
Now Davis had their full attention.
The nice, helpful-guy persona had proven useful, but his time was over. “If you gentlemen have anything to talk to me about, you should say it. But Violet’s a friend, and I won’t tolerate any lies or disrespect for her.”
When they didn’t say anything, Davis tucked the money under a woodpecker on the railing to pay for the whittled flower.
“I think that should cover it,” he said, referring to the money and his comments.
Davis began walking away, but not before he heard Trevor say one more thing under his breath. “Friends, he says.”
The men all chuckled, and for the first time in his life, Davis felt his skin flush. He’d said he wouldn’t stand any lies about Violet, but the men had Davis nailed.
Even to the people who didn’t know him very well, it was apparent that the whole “friends” thing was bull.
* * *
After the dinner rush ended at the Queen of Hearts, Violet was dead on her feet.
The customers had thinned, so she leaned against the bar, where her dad was tending to a visiting couple. Only about three tables were still full, and none of them were in Violet’s section.
“You deserve a break,�
�� her dad said.
“We might get another rush.”
“Doubtful.” Dad frowned. “These just aren’t the kind of numbers we were hoping for this weekend.”
“But maybe—”
“I can handle what’s left for a while. You’ve been working since morning. Why don’t you go outside and have a little fun, Vi? You haven’t seen a Founder’s Weekend for years.”
It was tempting, especially since she knew Davis was somewhere out there.
But she wasn’t supposed to crave his company. Not with the law she’d laid down with him.
Buddies, she thought. How’s that working out so far?
She pushed away from the bar. “Can I have a tea to go, Dad?”
“Coming right up.”
He fixed it for her, pouring the beverage into a foam cup with a lid, the bag’s tag dangling. She grabbed a packet of sugar and a stirrer. “I won’t be too long.”
“No hurry,” he said, wiping down the bar.
She fought the tightness in her throat. Her parents had been depending on a healthy weekend to keep things going financially, and it was tough to watch Dad pretending as if his world wasn’t crumbling.
She thought of Tony Amati, the look-alike…the story that could be picked up by TV programs like the Today show or some human-interest-centered magazines.
They needed the good press for St. Valentine, and the notion doubled her determination to help the town…and the people she loved who lived here.
Out of nowhere, Davis’s face came to her.
After pausing, she shook her head, then erased him from her mind. Even so, she couldn’t chase away the tiny shocks surrounding her heart.
She wandered onto the boardwalk, taking in the laughter from the street, the near distant country music from the small stage in the town square. The gas lamps were glowing in the dusk, lending a timeless haze to everything. St. Valentine was as beautiful as she’d ever seen it.
And when Davis Jackson strolled into her sight, it became even more so.
He was still wearing those be-still-my-beating-heart jeans, with a casual Western shirt, an outfit that belied the millionaire in him, except for the expensive, custom-made boots.
For a moment, Violet could only stare, her pulse flailing.
Friends. Just friends.
He strolled up to the boardwalk railing, where she’d set her tea before she could drop it. Her hands were actually shaking, dammit, so she held off on adding the sugar.
“Caffeine injection?” he asked, motioning toward the tea as he reached up and leaned his arms on the railing. His muscles strained against his shirt, firm and smooth.
“I’m getting my second wind,” she said, smiling, telling herself that he did nothing for her.
And utterly failing.
“Knowing you, you’ll have a third and a fourth wind before the night’s over,” he said.
“True. You might even see me in that dance marathon.”
He lifted an eyebrow, and the gesture was slightly rakish, fluttering her pulse.
“You need a partner for the marathon, Vi.”
Okay, time to scramble on to a safer subject, because he had a look in his eyes…A gleam that said he wouldn’t mind holding her in his arms all night, moving with her around a dance floor.
“It was just a joke,” she said. “I’m not much for dancing.”
“You never were.”
She narrowed her gaze at him. “Sure I was.”
“Not as I remember it. If you were at a dance during high school, it was because you were snapping pictures or writing an article about the social scene.”
“Well, I wanted to dance. I was just too—”
He said it just as she did.
“—busy.”
They laughed, and it was such a nice change from all the taut moments between them that she missed the sound when it finally faded.
She lifted the lid off her tea, steeping it with the bag.
His voice infiltrated her with its low timbre, like something hot and soothing washing through her body.
“Do you go dancing in the city?” he asked.
“I used to, with my friends. But the clubbing scene got boring. There’re only so many times I could have a conversation with someone on a dance floor while we shouted over the music.”
“See—that’s not really dancing, Vi.”
“Are you criticizing my technique?”
“I’d never do that.”
The conversation had taken a turn into something veiled, sultry, and she almost fumbled the tea from the rail.
She calmly ripped open the sugar packet and poured it all in, stirring.
It looked as if he was about to add another innuendo-laden comment, but she gave him a “don’t say a word” glance before he did it. They laughed again. Natural, as if they’d been doing it since…
Well, forever.
A warm glow suffused Violet as her gaze met Davis’s. He was watching her with more than wanting or the angry hunger she’d seen in him before. Now, there was just…a wish?
The same one that was revolving like a sharp, multisided prism inside of her?
Footsteps on the boardwalk brought them out of their moment. The sound of high-heeled shoes.
If it was Jennifer again, Violet was going to—
“Hello, Violet,” the woman said, and it wasn’t Jennifer. No, this tall, slim, bleached blonde dressed in a cool light blue sheath was older, more sophisticated.
“Mom,” Davis said, and there was a warning in his tone as he lowered his arms from the railing, his hands going to his hips to rest there in a second warning.
His mother leaned against a post, holding her stylish clutch bag in one hand. “What, Davis—I can’t say hello? I haven’t seen Violet since…”
The words curled off, as if in a mist thick with meaning.
Violet spoke. “Since you lied to me about Davis seeing other women. I think that’s what you were about to say, isn’t it?”
Mrs. Jackson laughed. “She really has grown up, Davis. The Violet I knew wouldn’t have ever talked to me like this. She wouldn’t have dared.”
Davis said, “I think that’s enough, Mom.”
Violet had spent years despising this woman for what she’d done, and it’d all built to a head, coming out in a rush of words now. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say my being here is somehow threatening to you.”
The other woman laughed again. “You’d like to think you’re that special, wouldn’t you? But the truth is, Violet, that you were never as good as you thought. A miner’s girl. Did you truly think you had any sort of future with Davis?”
His boots thumped on the steps as he came to the boardwalk. “Enough.”
Violet was eerily calm, even as her adrenaline fired away. “It’s okay,” she said, still looking at his mom. “She’s never gotten over the fact that you have a mind of your own.”
Mrs. Jackson stood away from the post, her posture ramrod straight. “Let me do you a favor, Violet. Let me tell you the honest-to-God truth. You’re a novelty right now to him—a could-have-been fantasy. And if you think he’s going to be paying you this much attention after he catches you, you’re wrong.”
Davis walked around his mother, placing a hand on Violet’s back and trying to guide her away. “You don’t have to listen to this.”
“Why? She doesn’t bother me,” Violet said, standing her ground.
But his mom had already descended the steps, yet not without one last comment.
“You were never anything special,” she repeated. “Not to him, not to anyone. That’s why you’re back here where you started, without much of a present or a future.”<
br />
“Damn it,” Davis said, starting to follow his mom into the street.
Violet reached out to grab his shirt, but she didn’t say anything. Her throat was too raw.
Mrs. Jackson had struck home with her drive-by hit job, burying her comments deep into its intended target—right in the center of Violet.
Nothing special. A castoff from the world she’d tried to conquer. Jobless, nearly broke and still a social pariah—that was Violet to a T right now, and there was no argument against it.
But she wasn’t going to show the damage—not in front of her. Or Davis.
After Mrs. Jackson had melted into the crowd, Violet casually let go of Davis’s shirt and stirred her tea again, praying that he wouldn’t see the unsteadiness of her hand.
“What she said was dead wrong.” Davis’s tone was serrated.
“I know it was.” Sure.
“Violet.” He took her by the hands, even if she was still holding the stirrer, pretending she had even the slightest interest in tea.
His skin seared into hers. “Anyone who sees you as anything other than a success is crazy. She was just pulling out anything that she thought would get to you.”
And she’d done the job.
He used his index finger to tip up her chin so that she was looking into those blue, blue eyes.
“Tell me you didn’t take it to heart,” he said.
Violet forced a smile. “It’s water off my back.”
But it was more like she was carrying a new load, and it was pulling her down lower than she’d ever thought she could feel.
* * *
Davis was torn between confronting his mother and staying with Violet, who was acting as if she hadn’t just been lacerated.
But, really, was there any choice as to where he wanted to be?
He wanted to hold Violet close, show her that his mom was wrong—that Violet was special. That she was a star at whatever she did, whether it was reporting or stealing his heart.
Good God, he wanted some payback, because watching Violet try to brush off the insults was killing him.
She cleared her throat, and he realized he was still holding her hands, out here on the boardwalk, where they were drawing stares.
Courted by the Texas Millionaire Page 10
