Home. Sophie didn't know what it looked like, but she knew what it represented. She held onto the dream—the only one she allowed herself—while her mother pulled her from town to town. The longer hopes and dreams remained unfulfilled, the heavier they became. Sophie's slight shoulders were strong, but there was a limit to everything.
She kept her dreams buried for a reason. It hurt to get her hopes up only to have them broken into a million pieces. Newt. His ranch. His home. Sophie couldn't let herself think of it as real. Not with Joy calling the shots. Her mother had the attention span of a gnat. Always looking past what she had. Certain something bigger and better was just around the corner.
Calling herself the biggest kind of fool, Sophie gave herself a shake. She was getting ahead of herself. Chances were high that something would happen to prevent them from leaving town—let alone reaching this so-called ranch.
Joy slowed the car, coming to a stop next to a deserted row of parking meters. Without a word of explanation, she exited the vehicle.
"I know what you're thinking." Joy kicked the temperamental trunk. Once. Twice. Third time's the charm.
"I doubt that." Sophie removed her suitcase and the paper bag.
"You think that I'm afraid to let Newt see the kind of car I drive."
"Close enough," Sophie muttered as they started their walk. Actually, for once, Joy was spot on.
"Trust me, missy. You are not as deep and mysterious as you want to believe." Joy wobbled down the uneven sidewalk in a tight skirt and five-inch heels. "One day you'll understand why I do the things I do."
That seemed unlikely. Sophie was happy in her sneakers and old jeans. No matter her age, Sophie couldn't see herself in her mother's shoes. Figuratively or literally.
"I'll let you in on a little secret. Men want perfection. Newt likes the idea of helping a woman who is slightly down on her luck. But I can't actually look like I need his money."
"It's better to trudge down the street in the middle of the night than roll up in a crappy car?"
"Yes." Joy set down her suitcase, giving herself a moment to catch her breath. "Besides, he won't see me trudging. When he comes down to the lobby, I'll be waiting. Fresh as a daisy."
"The sweat rolling down your face isn't very daisy-like," Sophie pointed out.
"That's what bathrooms and a change of clothes are for." Determined, Joy picked up the suitcase and her pace. "I've never let a man see me when I'm not at my best."
"What about in the morning?" Sophie had seen Joy when her eyes were rimmed with mascara, and her hair was standing on end. Before noon, Joy tended to look like a frightened raccoon.
"I make certain to wake long before he does. I sponge myself off—a shower would spoil the illusion. Brush my teeth. Put on new makeup. Fix my hair. Then I sneak back to bed before he knows I was gone."
"It sounds exhausting." And ridiculous. Sophie knew that her mother's boyfriends were less than rocket scientists. But only a fool would believe that Joy woke up looking like she stepped off a magazine cover.
"It's necessary."
Joy sounded so sure of herself. So superior. So worldly. So idiotic it was all Sophie could do not to burst out laughing. Perhaps if this were the nineteen-fifties and Leave It to Beaver ruled the television airways. Or maybe—just maybe—if Sophie had lived a sheltered life without the benefit of books and the internet. If all of that were true, she might buy the line her mother tried to sell.
By association, Sophie was forced to ride a rollercoaster of secondhand disappointment and frustration. The pity was all on her side. Not for herself. She could picture the day when all of this was a distant memory. On her own. Away from her mother's drama. Sophie pitied her mother because no matter what, Joy would never change.
This was the life Joy wanted. The sad part was that whether she ever admitted it or not, she fought a losing battle. Like the Wizard of Oz, her mother was so afraid that somebody would get a look behind the curtain, she had never learned to enjoy the here and now.
"Finally," Joy said as the hotel came into view.
Their walk was probably the most exercise her mother had in years. The heat didn't help. Though well after midnight, the temperature was still in the high seventies. Breathing heavily, Joy took a handkerchief from her purse, wiping her profusely sweating face.
"Are the rooms as nice as the lobby?" Sophie knew she was gaping, but this was the first time she had seen the inside of a place that didn't rent by the hour. Everything was so clean. And the air conditioning was a slice of pure heaven.
"For Christ's sake, Sophie, close your mouth. You're acting like an unsophisticated yokel."
"Because that's what I am." Sophie wasn't embarrassed. She took a seat in one of the plush velvet chairs and sighed. This was so much better than her imagination—and her imagination was spectacular. However, picturing herself in a place like this had nothing on actually being here.
"I'm going to freshen up." Joy took her makeup bag from the suitcase before setting it next to Sophie. "Don't move. Don't talk to anybody unless they work here. And then, what do you say?"
"I'm waiting for my father." Sophie knew the drill. Adults gave well-behaved children some leeway. Especially when the child claimed a parent was in the vicinity.
Though tall, Sophie looked her age. Maybe a little younger. When she spoke, the story was different. Her mental maturity far outdistanced her body. However, she was smart enough to tone down her intellect when necessary. If somebody wanted an innocent tween, that's what she gave them.
Today, Joy wanted invisible, so that was the illusion Sophie presented. Still but observant, she sat patiently, doing nothing to draw attention. Her feet didn't swing, her hands lay unmoving in her lap. But Sophie's mind was anything but quiet. She took it all in. Every sight. Every sound. It didn't matter that this was a small hotel. Or that the patrons weren't even close to celebrity status. All around her was a different world than the one she normally inhabited.
To pass the time—and amuse nobody but herself—Sophie made up stories. For example, the couple at the reception desk. Young. Attractive. Obviously in love. Newly married, they were running away from disapproving parents. She had a job waiting for her in San Francisco. He was a hopeful author. She would work while he completed his half-finished book. When it hit the bestseller list, she would go back to college. Perhaps they would start a family. The future was limitless as long as they were together.
Then on the opposite end of the happiness spectrum, the man waiting near the entrance looked uncomfortable. The man speaking earnestly to him was his lover. Married, they met on the down-low whenever possible. The smaller, animated speaker stated his argument for the umpteenth time. They should confess everything to their families. Didn't they deserve to be with each other—the person they loved? From the first man's reaction, it didn't seem that he agreed. Sophie didn't try to feel sorry for the men. Her sympathy lay with the deceived wives—not the cheaters.
Enjoying the game, Sophie looked for another target for her harmless musings. Dismissing several possibilities, her gaze came to rest on a tall, lean man who seemed to be looking for somebody. Handsome. Not too young. Not too old. Sophie wasn't very good at guessing ages. For her story, she settled on forty-five. Maybe a little younger. His dark-blond hair was worn short, and he was clean shaven. In his hand, he held a cowboy hat. That was interesting.
His boots were in the same vein. Blue jeans that looked like they were straight from the store. A crisp white shirt, tucked in, fastened with silver snaps. Neat as a pin, and a little nervous if the way his fingers clutched the brim of his Stetson was any indication. He had a kind face. Sophie hoped whoever kept him waiting was worthy of that kindness.
"Well? What do you think?"
Not exactly a miracle, but Joy had worked wonders on herself. In Sophie's opinion, the makeup was too heavy, and the dress was still too short, but Joy's long hair hung loosely around her shoulders softening her look co
nsiderably.
Knowing her part in this play, Sophie said her lines without a stumble or stutter.
"You look beautiful. Not a day over twenty-five."
Thirty-five was more like it. But Sophie wasn't supposed to mention her mother's real age. Ever. One of Joy's hard-fast rules.
Happy, Joy scanned the room. Slowly, her smile widened, and her body took on a sultry pose.
"There's Newt."
Sophie turned. She should have guessed. The cowboy with the kind face waved his hat. As he made his way toward them, her emotions were mixed. For her sake, she wanted Newt to be a good man. For his sake, she hoped his skin was thicker than it looked.
"One more thing," Joy whispered to Sophie out of the side of her mouth. "I'm your sister. Don't forget."
Sophie watched as Newt swung a laughing Joy into his arms. Sisters. Not the first time they had perpetrated that particular deception. Maybe it was his sweet smile or the warmth in his deep blue eyes. Something about Newt made Sophie want to tell him the truth. Damn Joy and the consequences.
"Is this your little sister?"
"That's right." Perhaps sensing Sophie's hesitation, Joy sent her a warning look.
"Hello, Sophie." Newt took her hand in his. "Are you ready to go home?"
That one word sent all others from Sophie's brain. She swallowed hard.
"Home?" she asked hopefully. When Newt nodded, his kind eyes crinkling at the sides, the hope in Sophie's heart canceled out her twinge of conscience. Taking a deep breath, she smiled. "Yes, sir. I am."
CHAPTER TWO
"OH, FORBES! OH, Forbes! Oh! Forbes!"
"Shut the fuck up."
"What?" Aaron Green asked his best friend with feigned innocence. "I'm just recreating the sound everybody else at the party heard. Shelly's screams of pleasure—they were pleasure, right?"
"Fuck you."
"Why bother when you have Shelly Thomas at your disposal. She's hot. Willing. Able. Doesn't ask for a commitment longer than it takes her to get off. And those tits." As a visual reference, Aaron held his hands a good three feet from his chest. "Still. The way she screeched? Your bedroom is on the second floor, and we heard her like you were screwing three feet away."
Laughing like a madman, Aaron Green collapsed onto the sofa. Not able to prevent himself from getting in one more jab, he sighed loudly. "Oh—"
The sopping-wet sponge hurled at his face hit Aaron smack-dab in the mouth, effectively preventing him from finishing.
"I told you to shut up."
Forbes laughed—hard. The sight of Aaron's face covered in water, soap, and whatever grimy crap the sponge had picked up from last night's party almost made the pain in his exploding hangover-laden head worth it.
"Not cool, man." Aaron scrubbed his face with his shirtsleeve. "Isn't that the spot where Dwyer tossed his cookies?"
"And a half pint of cheap whiskey."
Feeling his stomach roil with protest, Forbes remembered to breathe through his nose. The only consolation was that the vomit hit the hardwood, missing the cloth-covered furniture. Knowing his friends, before the party started, Forbes had rolled up the expensive Persian rug that normally blanketed the living room floor, packing it away behind the locked office door. Along with his mother's crystal vase and anything else a pack of rowdy teenagers might destroy. In the end, all that was left was a coffee table, one old lamp, some chairs, and the sofa. The last was covered by an old blanket.
"What the hell did they spill on this thing?" Aaron's nose wrinkled. "It smells like a brewery—that somebody pissed on."
Returning to scrubbing the floor, Forbes shook his head. His friends were pigs. Worse than. However, he had known that when he invited them to celebrate his birthday. With his father out of town, it made perfect sense to get together here at the ranch. A few days early didn't matter. Saturday was their usual party night. Instead of meeting out at Tyler's Pond, they met here.
The only rule? If they drove, they left their keys at the door. Nobody got into their vehicle unless Forbes deemed them sober. As a result, it had been one huge sleepover.
Aaron picked the blanket up off the sofa, holding it at arm's length. "Remind me why we're stuck doing the dirty work?"
"Because the two of us are godless. Except for Wylie who is still passed out in the corner, everybody is at church."
"Listening to Reverend Stokes preach about abstinence?" Aaron shuddered. "No sex? No liquor? No fun? No thanks."
"It would have gotten you out of cleaning crap off the floor." From the smell, Forbes thought with disgust, the brown stuff might actually be crap.
"I've shoveled my share of shit. I'll take the real stuff to the made-up stuff Stokes hands out any day."
"Amen, brother," Forbes said. Picking up the bucket of soapy water, he stood. "It looks good. The smell on the other hand? Not so much."
"I have some cans of air freshener in my truck."
"Why didn't I think of that?"
"Because this is the first time your dad has left town long enough for you to host one of these shindigs."
Alone, except for Wylie Wilcox snoring in the corner, Forbes walked around the house, opening every available window. When he got to the set of French doors, he turned the knob. The cool, welcome mid-morning breeze drifted up from the Columbia River. Stepping onto the deck, Forbes leaned against the rail, breathing deeply.
The smell would be hard to describe to an outsider. Pine trees. Freshly cut alfalfa that in a day or two would be bailed into hay. His mother's prized roses that she used to tend with such care. Now the beds were kept pristine in her memory. To Forbes, the combination of scents blended perfectly. Better than the most expensive perfume. He knew that no matter where he went. No matter how long he was gone. It would always smell like… home.
The Branson Ranch. Forbes knew its history.
The first Branson had come from Ireland at the turn of the century. The twentieth century. Landing in New York, he had longed for a place to call his own. And land. Somewhere he could raise a family. A legacy. He wanted his family name to be remembered for generations to come.
Cyrus Branson's descendants weren't exactly world beaters. However, in their corner—Eastern Washington State to be exact—the family was doing fine. They were well thought of. Successful. Influential. If something needed to be done in this part of the state, the Branson family—or more precisely Forbes' father—was one of the first people contacted.
"Here you go." Aaron handed Forbes a bottle of beer and three aspirin.
"Hair of the dog?" Forbes downed the pills with two gulps from the bottle.
"That was hours ago. This is for old time's sake. Once your dad gets home, you'll be back on the wagon. At least until next weekend."
"Nope. Football practice starts the day after tomorrow." This would be their final season, and Forbes wanted that state championship. This year, the coach was king. His rules were to be followed to the letter. "If Riggins tells us to scratch each other's balls every hour on the hour, we scratch."
"My balls are off limits to you, son." Aaron stared at the view. "Now, if you want to send Shelly Thomas my way, she can touch any part of me she wants."
Forbes wasn't in the mood to discuss Shelly Thomas. It had been a drunken hookup. Not the first time, but he hoped the last. Shelly was a nice girl. And not nearly as promiscuous as rumor would have people believe. She was fun. And smart. Easy to talk to. The problem was, all of a sudden, she wanted more than he was willing to give.
The steady girlfriend thing didn't interest Forbes. Never had. When his friends started pairing up—around the seventh grade—he didn't follow along. Dating was fine. Fooling around. Making out. Transitioning into sex when the girl was willing. All those things were great. As his dad would put it, they were part of being a teenager.
However, when a girl started to cling, Forbes lost interest. Maybe something was wrong with him. Maybe he lacked the want—or the need—to have
a special someone. His class ring stayed firmly on his finger. His letterman jacket on his back. No girl had ever worn a symbol of his affection. With one year left in his high school career, he doubted any would.
Though Forbes knew that Aaron was teasing, he quickly re-routed the conversation away from his personal life and onto that of his best friend.
"What about Cindy? Wouldn't she object to another girl touching your private parts?"
"Cindy and I are on a break."
Forbes turned his head, a frown marring his brow. "Since when? Just last week you were talking about taking her to the homecoming dance."
Aaron shrugged. "She's a kid. I need a more mature woman."
"She's a few months younger than you."
"Maturity isn't always about age."
It didn't take long for the light to go on in Forbes' brain. "Oh, for the love of— Sex? Is that what this is about?"
"Cindy wants to wait." Aaron worked his thumbnail under the label of his beer. "I don't."
"But you like her. Really like her. Since we were in the second grade, you've been crushing on the girl." Forbes couldn't imagine it. His longest crush lasted all of three months. His fourth-grade teacher seemed like the perfect woman. Until she took away his favorite fire truck as punishment for shooting a spitball into Marianne Palmer's hair. The love affair ended then and there.
"I'm aware of how long I've liked Cindy," Aaron muttered.
"It took you until last year to finally make your move. Now that you have her, you're going to break up over something so minor?"
"Says the man who got his rocks off less than twelve hours ago. Since your first time, how long have you gone without sex?" Aaron made it sound like an accusation. "That month you and your dad went fishing in Alaska?"
More like two weeks. Forbes had hooked up with the college-age daughter of their guide his father had hired to help them traverse the Alaskan wilderness. He quickly learned that there was something to be said for an experienced woman. Forbes smiled at the memory. That trip turned out to be educational in more ways than one.
With One More Look At You Page 2
