by Lori Wilde
“Oh well, it doesn’t matter. You’re here, and that’s all that counts in my book.” She tucked her arm around his elbow. “It’s an exciting time for our families.”
“I’m still having trouble wrapping my head around the fact that Ridge and Kaia have a kid.” He readjusted his Stetson. “And that you and I are in-laws.”
“Yep. It’s official. We’re finally family.”
“You’ve always felt like family to me.” He beamed at her, and his chest tightened oddly. “Damn, but it’s good to see you, Sparky.”
“Good to see you too, Professor.” She chucked him on the shoulder again.
A dancing couple bumped into them, apologized. “Oops, sorry.”
“We better dance or get off the floor.” Ember stuck out her hand, letting him know which option she preferred.
Ranger wasn’t much for dancing. Because of his childhood ailments, he’d spent more time in bed with books than doing things with his body, but when they were teenagers, Ember insisted he learn how to dance so they could go to prom together and they wouldn’t have to—in her words—scramble for dullard dates.
Then he’d graduated high school a year early because he was bored out of his skull, went off to the University of Texas and left her to fend for herself. Which she still held over his head whenever she needed a favor. The woman had an elephant’s memory.
It didn’t matter. He would do anything for his best friend, including learn how to waltz.
He was rusty, and Ember had an endearingly annoying habit of trying to lead, but the minute he settled his hand on her waist and they glided across the floor in time to “I Won’t Give Up,” everything fell into place. With her, his two left feet somehow functioned the way they were supposed to.
Of course, Ranger didn’t hold her close. She was his best friend. He might have experienced growing feelings for her over the years, but he wouldn’t let himself think about her in a sexual way. He had never crossed that line, no matter how much he might have wanted to. He valued their friendship too much to ever let sex get in the way.
But God, she smelled good. Like cinnamon Red Hots, and licorice, and rich West Texas wind. It occurred to Ranger that maybe the reason, at almost thirty-three, he’d never felt the least bit inclined to get married was because he had Ember.
Sex, he could get any place, and if the urge arose, he would. And as for companionship, well, he couldn’t find anyone who understood him better, who simply got him, the way Ember did.
He’d had several girlfriends over the years, but inevitably, they’d become jealous of his relationship with her. No amount of reassurance had been able to convince his girlfriends that he and Ember were just friends, and that’s all they would ever be.
“It doesn’t matter that you don’t have a physical relationship with her,” his last serious girlfriend, Tonya, had said when she broke up with him over two years ago. “You’re emotionally unavailable to me because you share all your secrets with her. That’s what I’m jealous of.”
He’d had to let Tonya go because, as much as he’d liked her, there was no way he could give up the one woman who’d helped him through the rough patches in his life—his biological mother abandoning him to his father in exchange for two million dollars; his stepmother’s death from breast cancer when he was twelve; his own lingering illnesses, and his ups and downs with his brothers; all the various shit his ornery father had pulled over the years.
No matter what happened, Ember had been there for him, loyal to the core.
Always.
After Tonya walked out, Ember took him to Chantilly’s to drown his sorrows. Laughing and tipsy, they ended up lying in the bed of his pickup truck staring at the stars as he bemoaned his bad luck with women.
Ember had said rather sensibly, “Look, Lockhart, when we’re sixty-four if we haven’t found anyone else, we’ll get married and take care of each other into our dotage. How’s that?”
He’d stuck out his little finger. “Pinky swear.”
They’d hooked their pinkies, grinned at each other, and returned their attention to the starry night sky. He’d considered that commitment enough, and then without warning Ember had gone off and married that fool Trey Sharpton.
Ember’s marriage had been the darkest three months of Ranger’s adult life, and he wasn’t proud of himself, but he’d been relieved when Trey divorced her, and he’d gotten his best friend back.
If that made him a shitheel, then so be it.
Soon after that, he’d gotten the fellowship in New Zealand, and he and Ember had been apart again. On the flight home, he’d worried things might be awkward, since he hadn’t had time to maintain their friendship the way he would have liked, but the minute she’d met his gaze across the crowded room, it was as if nothing had changed.
Ember was his rock. Always had been. Always would be. And whomever Ranger eventually married would have to accept that. In the meantime, he was home again and waltzing with his best friend.
Life was good.
“You do know that your boots don’t match,” Ember said as he waltzed around the room, finally getting it into her head that he was leading.
“Again?” He looked down at his feet, saw that his left boot was black, the right was dark brown. “Dammit.”
“I’ve missed you so much, Professor,” she said, her voice heavy with teasing affection.
“Um, why is that woman staring at me?” he asked. “Do you think it’s the boots?”
Ember glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, that’s Chriss Anne Gossett. She has a major crush on you.”
“How does she even know who I am?”
“You held an umbrella over her head once.”
“I did?”
“You really do strive to live up to the absentminded professor thing, don’t you?”
“What can I say?” He shrugged, accepting who he was without qualms. “It’s my shtick.”
“Guess what? Chriss Anne wants me to hook you up with her.”
“Good God, why?”
“She thinks you’re hot.”
“No, I meant why did she ask you? Have you been playing matchmaker again, Sparky?”
She lowered her eyelids, sent him a sidelong glance and an enigmatic smile. “I might have played a role in this current shindig.”
“Susan and Bryant? That was you?”
Her smile widened; she was not the least bit humble. “Well, not all me.”
“Ember, stay out of other people’s business,” he chided. “You know what happens when you pry. You’re the one who ends up getting your nose caught in the door.”
“Hey, they come to me. I don’t go looking for it. And you know how I—”
“Love to control other people.”
“Low blow! I was going to say how I liked helping people.”
“Admit it, you like meddling in other people’s lives.”
She made a tsk-tsk sound with her tongue. “Didn’t you hear the part where they come to me? What am I supposed to do? Turn them away in their time of need?”
“There’s this word . . . it’s two letters long, starts with an ‘n’ and ends with an ‘o.’”
“Were you actually invited to this wedding?”
“Nope. But hey, my father owns the property and my stepmother runs the venue. What are they going to do? Throw me out?”
“Wedding crasher.”
“Admit it, you like rebels.”
“So you came here tonight just to see me?” Ember’s face was a rainbow of happiness, and he didn’t have the heart to tell her, that no, she was not the only reason he’d shown up at the wedding.
But this was Ember, and she knew him so well he didn’t have to say anything. She could ferret out the truth just by looking at him. She pulled back, wagged a finger in his face. “You came to see Wes Montgomery.”
“I came to see you,” he said, and fully meant it. “But it is an added bonus that Wes is also here. He’s Susan’s godfather.”
“Go
on with your bad self.” She made shooing motions with both hands. “I know you can’t wait to talk business. Find Wes. Crow about your accomplishments in New Zealand. Snag that job you’ve spent your life dreaming about.”
“Wait, I—”
“You don’t owe me all your attention. I’ll have you to myself soon enough. Catch you later, Professor.” She waved at him over her shoulder as she sauntered away.
She was the most understanding woman in the world. Why couldn’t his dates be like her? C’mon, that wasn’t fair. There was no one like Ember.
“Wait,” he said, and hurried to catch up with her. He stopped her, spun her around to face him. Those cobalt blue eyes, sharp as lightning, blasted into him.
“What?”
“You’re not leaving, are you?”
“Tell you what. I’ll meet you at our spot in thirty minutes.” She winked. “Go out on the porch and hoot like an owl if you’re going to be late.”
“Mercury, Venus, and Mars,” he said. “But you keep me on my toes.”
“Someone has to.”
“Later, Sparky.” He touched her hand.
She laughed and headed across the room to the punch bowl. Ranger watched her go, his heart pumping strangely. It must be the dancing. He’d spent way too many hours in front of a telescope, and was surprised by how much he missed waltzing. Now that he was back home, he’d have to take Ember dancing more often.
The band took a break and the dancers dispersed. It was the perfect time to find Wes. Ranger wandered through the crowd, greeting people he knew, pausing for a moment or two to catch up. Finally he spied the department head sitting at a linen-draped table with his wife and another couple.
His mentor was a balding man who sported a handlebar moustache and earlobes as long as saddlebags. Wes drove a Prius, lived in an adobe house on the grounds of the observatory, drank Corona with a twist of lime, and spoke fluent Portuguese. Ranger didn’t know how or why Wes had picked up the language.
“Well, look what the mountain lion dragged in.” Wes stood and pounded Ranger on the shoulder, drawing him into a one-armed hug. “How was New Zealand?”
“Stimulating.”
“You remember Sally.” Wes put a hand to the back of his wife’s chair. “And Chuck and Mildred.”
Ranger did not remember Chuck and Mildred and barely remembered Sally. He didn’t pay a lot of attention to names and small talk. His mind was usually tangled up with stars and galaxies and the possibility of life elsewhere in the universe. It was life here on Earth that he found a bit humdrum.
Sally was talking about the wedding, gushing over peonies and magnolia leaf wreaths and flameless tea candles in glass hurricane lanterns. Ranger tried not to let his eyes glaze over, but feared he failed miserably.
“Wes,” he said when Sally paused to take a breath, “may I have a word?”
Wes, who appeared to be on his second or third glass of champagne, frowned. “Could it wait until Monday?”
Conceivably, but Ranger felt a pressing need to call dibs on the directorship that would be opening up when the current department head retired at the end of June. “It’ll just take a minute.”
Wes heaved a sigh and bussed his wife’s cheek. “Be right back, sweetheart.”
“Oh honey, do you have to talk shop tonight?” Sally reached for his hand, twisted her fingers with his.
“It’s Ranger. You’ll have to excuse him. He doesn’t know how to talk anything but shop.” Wes rolled his eyes.
“I’ll make it quick, Sally,” Ranger promised, and gave her his best grin.
“Ranger Lockhart, you’re too damn handsome for your own best interest. Everyone forgives your lack of social graces because you’re so good-looking.” Sally narrowed her eyes, but then she smiled good-naturedly and waved Wes away. “Hurry back, my love.”
“Always.” Wes blew her a kiss.
Sally blew one right back.
“That’s the kind of wife you want in your life,” Wes said, picking up his champagne glass and following Ranger outside. “Gorgeous and forgiving.”
Outside on the deck, a couple was making out in the shadows of the gazebo. Ranger moved as far from the couple as he could, and craned his neck to the expanse of stars overhead. The vast night sky always put things into perspective.
“I’ve missed this view,” Ranger murmured.
“Welcome home.” Wes’s tone held a perfunctory let’s-get-this-over-with note. “What’s on your mind?”
Ranger lowered his head and met Wes’s gaze. “I want Milton’s job when he retires. I’m more than qualified. I’m officially putting my hat in the ring.”
“Come in on Monday, fill out an application—”
Ranger scowled. He’d been working at the observatory on and off for the last seventeen years and Wes wanted him to fill out an application? “Seriously?”
Wes shrugged and held up both palms. “You have to fill out an application to please HR.”
“You can’t tell me yes or no or maybe?”
“We have other applicants—”
“How many?”
“Okay, one other applicant—”
“Who?”
“We haven’t yet opened up the application process to the outside—”
“Who?”
“Sheila Perez.”
“You’re kidding?”
Wes shook his head. “She’s damn good.”
“Sheila’s not as qualified as I am, and you know it.”
“Maybe not when it comes to education and experience . . .” Wes paused to drain his champagne glass. “But Sheila has something you don’t.”
“What’s that?” Ranger felt the muscles in his neck tense and bunch.
“Sheila knows when to work and when to socialize.” Wes’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead like fuzzy caterpillars. “She knows how to schmooze and glad-hand, and she can bring in grant money. Can you say the same?”
“Bottom line, it’s all about the money?”
Wes stared at Ranger as if he were a backwoods child wearing his clothes inside out. “Ranger, it’s always about the money. Maybe not to you because you live with your head in the stars, and you came from one of the wealthiest families in the Trans-Pecos, but the rest of us here on Earth, we depend upon commerce to survive.”
That went all over him in nine different ways, but he managed to keep his emotions off his face. Ranger wasn’t an ace poker player for nothing. “I can raise money just as well as Sheila.”
“Can you?”
“Sure.”
“When was the last time you wrote a grant proposal?”
Mmm, never. Ranger jammed his hands in his front pockets, hunched his shoulders. “I’ve been focused on research.”
“Research has to be funded.”
“Isn’t that what grant writers are for?”
“Fund-raising is a large part of the director’s job.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“And children shouldn’t be starving in Africa, but that doesn’t change reality.”
“You don’t intend on giving me the directorship, do you?”
“Look, Ranger, you don’t need it. You come from money. You’ve got a house because your grandfather left you land. You’re not interested in acquiring a wife and kids like normal folk. You live and breathe the cosmos, and you know what? There is absolutely nothing wrong with that. We need scientists like you.”
“Glad to hear it.” Ranger let out a pent-up breath. “For a minute there I thought you were going to tell me that my life’s work is useless.”
“Not at all. You’re the kind of researcher who makes revolutionary breakthroughs. You are not, however, the kind of guy who would make a great administrator who can bring in the bacon to support the dreamers and revolutionary thinkers.”
“I can learn the fund-raising part.”
Wes sighed. “Accept who you are, Lockhart. Own it. Be proud of it. I don’t get why you even want an administrative position.”
Why?
Because from the time he was a little kid, stuck in that bed while the other Lockhart and Alzate children ran and played on the Silver Feather ranch, he would look out his window at the McDonald Observatory, situated high on the mountain, and imagine himself employed there, running the place. The dream was as much a part of him as the Chihuahuan Desert.
That same dream had sustained him through a lot of toil and heartache, and he wasn’t going to let it go without a fight.
“What do I have to do to convince you that I can handle the job?” Ranger asked.
Wes paused, studied him for a long moment. “You’re really serious?”
“As a mortician.”
“You’re going to have to prove it.”
“Tell me what you need.”
“For one thing, get the hell out of your own head once in a while. Get involved in the community. Make new friends. Have some fun. Remember people’s names. Show me you can be a regular human being.”
“That’s not fair. I volunteer for every star party the observatory throws.”
“Volunteer for something that has nothing to do with the observatory. Broaden your horizons.”
“I’ll put it on the to-do list. What else?”
“You really want to steal this job away from Sheila?”
His competitive instinct, the one that drove him as a poker player, reared its head. You betcha. I’m all in. “Yes.”
Wes got a gleam in his eyes, and before he even spoke Ranger knew without a doubt he was being manipulated. “All right, then. If you find a way to raise more grant money than Sheila, I’ll back you with the board of directors.”
“How much has she raised?”
“A million five.”
Without a second thought Ranger did a mental fist pump. “It’s in the bag.”
“Not so fast,” Wes said. “There are stipulations.”
Ranger sank his hands on his hips, hooked his thumbs over the waistband of his dress slacks. “More hoop jumping?”
“You want it, play the game.”
“Fine.” Ranger snorted, not pleased, but determined to do what it took to get what he wanted. “Name the hoops and I’ll jump through them.”
“You have to raise the money before Milton retires at the end of June.”
