Unforgettable (The Dalton Gang #3)

by Alison Kent

  “Something like that, though not just physically. I know this sounds . . . I don’t know. Too privileged, maybe. Or entitled. But I want to like what I’m doing. Not do it because it’s expected of me. Or because it’s proper. I don’t mind being improper if I’m having fun. And if I’m not bored. I hate being bored.”

  She gave a self-conscious laugh, pushed a fall of hair away from her face instead of hiding behind it, which is what she wanted to do. Why was she telling him all of this? “That must sound terribly shallow. And selfish. And it’s neither one. Not really.”

  “Nothing wrong with liking what you’re doing,” he said, his gaze traveling the length of the eighty-eight keys. “I like the hell out of ranching. I’d like it a lot better if it wasn’t such a lost cause, but at least I’ll go down with a smile on my face.”

  “It’s not that bad, is it?”

  “It’s that bad.” He moved to sit on the edge of the couch, his elbows on his knees as he looked up at her. “Do you like the paper? Working there? Because I can’t imagine having Whitey Simmons for a boss. He taught my Sunday school class one year, and I swear I fell asleep every week listening to him drone. I think I was grounded for almost all of fifth grade.”

  That made her laugh. “He’s probably the easiest boss I’ve ever had. And this is definitely the easiest job.” Another laugh, this one self-deprecating. “Crow Hill has been good to me. And good for me. I like my life here. Not just because my job’s easy, or because my boss isn’t hounding me twenty-four seven. It’s more that nothing’s ever . . . unexpected. Except you.” She held on to the piano, swiveled back and forth on the stool. “You were definitely unexpected.”

  “I’m going to take that as a good thing,” he said, a dark brow arching.

  “It is a good thing,” she said, meaning it more than he could possibly realize. In the last week, her outlook on so many things had changed in ways she would never have imagined, and all because this man had come into her life. “I like that I met you.”

  “I like it, too.”

  Silence fell between them then, as if they were both struggling with what liking meant. As if neither one of them wanted to be the first to define it, or to change the subject until they understood its import and weight. Until they knew how close they were to crossing the line from liking to something more.

  But her nerves finally got the best of her and she moved, the stool squeaking as she shifted. “I should probably get home.”

  It was the first thing that came to mind, though she’d been waiting for him to ask her to stay. After lunch yesterday, she needed to know if the fear his roughness had dislodged from inside of her had him changing his mind.

  Or if he was feeling as torn and confused as she was. They were supposed to be having an affair, not doing all this strange soul baring.

  “You don’t have to,” he said, alternately fisting and spreading his fingers. “But I can understand why you might want to.”

  He’d switched on the lamp in the corner and the light bathed one side of his face, leaving the other in eerie shadow. “I don’t know that you do.”

  “You haven’t been with anyone in the four years you’ve lived here. Obviously there’s a reason for that. Then you choose me, and I ride you like you’re a bronc that needs breaking.” He lifted his head, his gaze searching hers. “I think you were already broken, and I made things worse.”

  “You startled me, yes. But it wasn’t about making things worse. Or about breaking me. It was quite the opposite, in fact.” And she was still dealing with that.

  He snorted, shook his head. His mouth pulled sideways. “I left out of your place yesterday thinking you might fall to pieces after I was gone. I’ve been worrying about it ever since, so what you’re saying isn’t helping me understand what went wrong. Because something went wrong, didn’t it?”

  “Not really, no. It was just another moment I hadn’t expected, because I liked that you were rough,” she said, heat rising up her neck to flush her cheeks. “It surprised me that you were, and surprised me that I did. But I never thought you’d hurt me, or that I wasn’t safe with you through the whole thing.”

  “You make it sound like a rubber-glove exam,” he said. “Except for the liking it part.”

  That caught her so off guard, she burst out laughing. “Thank you. I needed that. God, did I need that.”

  “I could go all cowboy-philosopher on you again and tell you laughter makes the best medicine, but I’d rather you tell me about the fear.”

  “Maybe someday.”

  “But not now.”

  She shook her head. “Supper was wonderful, the company, the food. I don’t want to lose this . . . feeling.”

  “And what feeling is that?” he asked, his tone concerned.

  She did what she could to set him at ease. “Happy. Relaxed. Comfortable. You’re making me want to stay here.”

  “Good. Because that’s what I was aiming for.”

  “I just don’t know if it’s a good idea.” The last thing she wanted to do was lead him on. “I’ve got a rather . . . complicated past.”

  He laced his hands behind his head and leaned back, slouching against the cushions, his knees spread wide. “I’m a big boy, Everly. In case you’ve missed that one of the times you’ve seen me with my clothes off.”

  “It’s not about you, you know. My . . . hang-ups,” she said, even that admission causing the pit of her stomach to burn.

  “Yeah, I’m figuring it’s about the ex in Austin. And I’m also figuring he’s the reason you’re living in this shit hole and wasting your time with Whitey Simmons.”

  Frowning, she asked, “Is that what you think? That I’m wasting my time?”

  He sat forward again, frowned again, worked his hands in and out of fists again. “You had a pretty high-profile career before coming here. Made a lot of connections over the years. Connections you could’ve parlayed into another high-profile position. Maybe in another big city. You’re smart. Ambitious. Talented. Gorgeous. But instead of doing that, you’re hiding out in a tiny little office working with Clark Howard and Cicely Warren and Whitey Simmons.

  “You can’t use your connections here. You can’t use but bits and pieces of your talent. Now, if you’d moved here to take the waters, or whatever, that would be one of those horses of different colors. So in that regard, yeah. You working for the Crow Hill Reporter is a big fat waste of something. Could be it’s not time at all. Could be something insignificant. Or could be something big enough to swallow you whole.”

  He stopped, and his words hung in the room around them, a smoke ring hovering before dissipating, the smell lingering long after. The funny thing was, he was right. At least when it came to her connections and her talent. She could be doing so much more with her time. But she didn’t want to be doing more. And that was what she was only coming to understand.

  Admittedly, the job with Whitey was supposed to have been a stopgap, getting her over the emotional hump after Toby. Yet four years later, she could hardly remember what about her on-air position, her social circles, her speaking and emceeing engagements made the stress of maintaining that lifestyle worth it.

  What she did know was that tonight wasn’t for scrolling through the choices she’d made and assigning reasons why. Nothing in the past could be changed. Besides, Boone and the sunset were waiting. Later, she could examine her life.

  She gave him a smile and signaled a time-out. They could get back to this later. After his words had set. “Didn’t you say something about the back porch and a beer cooler?”

  He stood, offered her his hand. “I did, though it won’t hurt my feelings if you’d rather stick to wine. And I say that mostly because I think I’m about out of beer.”

  The chair on the back porch was actually an old metal glider, once green to match the house’s shutters, now as peeled as the shutters were faded. The rounded seashell back was warm when she sat, and Boone pulled a beer from the cooler after pouring her another glass
of wine.

  He joined her then, draping an arm across her shoulders and bringing her close as the glider moved back and forth, pushed into service by his stocking feet. Everly tucked hers into the seat beside her, slipping her shoes off and setting them on the porch, before leaning against him.

  She drank her wine. He drank his beer. Bing and Bob lay in the dirt with their snouts resting on their paws, their eyes darting. The sun spilled a palette of colors across the pasture, the barn throwing a long, cool shadow toward the house.

  Relaxed, Everly didn’t want to think about Austin or Toby or her job with Whitey Simmons, or why she’d yet to replace her espresso machine.

  All she wanted to do was sit here, with Boone, and never move again.

  SEVENTEEN

  THE ONLY TIME Everly had been inside Casper’s house on Mulberry Street was for Faith’s parents’ thirty-fifth anniversary party. It had been a wonderful night, the place newly renovated, empty of furniture save for rented folding tables and chairs. The decorations had been simple—hurricane lanterns in bowls of aromatic cedar and mesquite, and tiny white Christmas lights strung in what had seemed like miles and miles of decorative greenery.

  Now, a month later, the entire house was furnished, and all at Faith’s hand. That had Everly smiling because Faith had studied business and finance, yet Everly had always known the other woman wouldn’t be happy for long at Crow Hill’s First National Bank. This house and its gorgeous interior proved where her true talents lay. And the best part was that Faith had not only found her calling when she’d found her man, she’d found herself in the process.

  Walking through the front door into the hallway that bisected the first of the three floors, Everly breathed deeply of the scents of old and new wood. “When is Architectural Digest going to feature Crow House?”

  “No time soon,” Faith said, closing the front door behind her. “Nor will any other publication, though I can’t say I mind.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why won’t we get a magazine feature?” Faith shook her head. “We didn’t apply to register the house as a historical landmark. And we didn’t stay period authentic with the renovations. We did what we wanted. We’ll be lucky to get a mention in Texas Monthly, though Casper doesn’t want the house mentioned anywhere.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s got this idea that hordes of visitors will stop by with cameras and wanting tours.”

  “I can see that going over well. Casper opening his home to strangers.”

  “Hey now,” said the man in question, stepping out of the library where Clay sprawled in a recliner, his dog sprawled on the floor at his feet, watching something with a lot of explosions on a big-screen TV. “Here I am, opening it to you.”

  Everly bit her tongue and let Faith answer. “Everly is not a stranger and you know it.”

  “Not to you maybe.”

  “And not to you either,” Faith said, punching him in the shoulder before turning to Everly to add, “He’s just being grumpy because I told him he had to talk to you.”

  Everly bit back a grin as she watched him rub the sting from Faith’s playful blow. “I promise it’ll be totally painless. Or at least mostly painless.”

  “Well, c’mon then,” he said, gesturing with the hand around which he still wore a brace, giving his woman an eye. “Let’s sit in the kitchen. Faith says it’s not comfortable, but it’s where she keeps my food and drink, and I think I’ll be needing a hefty dose of the latter.”

  “He’s not the only one,” Faith mumbled as she walked beside Everly behind him. “And don’t worry. I’m leaving. I’m taking Clay to Sheppard’s Books to stock some new titles for Kendall. And I’m taking along a bottle of the CapRock Roussanne from your housewarming gift.”

  “Mmm. Wine. Good stuff that wine.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Faith said, wrapping an arm around Everly’s shoulders, the two of them giggling like they’d already downed a whole bottle as they followed Casper to the kitchen. Once there, Everly climbed onto a stool at the center island while Faith pulled a glass from the rack hanging above the kitchen’s stainless steel wine cooler. From there, she selected two bottles, one for Everly and one to take with her.

  She handed Casper the corkscrew while she packed her tote with her bottle, her corkscrew, glasses for two, and cheese and grapes from the fridge. When Casper frowned, she pecked him on the cheek and said, “Girls’ night out,” then stepped back and called down the hallway, “Clay! Let’s go!”

  “Don’t you be driving home,” Casper told her, nodding toward the bottle in her tote.

  “I’ve got Clay and his new hardship license. And it’s one bottle of wine for Kendall and I to share. We may not even go through the whole thing. I’ll be fine.”

  “Yeah. Letting a barely fifteen-year-old behind the wheel. That makes me feel so much better.”

  “The license was your idea, sweetie. And he drives out to the ranch by himself all the time.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Right. Because it’s a thirty-minute instead of a three-minute trip.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just go. Have fun. Be safe.”

  “I will. I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” he said, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her to him for a kiss that was not a peck on the cheek, and left Everly wanting Boone.

  Clay came clambering into the kitchen then, grabbing Faith’s keys off the counter before anyone had a chance to object. “I’m driving, right?”

  “You’re driving. I’m drinking.” Faith ruffled his hair, though he was almost taller than her, and she had quite a reach. “But not so much that I won’t be able to keep an eye on the speedometer.”

  “C’mon, Mother Faith. I don’t speed.” He leaned down, nuzzled his face to that of his dog. “You be good, Kevin. You stay with Father Casper. I’ll be back soon.”

  Faith hooked her tote over her shoulder, pushing Clay toward the front door when he straightened. “Let’s go, driver.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and bounded down the hall to the door.

  Everly couldn’t stop grinning. “Mother Faith? Father Casper?”

  “It’s his fifteen-year-old idea of a joke,” Faith said with a roll of her eyes, giving Casper one last kiss, and Everly one last hug. “You two behave.”

  And then she was gone, Everly and Casper alone, the big house an echo of noises around them. Casper reached for the wine bottle and filled her glass, his eyes on his task as he asked, “Where do you want to start?”

  At the beginning, she thought to say, then decided Casper wasn’t the Dalton Gang member to be flip with. He was the one with the abusive background, the one no one had ever thought to see settled down and settled well. Yet here he was, father-to-be of a fifteen-year-old, husband-to-be of one of her oldest friends.

  He owned a showpiece of a house built over a century ago by one of the town’s founding fathers, Zebulon Crow. And he owned part of a ranch bequeathed to him and the others by one of the best-loved couples to ever call Crow Hill home.

  He’d come a long way. He’d established himself as a responsible and productive community member. She wanted her story to show that. She wanted to tell the residents of Crow Hill about the real Casper Jayne—not focus on the hell he’d raised as a teen.

  “Faith said you moved to Crow Hill around sixth or seventh grade?”

  “Seventh. Met the boys the first day of football practice,” he said, grabbing a beer from the refrigerator and screwing off the top with his good hand. “Well, my first day,” he added, climbing onto the stool across from hers. “They’d been having two-a-days since early August. It took Mrs. Mitchell to convince me to try out for the team. She was still over at the middle school then. Moved to the high school the same year we did. We had her watching our grades and the Coach watching to make sure we didn’t show our asses.”

  “That worked out pretty well,” she said, knowing how influential Boone’s parents had been in Casper’s life,
too.

  “For the Mitchells, maybe,” he said, the longneck cradled between his good hand and his bad. “I’d been used to doing pretty much what I wanted with no one giving me a second look. Now all of a sudden I couldn’t so much as take a piss without one of them wanting to test it.”

  “For drugs?” she asked, surprised. “Or . . . that was an exaggeration, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but not much of one. The Mitchells were not about to let their kids, and me and Dax by extension, turn out to be anything but well-adjusted members of society,” he said, then brought the beer to his mouth.

  “Looks like they did a good job.”

  He cocked his head, cocked a brow. “Hard to believe, really, since it was all Boone’s fault we got into so much trouble. He was the biggest hell-raiser of the three of us.”

  Again Whitey’s words came back to haunt her. And now having heard the story of Les Upton . . . “Boone? Really?”

  Casper laughed, a gruff grating sound that was filled with more evil than humor. “Don’t let the boy fool you. He hasn’t always been the nice guy he is now. Hell, I’m not even sure the nice guy now bit isn’t an act.”

  “What makes you say that?” she asked, reaching for her wine and downing a long swallow.

  “We all left a lot of messes behind when we split, so none of us were looking forward to the shit we knew would hit the fan when we got here.” He lifted his bottle again. “Boone being a nice guy, well, who knows how much that’s helped keep the vultures at bay.”

  “You’re saying this Boone that everyone sees around town is not the Boone you and Dax work the ranch with every day?”

  He shook his head, swallowed. “No, he’s the same. He’s just a lot . . . quieter, I guess. We’ve all tried to stay out of sight, but Boone’s done the best job at keeping his head down. And he’s had less blowback.”

  She found Casper’s assessment intriguing. “Because of his doing that? Rather than the status his family has in Crow Hill? Or maybe the pranks he pulled—”

  “Pranks,” he said with a snort. “Guess you could call some of that shit ‘pranks.’ Like him and Dax loading up Harris Bell’s prize longhorn bull and hauling it to Len Tunstall’s slaughterhouse.”