Unforgettable (The Dalton Gang #3)

by Alison Kent

  “Oh, please.” She leaned over his lap to fetch her shoes from the floor. “I opened some cans and thawed ground beef Clay had already seasoned.”

  “It was damn good soup. Best soup I’ve had in forever.”

  “You didn’t have to cook it. That’s what made it the best.”

  “You made it for me. That’s what made it the best.”

  She waited until both shoes were on her feet before saying, “Boone—”

  “I know. It didn’t mean anything.” He reached behind her for the door handle, shoved open the door, letting in a gust of air that swept through the cab’s tension. “It’s what friends do. But I gotta say I’m getting tired of being friends.”

  “You want me to go?” she asked, the knot of nerves in her stomach beginning to burn.

  He shook his head, leaned it against the seat back, and, eyes closed, said, “I want you never to go.”

  She swallowed, so close to telling him that she loved him. So afraid it was the wrong thing and still too soon. “But you’ll let me go until Monday night at least?”

  “Yeah,” he said after a long moment she spent holding her breath. “Dinner’s on you. Eight o’clock.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  “ARE YOU FEELING better?” Everly asked, opening her back door to Boone’s knock. He wondered what she’d think if he asked for a key, if she’d be as accommodating as she had when he’d called to see if they could do the interview here instead of at Arwen’s. “Now that the auction’s behind you?”

  He kissed her before he answered her, a sweet brush of lips that became something potent when he lingered. “You know Nora didn’t even take a penny? Except paying out the cost of the auctioneer and the advertising, and that wasn’t much since it was such short notice. No commission. No nothing.”

  “She did it because she knows even that small amount could make a difference,” she said, her arms looped around his neck.

  “She did it because she’s good friends with my mother,” he said, his hands making their way down her back to her bottom.

  She wiggled, squirmed out of reach. “No, Boone. You’ve got to accept people doing nice things just for you.”

  “You’re the only one I want doing nice things for me.”

  “No nice things until I get my interview,” she said, waggling a schoolmarm finger.

  He grumbled beneath his breath, words about bossy women and history belonging in the past. Words he’d already said to her and didn’t feel the need to repeat. “So. The interview. We’re really going to do this.”

  “We really are,” she said, pulling a chair from beneath the table and motioning for him to sit.

  He did, hooking his hat over the chair at his side and raking his hands through his hair. “I’ve told you pretty much everything you might want to know. And I’ve done a lot of it while I was naked. Why don’t you just write it all down? Except the naked part.”

  “Because I need a record of everything you say,” she said as she sat across from him. “My memory doesn’t count. If you ever come back and want proof you said something, I’ll need to have it.”

  “Why would I want proof when I know what I’ve said?”

  “You wouldn’t be asking me that question if you’d spent even a month doing my job.”

  “Huh. People really forget what they’ve said?”

  “They really do. Now . . .” She hit the button on her digital recorder, clicked the end of her pen, and jotted the time and date on her notepad. And then she just sat there, her mouth twisted to one side, as if she wasn’t sure where to start. As if she knew him better than she’d thought. As if she wasn’t so keen after all on telling the world his story.

  Interesting. “Not going to be much of an interview if you don’t ask me some questions.”

  She laid down the pen, shut off the recorder. “I need to ask you something.”

  Even more interesting. “Shoot.”

  “You probably won’t like it.”

  Yeah, he’d figured that when she’d turned off the recorder. “Shoot anyway.”

  “It’s about something Les Upton said.”

  Like he’d thought. “What did he say?”

  “He said a couple of things, actually,” she said, scribbling circles on her notepad. “And I don’t really believe either of them—”

  “But you need to hear it from me to know.”

  “I don’t need to, but I want to.”

  “Same thing.”

  She held his gaze, weighing his answer against whatever scale of expectations she was holding in her head. “He said you sold drugs to the kids at school.”

  “Well that’s a steaming pile of bullshit.” And funny enough to have him pushing away from the table and looking for wine in her fridge.

  “And he said you got Penny pregnant.”

  He swallowed, let the cold air wash the heat from his face, grabbing the bottle of CapRock Roussanne, then going in search of a corkscrew. “When was this?”

  “That day at the diner.”

  “And you’re just now mentioning this.”

  “I should’ve told you—”

  “Yeah. You should have,” he said, opening the bottle, returning to the table to fill the two glasses he grabbed on the way, but it wasn’t enough. She was waiting for an answer. One to explain the connection she’d been more than smart enough to make between that night and the next sixteen years when he hadn’t once had sex without a condom.

  Even now he couldn’t believe he’d been that dumb. Condoms were a Dalton Gang rule. Had been since day one. The thought of bringing a kid who would be Les Upton’s grandchild into the world . . . “No. I did not get Penny pregnant. But that night with her was the last time, until you, I rode bareback.”

  She pulled her wineglass closer, looked into it as she asked, “What happened?”

  He’d told her everything he’d done, just not what had gone on in his head after that night, but they’d reached the point in this relationship, and that’s what it was, a relationship, when he had to trust her as much as he expected her to trust him.

  “I knew I was going to want a family one day. And that day wasn’t necessarily it, but all I could think about after the trial was what if I had gotten her pregnant? What if we brought a kid into all the shit that had happened?” He emptied his wineglass, refilled it, talking while he poured. “Can you imagine a child finding out he was conceived the night his grandfather nearly beat his grandmother to death? And if we hadn’t worked out as a couple, and Penny had custody of the kid? Raising him in that environment?”

  He started to down his second glass of wine, stopped when Everly reached for it and took it out of his hand, holding him, stroking her thumb over the back of his, then his wrist, then the heel of his palm. “Do you know how rare it is for an eighteen-year-old to think beyond the moment? How amazing you are for knowing what you wanted and making sure you didn’t screw it up?”

  “Yeah. So amazing I was unzipping my pants when I walked through her front door.”

  It sounded stupid as he said it, stupid enough that he grabbed his wine and left the room. He’d been the one to let that night with Penny into his head. He’d never spoken of it to anyone, not his family, not his boys. He may have talked to Dave about the trouble getting Penny pregnant would’ve caused, but only in the most casual way he could. Picking the older man’s brain, filing away the results, pulling them out and looking them over when the idea of starting a family came around.

  He collapsed on Everly’s couch, falling into a mountain of black-and-white pillows. She had the most comfortable pillows. On her couch. On her bed. He could sit here and not move for hours. He could sit here and sleep for days. He was that goddamn tired. That monstrously beat. Between the ranch, and the boys, and the oil well, and the antiques, and now Everly’s story and Les Upton showing his sorry face around town . . .

  This was not Boone’s idea of making a go of anything. This was not the life he’d wanted, and yet there were parts
of it he wouldn’t trade for the world. And the woman he sensed walking into the living room was the biggest part of all. He wanted her in his life. Permanently. But until he could find a way to straighten out about a billion messes . . .

  She sat on the couch beside him, sat facing him, tucked her crossed legs beneath her, her closest knee pushing into his ribs. Leaning forward, she placed her hand along his cheek, waited until he looked into her eyes. Hers were damp, and sad, but broadcast a whole lot of hopeful emotion, and those were the things he reached for, what he clung to.

  “You have to know I would never put anything in my story that would hurt you. You have to know that. Digging for dirt’s not my style. That’s not why I asked you what happened. I asked that for me. I wanted to know that for me.”

  “Did Whitey give you this assignment knowing that?” he asked, reaching for the wineglass he’d set on the lamp table, leaving it there to have something besides touching her to do with his hand. “Because I can’t imagine he’d be too happy finding it out after the fact.”

  “What Whitey doesn’t know, Whitey doesn’t know, and that’s just how it is. I’m the one writing the story. And he will never hear anything about Penny from me in any context. Neither will anyone else. Please know that Boone. Tell me you know I would never do anything to add to your pain.”

  “It’s not so painful anymore.”

  “But it was.”

  “Yeah. It was,” he said, dropping his head back on the couch. He hadn’t brought out the story to look at it closely in a very long time, and wouldn’t have done so if Everly hadn’t pushed. Except she hadn’t pushed. She’d asked. And she’d only done that because Penny’s goddamn father couldn’t keep his fucking mouth shut. Boone wasn’t big on hating other men, but what he felt for Les Upton . . .

  “I left town because of that son of a bitch,” he heard himself admitting out loud for the very first time. “Yeah, I wanted to cowboy. Yeah, the boys were gone, I couldn’t make a go of it with Dave, I had no interest in school. But it was goddamn Les Upton that I couldn’t deal with. He was in prison, but his shop was still out on the highway, and his house was still over behind the high school, and I had a feeling he’d be coming back here when he got out.

  “I shouldn’t have let him get to me, but it was hard, seeing another man beat the shit out of two women he was supposed to love. And I could’ve fathered a kid who’d have carried his blood as well as mine. That was a bigger wake-up call than any of my folks’ punishments, or any of the nights I spent in a jail cell, or any of the lessons I learned working for Dave. I let something that never even happened fuck me up. And that is just goddamn crap.”

  “I’m so sorry, Boone,” she said, her voice breaking softly. “I want to say something smart, like life isn’t fair, and that night had a one-in-a-million chance of happening, but platitudes never help.” She pressed his hand between both of hers, brought it to her face, kissing him, then to her chest where he felt the beat of her heart like a drum leading him home. “What can I do? How can I make things better? I know I can’t, not really, but for now, please tell me.”

  “You being here is all I need.”

  “That sounds like a platitude to me.”

  “Maybe so,” he said with a smile. “But it doesn’t mean it’s not true. Things are always better when you’re around.”

  “Are they?” she asked, her voice so quiet and uncertain, he frowned and sat straighter, looking for a hint of what was going on with her.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “I want to believe you. It’s just . . . I’ve always thought the way to a man’s heart was through his open fly. I’ve never had anyone just want me around without wanting me naked.”

  That settled it. No sex tonight. Not that he’d been making plans, but they always ended up in bed, or on her sofa, or in his truck, and out of their clothes. “There’s something to be said for getting a woman out of her clothes. Not the ones who’ll strip for anyone, but the ones who put that kind of trust in a particular man.”

  “What kind of trust is that?” she asked, and he couldn’t tell if she was playing with him, or wasn’t sure what he meant, or a combination of both.

  He decided to lay it on the line. “That he’ll do right by her, and in more ways than making her come.”

  “Such as?”

  “That he won’t go talking about what they’ve done together. That he’ll keep her secrets close. That’ll he value what she’s given him, and take care of that gift, because that’s what it is, that privilege. Sharing something like that with one woman only and no one else ever again . . .”

  “You want that.”

  He nodded. “Most men do. Those who recognize all the things a woman can offer. Things that aren’t between her legs.”

  The moment hung there, both of them lost in separate places, Boone wishing he could tell her that he loved her, because those were the words hanging on the tip of his tongue. They were wine flavored and slipping quickly toward his lips, and he was wondering if it was time to put them out there, let the damn chips fall—

  “There’s something else.”

  “What’s that?” he asked, glad she’d kept him from being more stupid than he’d already managed.

  “When I was interviewing Dax,” she said, toying with the snaps of his shirt, “Arwen mentioned having heard two of her Kittens talking about Penny’s husband.”

  “Penny’s married.” He made the statement without really knowing what he felt.

  “To a man named Dean Blaylock.”

  “Yeah. He was in school a couple of years ahead of us.”

  “I guess he works for Len Tunstall. They live over in Southwest Crow Hill.”

  “Don’t tell me.” He closed his eyes, rubbed the grit of exhaustion from them. “You went to see her.”

  “I had to.”

  “Why the hell for?”

  “Because of what her father told me.”

  “That I got her pregnant?” When she nodded, he added, “What did she say?”

  “About that? Nothing. About the night of the assault? A lot. Most of it what you’d already told me. But a lot of it was about her life now, and the guilt she still carries over what happened in high school.”

  “I’ll just bet—”

  “No. Trust me,” she said, her hand on his cheek forcing him to hold her gaze. “I know the sort of emotional baggage she’s juggling. It’s very real.” She rubbed her thumb along his cheekbone. “She’s not what I expected at all. She’s not—”

  “Her father?”

  “Yeah, but she’s also a very nice woman. And I think she’d like to see you.”

  “I don’t know why,” he said, blowing out a long breath full of resignation.

  And then Everly smiled. “But you’re going to find out.”

  Yeah. He was.

  THIRTY

  EVERLY SPENT A long, sleepless night thinking of the things Boone had said. It had been strange doing so with him in bed beside her, either curled around her, or an arm thrown over her, or a foot tucked between hers. She remembered the first night he’d slept in her house, how she’d thought sleeping with him without touching him would be difficult. She’d been right.

  He never stopped touching her during the night. Every time she woke his hand was somewhere, as if making sure she hadn’t left him, as if wanting her to know he was there, and she was safe, and nothing was going to happen to her. And anyone who tried to hurt her would have to go through him.

  Toby had wanted to be with her because of what she offered him: visibility. Her career came with a lot of perks that Toby craved—invitations to society functions, chances to mix and mingle with political figures, with celebrities, with philanthropists, with all the movers and shakers a man with his aspirations could want.

  Boone wanted to be with her. Period. For all the same reasons she wanted to be with him. And yet so much stood between them, their pasts huge, hulking obstacles. Or at least hers was hulking. He’d pretty
much stomped his flat. And listening to him now in the shower, that wasn’t hard to imagine. When the man threw his weight around, things bent to his will.

  She glanced at the bedside clock, forcing herself not to grumble at the time. This was ranching time, Boone’s time. If he could get going at this hour, so could she, though coffee would help. And she was back with two cups by the time Boone came out of her bathroom completely dressed save for his bare feet.

  “Wow,” she said, handing him his cup, then giving him a once-over while he drank. “I feel like such a slacker. Not to mention I was hoping you might come back to bed for a while.”

  “Can’t,” he said, placing the cup on her dresser while he sat in the plush club chair beside it. “Sun’s on the way up. Need to beat it to the ranch.” He said it without looking at her, shaking out his socks and pulling them on, taking another long swallow of his coffee before he reached for his boots.

  “Do you want another cup?” she asked, climbing into the center of the bed, tucking the covers around her waist, feeling strange. “The pot’s still half-full.”

  “I’ll grab one on the way out,” he said, standing, the hem of one pants leg tucked into the top of his boot. “Thanks for brewing it. You didn’t have to.”

  “I didn’t want you on the road this early without some caffeine,” she said, her own mug hot in her nervous hands. Was this how he was so early in the morning? All business? No time for fun? “I’ve got a travel mug in the cabinet above the machine. And your hat’s hanging on the back of the chair where you left it.”

  “Yeah. I’ll get it. Thanks.” He headed for the bedroom door, stopped with his hands at his hips, and hung his head before he looked back. “Everly—”

  “Just say it,” she said, her heart doing its best to jump out of her chest. “Something’s wrong. Just tell me.”