He couldn't do anything about the nails or the knuckles. He couldn't do anything about the limp or the frustration at being ignored.
But he didn't have to stay horny. No, sir!
He'd said thanks but no thanks to dinner with Jodie and Ray and the kids. He'd come down early to The Barrel, determined to find himself a woman.
A willing woman.
A smiling woman.
A warm armful of luscious, loving woman.
He'd been without one too damn long.
And there was sure no reason to stay celibate when the only woman he was interested in couldn't even bring herself to look his way.
He'd shot two games of pool, listened to a little rodeo gossip about who'd got hurt and who was having kids and who was getting married and who was running around with whose woman. Someone said Matt Williams had got married—for the second time. He wondered if Celie knew that. He didn't figure she'd want to, and he sure wasn't going to tell her.
And all the while he listened, he studied the women who came in.
Jace was old enough now to be a little choosy about who he would share a bed with. And he no longer needed the wet T-shirt contest to start his appraisal. Somewhere along the line he'd outgrown the notion that the size of a woman's breasts should be a major determining factor. Not that he didn't like a nice handful but—
What the hell?
Was that Sara McMaster over there?
Jace had been idly scanning the room, assessing various unattached women, weighing whether it was worth getting up and wandering over to chat them up and buy them a beer—there was a redhead at a table near the door who'd smiled his way a time or two—when his gaze skidded to a halt at the sight of a slender young woman next to the jukebox being chatted up by a couple of cowboys.
In itself that wasn't unusual. That was what a lot of women came to The Barrel for—especially if they came by themselves. But those women all looked like they were having a good time.
Sara—because that was definitely who it was—looked miserable. And about as out of place as a bunny at a wolves' convention.
He was sure she wasn't old enough. So what the hell was she doing here?
Besides attracting attention. No doubt she was doing that. She looked more like her aunt than her mother, with Celie's glossy dark hair and wide, expressive eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were huge—as if she'd just realized how hungry these wolves really were—and her short cap of hair was tousled. She looked alive, fresh, tasty—and scared. Her coat was zipped up to her chin, and she was hugging her backpack as if it were an iron shield.
She was talking to two cowboys, and there was a determined smile on her lips as she replied to whatever it was the cowboys were saying. Jace was fairly sure he knew what it was—cowboys coming on to a gorgeous girl all sounded pretty much alike.
Just then the taller of the two cowboys chuckled and decided it was time to push his luck. He moved in close and slung an arm around Sara's shoulders, hauling her in.
Sara froze.
This particular cowboy apparently didn't read body language, or didn't want to. He leaned in and nuzzled her cheek.
Jace picked up his beer bottle, tossed some bills on the counter and began to sidle that way.
He was halfway across the room when Sara spotted him. Her face lit up. "Jace!"
"Oh, hell," Jace muttered under his breath. He'd intended to distract them, get them talking, move them away from her. He hadn't wanted to be set up as "the competition."
But at the eager look on Sara's face, the die was cast.
The cowboy with his arm around her looked around, saw Jace and scowled. His fingers seemed to tighten on Sara's shoulder. The other cowboy turned, too, and with Sara sandwiched between them, they both stood glaring his way.
Damn it to hell. He was too old for bar fights. Especially too old to be losing bar fights.
But with his leg, he couldn't imagine winning one tonight.
On the other hand, tempting as it was, he couldn't just turn and walk away. Trouble was, he had no idea how he was going to take her away from the moron who had his arm around her—without getting physical.
But just as he was wondering, the moron in question said to Sara, "S'pose you're gonna tell me he's your brother?"
Jace had never taken a drama course in his life, but even he couldn't miss a cue line like that one.
"As a matter of fact," he said with an easy grin at the moron, "I am."
Sara's eyes widened.
He fixed Sara with his best stern older brother look, one he'd never dared use on Jodie. "You're not half lookin' for trouble, kiddo, lettin' me catch you in here."
"I—"
"Save the explanations." He cut her off and clapped the moron on the arm in comradely fashion. "Thanks for keepin' her outa trouble. She's a hellion sometimes. Never know where she's gonna turn up. I figure it's a reaction to the old man."
"The old man?" The cowboy blinked.
"Didn't she tell you? He's a cop."
Whatever Sara had intended to say, she shut her mouth after Jace said that.
The cowboy's arm dropped from around her shoulders and he took a hasty step back. So did his buddy. "Sure. Right. No problem." They fell all over themselves backing away.
"Didn't want her to get in no trouble," the moron babbled. "We was just keepin' her comp'ny till you showed up."
"This ain't a place for a lady alone," added the other one.
Both of them bobbed their heads fervently.
Jace looped his own arm over Sara's shoulders and aimed her for the door. "You're sure as shootin' right about that." He gave her a little nudge, then glanced back, still smiling. "Much obliged, fellas," he said over his shoulder. "Reckon the old man will be grateful. Might even come looking to thank you."
"Oh, no, that's all right," they babbled. "You just go on home now. Don't give us another thought."
He didn't say a word.
He didn't let go of her until they reached his truck, his hand like a vice on her arm. Only when he had tucked her inside, got in himself, turned the key in the ignition and settled his hands on the steering wheel, did Jace look her way.
Sara held herself stiffly, waiting for him to yell.
She deserved it. She knew that. She'd been an idiot to risk going into The Barrel.
But after a long moment Jace only said quietly, "Home, I presume?"
It was such a relief that Sara almost cried.
Determinedly she didn't. She'd made fool enough of herself tonight. She wasn't going to compound it by falling apart now.
"Yes," she said. "Please," she added, because she owed Jace Tucker a great deal more than politeness.
He certainly hadn't had to come to her rescue. She hardly knew him.
She remembered him a bit from when she was little and her family used to travel with her dad to summer rodeos. She knew he rode broncs. She knew he was a hell-raiser. But at least he was a hell-raiser from Elmer.
That had mattered more tonight than anything else.
It didn't matter at all that her aunt Celie thought he was wild and had led her dear Matt astray.
Wild was relative, Sara thought now. And Jace's was the only face she'd recognized in the crowd.
She'd gone in claiming to be looking for her brother, hoping to find someone she knew and beg a ride home. Her worry about her mother, though, soon turned to worry about what she'd got herself into.
Several cowboys had offered her rides. But she didn't know any of them—and some of them, she was sure, had no intention of taking her anywhere other than to bed.
She might be foolish, but she wasn't a complete half-wit.
She'd tried to be polite. She'd done her best to keep them at arm's length and insist she was looking for her brother. But those last two hadn't wanted to take no for an answer. She'd been vastly relieved to spot Jace coming her way.
She'd been flabbergasted—and delighted—when, against all odds, he'd agreed that he was her brother.
And his mention of their old man "the cop" had been inspired.
Now she slanted him a glance, wanting to compliment him on his inventiveness, but unsure what to say.
Jace was making a U-turn in the middle of the street and heading toward the interstate.
Once they had left The Barrel well behind, Sara drew a shaky breath. "Thank you." It was heartfelt.
Jace grinned faintly. "I'd say 'any time,' but truth is, kiddo, I'd really rather you didn't."
"I'd much rather I didn't, too," Sara said fervently. "I was just looking for a ride home."
"Not the best place to look."
"I went to Sage's first. I didn't know anyone there. I was waiting for my mother at the Page and Leaf. I've been waiting for hours. I don't know what happened to her." Sara's voice sounded high and reedy even to her own ears. Worry was making her shaky.
"Didn't you call?" Jace asked.
"Yes. Until I ran out of change. There was never anyone home. Not her. Not my sisters. Not even Aunt Celie!"
He shrugged. "It's Friday night. Lots of people go out on dates on Friday night."
"Not Aunt Celie."
Jace looked surprised. "Ever?"
"Not since—"
She'd started to say, not since she got jilted, but that seem somehow disloyal. True, but disloyal. Celie had been hurt badly. It wasn't her fault she was reluctant to try again.
"Not for a while," Sara said finally. She hesitated a second, then because she couldn't help herself, she blurted, "What do you think happened to my mom?"
She knew she sounded scared, but the truth was, she was scared.
When her father had died nearly six years ago it had been a day like any other—a day like this one, only in August—and suddenly their world had turned upside down.
Sara could remember it as well as if it had happened yesterday—the trooper who'd come to the door, the hushed voices in the living room, then her mother's stark white face.
It was her mother's face Sara remembered most of all. Polly had always been vibrant, sunny, smiling. But the trooper's words had knocked the life right out of her. Sara had understood then what they meant when they said someone "looked like death."
But it wasn't her mother who had died, it was her dad. "What if…" she said now, her voice wavering.
"Don't," Jace said sharply, obviously reading her mind. "Don't think that sort of stuff."
"But—"
"Don't," he repeated, his voice still harsh. "What good does it do? You make yourself crazy. You don't help them." His voice was somewhere between ragged and edgy. He took a breath and softened his tone. "Don't worry. Not yet. Chances are it was just a mix-up. Don't ask for trouble."
"Okay." Sara tried not to. She tried to envision her mother simply forgetting, running an errand, helping Alice or playing cards with Artie. She hugged her backpack as if it were a life preserver. "You're right," she whispered. Please God, you're right.
It was a clear night so even with the snow cover things were fairly dark, not almost like daylight, the way they were when the clouds hung low. Jace drove fast but not recklessly, and before long they were turning off the highway toward the foothills where Sara could see the lights of Elmer.
She started to tell him where she lived, but he drove right to it. There were lights on in the house. It looked perfectly normal. Sara wasn't sure what she expected, but not that.
Jace pulled up in front and cut the engine. "Looks okay," he said, reading her mind again. "Shall I wait?"
"Would you? Please?"
"Sure."
Sara got out of the truck and gave him a bright smile, designed more to mask her worry from herself than to convince Jace.
Then she shut the door and, still hugging her backpack, walked around the side of the house to go in the door to the Spa.
The door was unlocked.
But the door was always unlocked. The last time anyone had locked a door in Elmer, they'd had to call the locksmith from Livingston to get it open again.
But unlocked or not, no one was there.
Of course it was late. Just past eleven. But Celie always told people they could pick up videos until midnight—on the honor system if she or one of the kids wasn't around. The honor system was obviously in force tonight.
"Celie?" Sara called. "Mom? Anybody?"
Good God, where were they all?
The panic she'd managed to keep reasonably well in check suddenly swamped her completely.
"Mom!" She dumped her backpack and began to run through the house. The McMasters and O'Mearas usually lived in a state of comfortable messiness. Nothing was any more out of place than it ever was. So no one had come in and kidnapped them all. Unless of course, they'd gone without a struggle.
Sara couldn't imagine her mother—or any of her siblings—going anywhere without a struggle.
"Mom!" Her voice reverberated in the silence.
It was time to worry her grandmother. She grabbed the phone and called the hospital.
With luck Joyce would still be there. With more luck she'd know where they were. With the best luck of all the rest of the family wasn't all at the hospital, too.
The receptionist who answered wasn't her grandmother but Mabel Kitchener who worked third shift.
"Mabel, this is Sara McMaster," Sara babbled breathlessly into the phone. "Is my grandmother still there?"
"Oh, Sara! How are you? Haven't seen you in ages. I was asking Thomas just the other day if he'd seen you lately." Thomas was Mabel's grandson. He was the apple of Mabel's eye, and she could go on for hours about Thomas's finest points if given the chance.
Sara wasn't going to talk about Thomas tonight.
"Tell him I said hello," Sara said. "Is my grandmother still there? It's important!"
"Oh, no, dear. She left early. She said she had to help your mother."
"Help my mother? Why? What happened?"
"For the auction, dear," Mabel explained cheerfully. "They're all there, decorating the town hall."
* * *
Chapter 8
« ^ »
Polly was sure Martha Stewart could have done a better job on the town hall.
Martha would have been more creative, more professional and, without a doubt, would have had more taste.
But not even Martha would have shown the enthusiasm for their work that Elmer's families displayed that night.
Alice had taken her deputization seriously. By the time Polly had closed the post office that afternoon, Alice had a group of school kids and their moms and little brothers and sisters already hard at work. Anyone who could be trusted with a pair of scissors was cutting out strings of cowboy figures, joined at the boot and the glove, or shiny red paper hearts. Those who could be trusted with needles were attaching thread so the hearts could be hung to flutter from the ceiling.
When the grocery closed at six, Carol Ferguson brought in all the rolls of red and white crepe paper streamers she had on hand. She and several junior high school kids, including Daisy, were festooning the room. Jenny Nichols and a crew of boisterous fourth- and fifth-grade boys were making a huge banner to decorate the wall above the stage.
Maddie arrived with a stack of photos showing the ranch and all the children who had lived with her and Ward over the years. Alice had pounced on Charlie Seeks Elk coming out of the hardware store and requested that he scan and enlarge them.
He returned that evening with his mission accomplished. Since then he and Brenna and Jed and Tuck McCall were matting them.
Tess Tanner and Felicity Jones, with a little help from their daughters, Susannah and Becky, were adding hangers to the matted photos. And when Tess's husband, Noah, and Felicity's husband, Taggart, showed up, they took hammers and set to work providing nails to hang them on. Right behind the hanging brigade came Celie and Lizzie.
"The visual arts department," Lizzie said. They rearranged the photos for "a more dramatic effect."
On the other side of the room, Brenna had already hung the paintin
g she was contributing, her nephew Tuck was hanging his rodeo sketches, Sam Bacon was putting up some prints he'd done of local scenes, and Charlie had put up a series of photos he'd taken at the roundup last fall.
All of them would be sold at the auction a week from Sunday afternoon—if they survived.
The ever-efficient Astrid had taken Polly's phone call at three, and her only comment had been, "You realize, of course, that it's five here already."
Actually Polly hadn't.
So I'm a bumpkin, she thought as she stood watching the room take shape around her. So sue me. So don't ask me to run any auctions next year.
But at the moment, all hassles aside, she was glad she was involved in this one. Despite the hassle, despite Sloan Gallagher, it was exhilarating. It had brought Elmer together, had given them all a sense of purpose, of commitment. It had made them appreciate one another.
Everyone was contributing.
Before she went to work, Joyce had brought over six dozen brownies. "I'll come home early if Mabel will come in. And I just ran into Loney and he said he'd be up after work to start the chili."
Loney Bates, who ran the welding shop was best-loved not for his talents with a torch but for his culinary accomplishments. He had won the Dew Drop's chili cook-off the past three years running, and the news that he would be cooking tonight brought more volunteers out of the woodwork.
When the chili was ready, Cloris appeared with tubs of salad, and Felicity Jones cut wedges of jalapeño cornbread. And long about seven Walt Blasingame and Otis Jamison showed up with two big racks of ribs. Someone brought a boom box and pretty soon Chris LeDoux was wondering, "Whatcha gonna do with a cowboy?"
Polly, watching half a dozen of them pitch in right now to help do Elmer proud, couldn't imagine you'd want to do anything with them at all—except hug them.
She got misty-eyed just watching. This was what small towns were all about—the care and concern of family, friends and neighbors. This was what those film crews Sloan Gallagher had threatened her with would see when they appeared.
"Bring 'em on," she murmured to herself, pausing as she punched a needle through one of the big glossy hearts. "We'll show you what Elmer is made of."
The Great Montana Cowboy Auction Page 9
