To the One I Love: That Old Familiar FeelingAn Older ManCaught by a Cowboy

by Emilie Richards

  “What on earth are you doing?” he asked in disgust.

  “Shh!” she hissed, then glanced nervously around to make sure no one was watching. Motioning Cope to draw closer, she lifted a pile of faded men’s overalls from the top of the box. “Look,” she whispered, indicating several stacks of folded cloths beneath.

  He looked but had no idea what he was seeing. “What is it?”

  She dropped the overalls back into place, then pulled the flap of the box over them to further disguise the box’s contents. “Hand-embroidered dish towels,” she whispered, as she dug in her purse for a pen. Finding one, she scribbled the number of the box onto the back of a receipt, then stuck the slip of paper into the pocket of her shorts. With a pretended nonchalance, she strolled on, as if the box held nothing of interest.

  Cope trailed behind her, marveling at the speed and finesse with which she dealt with the multitude of items displayed for the sale. From what he could tell, this auction business was a war and Deanna a general, plotting her best plan of attack. She would ooh and aah over one item, drawing the attention of other bidders, then move on, jotting down the number of an entirely different article or lot of goods on which she intended to place a bid. By the time the auction actually started, her list of numbers covered the backs of three receipts, one bank deposit slip and the inside of a crumpled gum wrapper.

  She chose seats for them at the rear of the bank of chairs set up on the lawn, insisting that it was the best spot to keep an eye on her competition.

  Cope sat down beside her, unable to remember when he’d had this much fun. “Obviously this isn’t your first auction.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Grammer loves auctions and would always take me with her when I was here for my summer visits,” she explained, then leaned close to whisper, “When they put up one of the items that we want to bid on, you have to keep a poker face and pretend disinterest.” She drew back to look at him. “Can you do that?”

  Her expression was so earnest, it was all Cope could do not to laugh. “I think I can handle that.”

  With a sigh of relief, she sank back in her chair and reached over to pat his knee. “Good.”

  “I’ll handle the bidding,” she instructed further, as the auctioneer stepped up behind the microphone set up on a flatbed trailer. “Whatever you do, don’t make any sudden movements.”

  “What if my nose itches?”

  She whipped her head around to look at him as if he’d just told her he planned to strip down to his birthday suit and run wild through the crowd. When he grinned, she pursed her lips and turned her attention back to the auctioneer.

  Satisfied with his delegated position as onlooker, Cope reared his chair back on two legs, prepared to watch the show.

  Within minutes of the auction’s start, Cope had picked out the seasoned bidders in the crowd. They distinguished themselves from the others with the level of secrecy they used in placing their bids. A tug on a left earlobe. The single tap of a finger against a front shirt pocket. A discreet jerk of a chin.

  But in Cope’s estimation, Deanna had the best ploy. She used a wink. One of the auctioneer’s assistants had already homed in on her method—as well as her interest in the items going up for bid—and had set up shop within easy sight of her. Keeping an eye on her face, he signaled each of her winks—or raises to a bid—with a shout and a wild arm gesture in the general direction of the auctioneer.

  As Cope watched her, he wondered why she’d been so concerned about him being able to keep a poker face, when hers read like an open book.

  And at the moment she was mad.

  She leaned close to Cope, her lips pursed in irritation. “Can you believe that guy?” she whispered angrily.

  “Which guy?”

  “The one on the front row with the beer belly, wearing that tacky tank top.” She folded her arms across her breasts and scowled at the man’s back. “Those type of shirts should be tagged with weight limits.”

  “Weight limits?” he repeated, never having heard the term associated with anything but eighteen-wheelers hauling a load of goods.

  She flapped an impatient hand. “You know. Like, ‘no one over one hundred sixty pounds can wear this shirt without fear of grossing out the general public.’”

  Choking back a laugh, he rocked his chair back on two legs again. “You’re just mad because he keeps bidding against you.”

  She narrowed her eyes at the back of the man’s head. “I’m sure he was following us.” She angled her head to look back at Cope. “Did you notice him behind us?” Before he could reply, she turned to glare at the back of the man’s head again. “He had to have been. How else would he know what items I intended to bid on?”

  “Could it be that he’s simply interested in buying the same items?” Cope suggested mildly.

  She threw a murderous look at him over her shoulder. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  He gave her a shoulder a reassuring pat. “Yours, darlin’,” he said dutifully. “Always yours.”

  Huffing a breath, she turned her attention back to the auction.

  Cope watched as her frustration with the beer-drinking-tank-shirt-wearing bidder grew.

  “Would you look at him?” she cried, not even bothering to lower her voice. “That jerk is purposely bidding on that box, just because I did.”

  “Why not just let him have it? You’ve already bought enough stuff to set up housekeeping for four families.”

  She swelled her chest, as if insulted by the suggestion. “I certainly will not.” She waved her bidder’s card above her head.

  “There,” she said smugly, dropping her hand after the auctioneer acknowledged her bid. “Let’s see you top that, fat-boy.”

  Her mouth dropped open, when fat-boy raised his card, as well, topping her amount. She shot to her feet. “Fifty!” she shouted, jumping the bid up by twenty dollars, instead of the previous increments of five.

  Cope leaned to place a restraining hand on her shoulder. “Deanna,” he said gently, forcing her back down to her chair. “I think you’re getting a little carried away.”

  “Carried away, my eye!” She shrugged off his hand and leaped to her feet again. “One hundred!” she yelled.

  The gray-haired woman sitting in the chair in front of Deanna twisted around in her seat to stare at her in amazement.

  “What are you looking at?” Deanna snapped peevishly.

  “You just raised your own bid,” the woman replied.

  Her cheeks flaming, Deanna jutted her chin. “So what if I did?” she said brazenly, then hooked a thumb over her shoulder, indicating Cope. “He can afford it.”

  With a sympathetic look at Cope, the woman turned back around, clucking her tongue.

  Deanna stormed through the back door and dumped the box she carried onto the counter.

  Cope followed at a calmer pace. “I don’t know what you’re so mad about,” he said, setting his box down next to hers. “You got the embroidered towels.”

  Furious, she whirled on him. “Yes, but you wouldn’t have had to pay a hundred dollars for the dang things, if that awful man hadn’t made me so angry.”

  Cope crossed to place his hands on her shoulders. “Did you want the embroidered towels?”

  She dropped her gaze. “Yes,” she grumbled sullenly.

  “And does knowing that you own the towels and not fat-boy make you happy?”

  She shot a finger beneath her nose, trying to hide the smile his description drew. “I suppose so.”

  He hooked a knuckle beneath her chin and forced her gaze to his. “Then they were worth every penny I had to pay for them.”

  She stared, amazed at the warmth she saw in his eyes, the sincerity. How incredibly sweet, she thought. He didn’t care that he’d paid three times the towels’ worth. Not as long as she was happy.

  Feeling her heart softening, warming, she took a quick step back, breaking the connection.

  “I—I have to go,” she stammered and spun for the
door.

  Deanna lay on the porch swing, her head resting on her grandmother’s lap. The sun had slipped past the horizon moments before, leaving the porch in shadows.

  “I don’t know what else I can possibly do to convince him,” she said miserably, then tipped her head back to look up at her grandmother. “I’ve told him a zillion times I won’t marry him, but it’s like he doesn’t hear me.”

  Her smile tender, Grammer combed her fingers through the tangled curls framing Deanna’s face. “Maybe he doesn’t want to hear you.”

  Deanna frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He loves you,” Grammer said simply.

  “So he keeps telling me,” Deanna muttered sourly.

  “Is having a man love you such a bad thing?”

  She sat up, her frown deepening. “For me it is.”

  “Why?”

  She pushed from the swing and paced away. “Because loving him isn’t enough for Cope.”

  “Are you saying you’re in love with him?”

  Deanna tossed up her hands. “How the heck should I know? He’s never given me time to decide how I feel. He just keeps pushing and pushing and pushing.”

  “In what way?” Grammer asked, looking at her curiously.

  “By acting like we’re getting married! I keep telling him we’re not, but he just ignores me.”

  “Does he respond at all to your refusals?”

  “Yeah, but it’s the same old line. ‘The two weeks aren’t up yet,’” she quipped, quoting him.

  “He’s right,” her grandmother reminded her gently. “They aren’t up yet. And you never know. When the two weeks do reach an end, your feelings for Cope may have changed.”

  Deanna flopped down on the swing. “That’s what he keeps saying,” she grumbled.

  Chuckling, Grammer wrapped an arm around Deanna and hugged her to her side. “Don’t sulk. You’ll give yourself wrinkles.”

  Heaving a frustrated sigh, Deanna sank back, resting her head on her grandmother’s shoulder. “You’ve been telling me that for years.”

  Smiling, Grammer pushed a foot against the porch floor and set the swing into motion. “That’s what grandmothers do best,” she said, as she combed her fingers lazily through the long lengths of Deanna’s hair. “We lecture and warn.”

  Lulled by the gentle movement of her grandmother’s fingers through her hair, Deanna let her mind drift. “Did you tell Papa yes the first time he asked you to marry you?”

  “No.”

  Deanna lifted her head to stare, shocked by her grandmother’s reply. “Why not? I mean, you loved Papa, didn’t you?”

  “Of course I loved your grandfather.”

  “Then why did you say no?”

  “I wasn’t sure my love for him was enough.”

  “Enough for what?” Deanna asked, surprised that her grandmother had once felt the same way about her grandfather as Deanna felt about Cope.

  Sighing, Grammer drew Deanna’s head back to her shoulder. “We were different,” she explained slowly. “We had different goals, different dreams. Mine were all here on the island. But your grandfather’s were much bigger and stretched beyond the island’s perimeters.”

  “The bank?” Deanna asked, thinking of the thirty-plus years her grandfather had served as president of Colman Savings and Loan.

  “That…and others.”

  “Like what?”

  “Your papa was…well, I guess your generation would call him an overachiever. He was never happy sitting still. Always had to be busy. In the middle of things. Chairing this committee or that, sitting on a dozen or more boards. Your father is like him in that way. He was always interested in politics, what was going on around the state. But to have an active role, to maintain a strong influence in the laws that were passed to govern our state, meant he had to live on the mainland.”

  “Is that why you and Papa lived apart?” Realizing how personal the question was, Deanna sat bolt upright. “I’m not being nosey,” she hastened to explain. “Or judgmental. I never really thought about your living arrangements one way or the other. That’s the way things were. It’s just that now I’m…well, curious, I guess.”

  Smiling, Grammer gave her hand a reassuring pat. “It’s all right, dear. You aren’t the first to wonder why Papa and I lived as we did.” She looked away, as if at a distant memory. “It was a compromise of sorts,” she said, after a moment. “We loved each other very much. Never doubt that. But I needed my island and Papa needed the city.” Glancing over at Deanna, she smiled softly. “The weekends were ours, though, as well as the holidays. Edward, God love him, never complained about having to maintain two homes. And he never resented the fact that he was the one who always had to do the traveling in order for us to spend time together.” She wagged her head, as if shamed by the admission. “I hated the city and rarely visited him there. The few times I did, I felt as if the life was being sucked right out of me. I couldn’t wait to get back to the island and to my house. My gardens.”

  “Wow,” Deanna murmured. “I never knew any of that.” She sat a moment, trying to imagine what it must be like for a married couple to live apart like that, then leaped to her feet. “Do you realize what you just said?” she cried.

  Grammer frowned. “What?”

  “That you hate the city.” She dropped to her knees in front of her grandmother and caught her hand. “You can’t move to that nursing home, Grammer. You can’t.”

  Pursing her lips, Grammer shook her head. “Now don’t start with that business again. I’ve told you girls that I’m moving just as soon as the house sells, and that’s that.”

  Deanna squeezed her grandmother’s hand, desperate to change her mind. “I’ll talk to Daddy. We all will. Marti and Lacey, too. We’ll make him understand what a mistake it would be to force you to move to Tallahassee. You belong here, Grammer. On your island.”

  Her smile tender, Grammer leaned to frame Deanna’s face with her hands. “You’re sweet. All of you girls are. But your daddy isn’t forcing me to do anything. I’m getting too old to live alone.”

  “No, you’re not,” Deanna argued. “You fell and broke your ankle. So what? That doesn’t mean you’re too feeble to take care of yourself.”

  Grammer pressed a finger against Deanna’s lips, hushing her. “Enough,” she lectured firmly, then sat back against the swing and patted the seat beside her. “Now get back up here and tell me more about that young man of yours.”

  Knowing it was futile to argue with her grandmother any further—she and her sisters had spent the last two weeks doing just that and had gotten nowhere—she climbed back up on the swing and slumped back in a pout, folding her arms stubbornly across her chest.

  “He’s not my young man.”

  Chapter 4

  Invigorated from her morning drive along the Gulf, Deanna gave the Lamborghini an affectionate pat on the hood, then skipped up the steps that led to Cope’s beach house. Reaching the back door, she hesitated, wondering if she should walk in or knock first. Cope had given her a key, which indicated that he intended for her to come and go as she pleased. But walking in unannounced suggested an intimacy that she was trying to avoid.

  With that in mind, she rapped her knuckles against the door.

  “Come on in, Celeste! It’s unlocked.”

  Rolling her eyes at his reference to the ghost, she opened the door. “Very funny,” she said dryly, as she stepped inside. “You’d feel really foolish if it was Celeste who—”

  She stumbled to a stop, struck dumb by the sight of him. His hair still wet from the shower, he stood before the sink, wearing nothing but a damp towel wrapped around his waist and a smile.

  “You’re naked!” she cried.

  He held out his arms and looked down, as if to verify her claim. “No I’m not. I’ve got on a towel.”

  A towel that left very little to the imagination! Tossing her purse onto the counter, she tore her gaze from the tempting sight. “Well, put so
me clothes on,” she snapped.

  “Why? You’ve seen me in less than this before.”

  Oh, he did have to remind her of that, didn’t he? The jerk.

  “Don’t remind me,” she grumbled and turned for the door. “I’ll be out on the deck. You can call me when you’re decently dressed.”

  “Would you like to help me pick out my clothes?” he teased.

  Her answer was a slam of the door. The sound of his laughter chased her to the far railing, where she gripped her hands over the weathered wood and fixed her gaze on the Gulf. The view wasn’t nearly as good as the one she’d left, but it was safer. Less tempting.

  Groaning, she dropped her head to rest her forehead on the back of her hands. How was she ever going to last two weeks without falling into bed with him? she wailed silently. Especially, if he continued to pull stunts like this. Dressed, he was irresistible. Half-naked? She was putty in his hands.

  And that’s what frightened her. She knew his effect on her. If she hadn’t known, she wouldn’t be out on the deck right now. She’d be in the house with him, making wild passionate love.

  But she did know. The time she’d spent with him in Texas had proven that to her. Being with him had been so easy, so natural, so right. And when she was with him, the freewheeling lifestyle she’d always enjoyed lost some of its allure.

  But marry him? She shuddered at the thought. Marriage was for old people. People who enjoyed spending quiet evenings at home and sex on Saturday nights. As the wife of a successful businessman like Cope, she would be expected to act responsible, sensible, mature. Instead of traveling the world chasing the next adventure, she’d have to spend her time doing volunteer work for charities, hosting teas for blue-haired old ladies and supervising a household staff. For God’s sake, she’d become her mother!

  And Deanna didn’t want to be like her mother. Not that her mother was bad. It was just that she was…cold, indifferent. Deanna winced at the meanness of the description, then drooped her shoulders in resignation, knowing it was true. Not that she’d ever doubted her mother’s love for her. Or her father’s, either, for that matter. But her parents had always been more interested in their careers and their social standing than in their daughters’ lives. Oh, they’d provided for Deanna and her sisters well enough, perhaps even spoiled them with their generosity. But they’d never given Deanna what she’d really wanted from them. Their time.