Alone.
Chapter 2
The rain still pounded on the corrugated metal overhead, and the traffic circling through the driveway had picked up. Tallgrass had a number of restaurants, bars, and coffee shops where teenagers could hang out, and Sonic was the one of choice for the guys too young to get into the cowboy bars and the girls who crushed on them.
Fia caught the reflection of her smile in the window glass. Scott hadn’t been a cowboy, but he’d done a pretty good impression when they’d met. She’d thought he was one of those good ol’ boys who signed up to do their service to their country but couldn’t leave behind the well-worn jeans, the flashy belt buckles, and the Resistols and Stetsons that had molded to fit them perfectly after years of wear. Turned out, it was a look he affected because everyone knew women liked cowboys.
Elliot was a real cowboy. He’d grown up on a ranch in the rugged West Texas landscape, starting chores when he was four, caring for his own horse from the time he was five, doctoring animals and driving heavy equipment and even doing a bit of rodeoing all before he was old enough to shave. He’d even shown her his Stetson, sitting upside down in the back where Mouse couldn’t reach it.
She smiled again. Satisfaction was a big, complicated thing, but it could be created by the simplest little things. Listening to the rain drumming against the carport. Watching headlights flash across the wet world. Scratching an underweight, overcautious Mouse’s belly. Listening to Elliot’s deep gravelly voice with its Texas twang. Feeling like a woman with no cares in the world beyond enjoying this evening.
Her gaze slid across the clock in the dash, and her brows arched high. “Oh, my God, is it really almost midnight?”
Lazily he checked his watch. “Yep. Do you turn into a pumpkin when the clock strikes twelve?”
Her surprise gone, she arched one brow again. “Cinderella’s coach turned into a pumpkin. She just went back to being herself.” The plain girl with nothing to offer and no one to notice her. The obvious similarities gave her a mental ouch.
He leaned past her to look at her car. “It doesn’t seem to be transforming.”
She found herself gazing at his dark hair, dried now in a smooth curl that dipped underneath the band holding it, at the warm tan of his skin, the fine lines at the corners of his eye, and a small scar at the edge of his mouth. Had he gotten it in combat? In a bar fight? From some recalcitrant animal that liked its testicles exactly the way they were, thanks very much?
Probably his sister Emily had taken that umbrella from him and beaten him with it.
Bittersweet longing spread through Fia. What would she have given for a sibling who loved her enough to squabble with her? But then his gaze met hers, and the longing morphed, just like that. Forget siblings and squabbling; what would she give for a hunky, sweet hero like this in her life? To be the sort of woman who wouldn’t burden a man like him?
Swallowing hard, she tried to remember what they’d been talking about, even though every hormone in her body wanted to shut down all thought and just feel instead. Inhale his scent. Touch his muscular arm. Grip his strong hand. Lean into him, just a few inches, just close enough so his mouth could brush hers.
“If I have a say in its transformation, I’m voting for a Challenger.” Her voice was muddled, breathy, sounding like the kind of idiot who’d never talked to a gorgeous man, and the words didn’t even register with her until they were out. It was self-preservation speaking, she realized, because if they’d stayed like that much longer, wrapped in a warm, muggy cocoon of desire and longing looks and parted lips, who knew what would have happened next?
She did. Elliot did, too, judging by the disappointment that flashed across his face.
He blinked, and the dazed look disappeared. “Man, my uncle Vance had a Challenger in high school. He promised he would hold on to it until I was ready to take it off his hands.”
“Did he?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to ask him.”
“You should. Your steed is nice, but a vintage Challenger…damn. I’d even help you restore it.”
“You can restore cars?”
“I’ll have you know, I’m the best tool handler west of the Mississippi. Just don’t expect me to know their names or measurements.”
He laughed, and the last bit of tension seeped from her body. Once it was gone, she became aware of a niggling behind her eyes. A headache was trying to dig its way out from the recesses of her brain to take over her world, the kind that required medicine, a dark room, a cool cloth. It reminded her once more of the things she couldn’t even fantasize about with Elliot, of the things she couldn’t offer him or anyone else, and that made her suddenly, unbearably weary.
“I appreciate the meal and the company,” she said, avoiding looking at him, “but it’s past my bedtime.” She didn’t reach for the door automatically, but lingered, waiting, wondering, hoping he would say or do…something.
He did, flipping open the center console, his fingers brushing her arm, sparking tiny tremors. From inside he pulled out an ink pen and an old receipt, and he scrawled his cell phone number before offering both paper and pen to her. She hesitated, told herself not to be greedy. All she’d asked for was one evening of normal, and she’d gotten it. But instead of pushing the pen away, she gripped it awkwardly in her left hand, her hold less sure than it should have been, and wrote her own number. She laid the pen in his hand, tore the paper in two, and handed him half while tucking the other half in her pocket.
“Can I call you about that home-cooked meal?” he asked. His voice was quiet, his expression serious, but there was optimism, hope, in his tone.
She couldn’t think of anything smart or lighthearted or snarky to say, so she opened the door, slid to the ground, then turned back to face him. “I would like that.”
With the smile crinkling his eyes, the long silky hair, the bit of stubble on his jaw, and the cream-colored Stetson in back, oh, yeah, he was definitely a damn good-looking fantasy.
And Scott was right: There was nothing wrong with a little fantasy.
Her answer erased any hint of disappointment from Elliot’s face, replacing it with triumph instead. He was a man who savored small victories, something else they had in common. She’d learned the hard way that big problems were resolved one step at a time, sometimes with a few fallbacks along the way. She would have liked a kiss from her handsome stranger, would probably fantasize tonight about that and a lot more, but she was going to see him again. He was going to cook a meal for her, and she was going to melt into a puddle of emotional goo…if she didn’t have to turn him down instead. A sharp pain behind her left eye reminded her that was possible.
She closed the door, and he rolled down the window. “You okay getting home by yourself?”
“I would have made it fine if I hadn’t run into you in the parking lot.”
“My lucky day.” He flashed a grin that would have done any ladies’ man proud and said, “I’ll call you.”
She acknowledged him with a nod, then slid into her own car. It hadn’t turned into a pumpkin, but it wasn’t a Challenger, either. Just the same bland car it had always been. She backed out of the parking space, navigated around the back of the building while still watching Elliot in the rearview mirror, then sighed loudly. Happy, contented, disappointed, blue—she couldn’t tell exactly what that sigh held. She might never see him again—how many millions of times had people used I’ll call you as a brush-off? She might see him again but things might not work out, or he might decide right off the bat that Tallgrass didn’t feel like home. He might love Tallgrass and want to stay, might even like her and want to pursue something serious, but her health might not let it happen.
Day by day, her margarita girls advised. When times were tough, all you had to do was get through the next day, the next hour, the next ten minutes. That gave you a tiny bit more strength to get through the next ten minutes, the next hour, the next day. If all you could do in that very moment was brea
the, then breathe and be damn grateful for it, and then breathe again.
If one evening with a sexy cowboy was all Fia could have, she would be grateful for it. Small victories. It might not be fair, but she’d built an entire life for herself out of them. She’d been happy then, and she could be happy again.
It took less than six minutes to reach her house, a squat, rectangular building of cinder blocks painted white. There was a small square stoop at each end, one for each of the two apartments housed inside, and neat windows with flower boxes mounted beneath them ran the length between the doors. When Fia’s increasing bad days had made it too risky to climb the stairs to her second-story apartment, she’d been forced to move. Instead of a handicapped-accessible place, she’d chosen this duplex because it reminded her of her first home with Scott. There were still steps but only three. She desperately wanted to believe that she would always have the strength to climb three small steps.
Her headache intensified as she let herself in, and she automatically locked the door behind her. The only light on was in the short hallway that led to the bathroom and bedroom. She didn’t switch on any other lamps—didn’t need to. Her illness had pushed her into a minimalist decorating style: no excess furniture to move while cleaning, no clutter to deal with, no sharp instruments to lose control of during a spasm, no cat to trip over. It was better for her, but she dreamed of cozy, not bare. Of health, not weakness.
Fingers brushing furniture, counters, wall, she made her way to the bathroom, located the medicine she needed, and swallowed it at the sink. Her hand trembled when she wadded the paper cup, and when she tossed it at the trash can, it bounced and landed on the floor instead.
“Later,” she sighed, pulling off her shirt, kicking off her shoes, retrieving her cell phone from her pocket, and shucking her shorts. The bedroom to her left was her haven: cool, quiet, dark. The hall light didn’t penetrate as far as the bed. The window blinds were always closed, the black-out drapes always drawn tightly. When these episodes came on, light was not her friend.
She pulled back the covers, slid onto soft, clean sheets, lay back, and groaned. Her skin tingled peculiarly as the full force of the migraine hit her. Her stomach churned. Her hair roots hurt. Even her eyebrows quivered individually. Breathing shallowly, throbbing, and missing Scott almost more than she could bear, she curled onto her side, eyes closed, her breathing sounding like jet engines in her ears.
The ring of the cell phone startled her, fingers clenching the hard plastic case as her heart rate increased. It was past midnight. No one called that late unless it was an emergency. She hated emergencies. Besides, she didn’t know the number, wasn’t familiar with the area code. It was probably just someone who’d misdialed, pumping up her heartbeat for no reason.
Or it could be…
She lifted the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“Hello.” The husky voice sent shivers through her that had nothing to do with the crap going on in her head. “It’s Elliot.”
Carefully she relaxed onto her back, bending her knees to ease the pressure on her spine. “Yeah, I recognized your voice.” Recognized it and, for an instant, felt carefree again. It was sweet that he was keeping his word. The first time Scott had said, I’ll call you, she’d been so sure she wanted to see him again that she’d replied, Screw that. I’ll call you. She’d waited barely twelve hours. Elliot had waited less than one.
“I was thinking about that meal I’m going to cook for you. Mouse and I are pretty easy to please, but I figured I should find out what you do and don’t like.”
I’m damn easy to please. He could bring a packet of Twinkies and a bottle of water, and she would be happy, because it wasn’t the food she was interested in. Too bold?
Not for the old Fia. Sadly, yes for the new, unimproved model. “No Italian,” she said.
“Aw, and here I just dug out my grandma’s recipe for lasagna.”
“You travel with your grandma’s recipes?”
“You’re not gonna laugh, are you? Because, yeah, I keep her old cookbook with me.”
That touched her. She had only vague memories of her maternal grandmother, who’d died when Fia was four or five, and she’d never met her father’s mother. His family had written him off long before he’d met her mother.
She settled more comfortably on the bed, her fingers loosening their grip on the phone, a little of the stress easing from her body. The healing magic of Elliot’s voice, she would like to think. The medicine taking effect, she knew. “I won’t laugh. And I’ll eat practically anything—even Italian with the right incentive.”
“I’m good at providing incentive,” he teased, and she knew he was telling the truth. “When and where?”
She gave him her address, and they agreed on six o’clock Saturday night. “I’ll be there,” he said, “ready to impress.”
After saying good-bye, she slid the phone aside and smiled in the dark. Ready to impress. He’d done nothing but from the moment she’d seen him, and Lord, she needed impressing.
* * *
In the last eight years, Dillon Smith had lived in West Texas, Nebraska, North Dakota, Wyoming, and Utah. The years before, he hadn’t lived anywhere at all: traveling the rodeo circuit, working little, playing hard, and living harder. For a while, it had been fun, and then it had been okay. After that…
He’d been back in Tallgrass a year come June. It was the best place for him and the worst, the easiest and the toughest. His parents had forgiven him for his absence—and silence—and his kid brother, Noah, more or less had. His other brother, Dalton, still treated him with distrust and wariness. He expected more of Dillon than the others just because they’d shared a womb for the first forty weeks of their lives. Nothing Dillon did was good enough in Dalton’s eyes.
Never had been.
It was Saturday afternoon, and Dillon had driven to one of a hundred small towns where he’d spent time. This one was in South Dakota, a dusty little place that kept itself running on hope and sheer will. In the four years he’d been gone, the high school had shut down; so had three of its five restaurants, all but one of the doctors’ offices, and the tiny hospital. The motel on the edge of the town was the only one in the entire county, and it was about as beat-up and run-down as Dillon.
The day was still, the sky faded, nothing on the move besides him and a few birds circling overhead. Swiping at the sweat on his forehead, Dillon figured the only thing that could make the scene any more perfect for him was if the birds were vultures instead of common swallows.
His boots thudded on the sidewalk as he passed a Baptist church, then a mom-and-pop diner that made pancakes as fluffy and buttery as his grandmother’s had been. Across fifteen feet of empty lot was the next building, two stories built of stone and weathered by wind and rain. The big windows were painted black, forming a backdrop for the childish red scrawl that read BB’s Bar. There was no place in this town for fancy or trendy; BB’s was a solid building with tables, chairs, a scarred floor, a long bar scavenged from barn wood, beer on tap, and cheap strong liquor.
He stepped inside, gave his vision a moment to adjust to the dim lighting, then headed for the bar at the back. To the right was a flight of stairs that led to the apartment on the second floor, stairs he’d climbed a thousand times when his shift behind the bar was done. It had been a part-time job, paid with free rent. His living money had come from his work at the grain elevator just north of town.
The place looked empty, but he knew he’d find BB kicked back in a shabby recliner behind the bar. Times were rare when the old man could afford help, so he made himself comfortable with the chair, a TV, and a microwave where he could heat frozen meals for himself. He’d never been married, he used to say, but he’d consider giving up bachelorhood for a woman who could cook. Apparently, no one had ever taken his offer seriously.
When Dillon stopped at the end of the bar, BB looked up, a slice of pizza halfway to his mouth. No surprise crossed his face, nothing but recogn
ition. “Dillon Smith.” His voice was raspy and loud. The worse his hearing got, Tina had teased, the louder he talked.
An ache stirred deep inside, but Dillon had gotten pretty good over the years at ignoring it. Never a day went by that he didn’t think about Tina, but if he let himself hurt every time, he’d have no reason to keep on living. And he did have a reason.
“In the flesh,” he replied, and his own voice sounded pretty damn raspy.
“You looking for work?”
“Not right now. I hired on with my brother down in Oklahoma.”
“Didn’t know you had a brother.”
“Got two.” It was one of the things he’d liked about living away from his hometown. No one ever had to look at him twice before making a stab at what name to call him. He’d been mistaken for Dalton his whole life in Tallgrass, by their parents, their friends, even their girlfriends. Hell, Noah had been so young when Dillon left home that he never had known which was which. But in those hundred small towns, no one had known Dalton Smith existed. No one had held him up as an example of what Dillon should be.
The old man gestured to the cooler, a silent invite for Dillon to help himself to a cold one, before asking, “What brings you back to Dullsville?”
Dillon circled the bar and opened the cooler, feeling the chill radiating from the bottles. He pulled out a long-neck, popped the top, then went to sit on a lawn chair next to the TV. It was older than he was, made of aluminum, the seat formed by strips of nylon webbing. It sagged and shifted under his weight, but today wasn’t its day to collapse. “I’m looking for someone.”
A Summer to Remember Page 3
