by Jane Porter
Troy sighed. “Probably wasn’t the best thing to say, no, but if its any comfort, I don’t think your hurt her feelings as much as touched on a tender spot. People have been saying that to her for years about Troy and me. But she and I are just friends, and what she and Trey had was... special. It’s hard to explain but they just... worked. She adored him, and he her.”
“So why didn’t it work?”
“Trey loves adrenaline. He takes risks and lives recklessly. It was hard on McKenna, never knowing if he was in trouble, or safe. She worried about him on the rodeo circuit, worried about him drinking, worried about him fighting. It just wore her down, and it made Trey defensive.” He sat back down on his bar stool and extended his long legs out, arms crossing over his big chest. “So did you two have a committee meeting tonight, or was it girls night out?”
“I guess you could call it a girls night out. We went dress shopping and then came here for a drink,” Taylor said.
“Dresses for...?”
“The Ball.”
“You found something?”
Taylor saw the gleam in his eyes. She didn’t trust it. “Yes.”
“Tell me about your dress.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll see it Friday night.”
“But you love it?”
Taylor flushed. “I wouldn’t say I loved it, but’s nice.”
“A nice dress for a nice girl. Sounds incredibly sexy.”
She rolled her eyes. “As we’ve just established, I’m not that nice. And the dress is nice. It’s appropriate for the Ball.”
“So it’s a ball gown?”
“No. At least, it’s not how I’d describe a ball gown, but I’m not going to spend a fortune on a dress I can only wear once, so I bought a dress that’s pretty. It’s long. Formal. And I could still wear it to other things in the future.”
“Like what?”
“Are you really this interested in a dress, or are you just giving me a hard time?”
The deep husky laugh seemed to rumble from his chest. “Maybe I’m just interested in you.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You are such a prickly little pear, Miss Harris.”
Taylor ignored that. Wasn’t even going to dignify his comment with a response. “Maybe I couldn’t wear my dress to a wedding, since its off white and that’s kind of a no-no, but I could wear it to another black-tie event.”
“Because you go to so many of those,” he teased, his gaze resting on her lips, making her lips feel tingly and hot.
She looked away, had to look away, flooded with emotions and sensation she didn’t want. “I might in the future,” she said crisply, glancing back at him.
He was smiling at her, smiling with his lips and his eyes and his blue gaze was warm and there was this teasing light in the blue depths, a knowing light, as if he knew her.
But he didn’t. He didn’t know the first thing about her.
Correction. He did know a few things. He did know she didn’t enjoy Balls and black-tie events because she’d told him that. But other than that limited bit of knowledge, he knew very little else about her, and so he shouldn’t smile at her with warm blue eyes and he shouldn’t let his lips curve as if they were having a delightful, playful conversation.
Taylor swallowed hard, and pressed her lips together, trying not to think about how it’d felt when he kissed her at the diner—so good—and how he’d smelled—delicious—and how hard it had been to fall asleep last night when she kept thinking about going to the Ball with him and dancing with him and having dinner at the Sheenan table with him and his brothers...
Her heart had raced. Just as it was racing now.
Her imagination had gone nearly wild, creating scenarios that could never happen. That would never happen. Swashbuckling heroes didn’t fall in love with quiet librarians.
Not unless they’d had a learning disability and needed help with reading. Or filing.
She frowned, watching as he leaned back and dragged a hand through his dark hair, ruffling it. His blue denim shirt, rolled back on his wrist, slid towards his elbow, revealing dense, corded muscle in his forearm and lightly tanned skin.
Shameless. He was.
His gaze met hers, held. His lips curved into a wider, crooked smile. His expression seemed to say that he was enjoying her right now, and maybe even enjoying her a great deal.
Which couldn’t be.
It didn’t make sense. It didn’t work. It wasn’t real or plausible.
And did he do this to all women, smile at them and flirt and seduce them with his eyes? Seduce them with the curve of his firm lips?
Taylor wouldn’t be surprised if he did. Apparently back in high school, he was quite the expert kisser. He’d probably graduated in college to expert lover.
Annoying. So terribly annoying.
“Why are you frowning at me, Miss Harris?” he drawled, a lock of dark ruffled hair falling forward, giving him a rakish appearance.
“You’re such a flirt,” she said primly, glancing away, unable to hold his gaze, unnerved by the tension between them.
She felt hot and cold, jittery and nervous, and a little bit dizzy, too. He was projecting some kind of energy, a magnetic energy, and it had heat and intensity and confused the heck out of her.
He laughed softly. “I’m not.”
“You are. And apparently you’ve always been one. Voted Best Kisser your senior year.”
“As well as Most Likely to Succeed,” he added.
“A truly talented man.”
He held up his hands. “To be fair, the vote could have been rigged. My girlfriend was the yearbook editor, and there was some speculation after the results were announced that she stuffed the ballot box.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I can’t think of anything sexier than a beautiful woman with a great vocabulary.”
She laughed because she had to. There was nothing else she could do. “You’re also impossible.”
“I’ve heard that. And for your information, I have always liked book girls. Smart girls. Newspaper editor. Yearbook editor. Girl with the highest GPA. Girl with the perfect SAT score. Girl with the biggest brain.”
She laughed and pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “Book girls, huh?”
“Book girls with glasses.”
“Stop.” But she was smiling and feeling easier, better, than she had all day and she was looking forward to the Ball Friday, more now than she ever had. “And I should go. We have an early morning staff meeting tomorrow—its every Thursday—but tomorrow I’m supposed to present a report on the books I’m recommending we purchase this summer.”
“That’s exciting.”
“Yes, except that Margaret will say we have no money so we can’t buy any of them.”
“Not as exciting.”
“No, but I can try.”
“Where are you parked? Can I walk you to your car?”
“No. I’m just down over a block. I’m good.”
“I think I should walk you there.”
“I don’t think its necessary. Marietta has a population of what? Ten thousand?”
“Give or take a few.”
“I’m safe.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m positive.”
“Text me when you reach your car.”
“I don’t have your number.”
“Then we need to correct that immediately,” he said, fishing into his pocket for his phone. He scrolled through contacts, typed a message and hit send. “Now you do.”
Taylor’s phone buzzed in her satchel. She opened her satchel and took out her phone, reading the new text. Save this number, it read.
Smiling, she added the number to her contacts. “Saved.”
“Don’t you feel better now?”
“I’m not sure,” she said, and it was a lie, because she felt positively fizzy and warm and wonderful on the inside.
“And how did you get my number in the first place?”
“Jane.”
“Ah.” She blushed. She couldn’t help it. “Good night, Troy.”
“Good night, Beautiful.”
Troy watched Taylor leave, her long dark hair hanging halfway down her back, her brown coat hitting at her hip, giving him an excellent view of her legs. She had great legs. He liked her very much in jeans. He thought he’d probably like her very much out of jeans as well...
Grey set Troy’s beer in front of him. “Anything else?” Grey asked.
Troy shook his head. “Nope.”
“Alright.” Grey moved.
Troy took a sip of his beer. The glass was thick and chilled. The beer was perfectly cold, a hint of ice, but not too frosty. This was exactly what he needed after a depressing dinner with McCorkle and a flirtatious conversation with his favorite librarian.
He’d only just taken a second sip when suddenly Callan Carrigan was at his side, ordering a beer and taking a seat on the bar stool next to his.
“Look whose back in town,” Callan said, turning on the bar stool to face him even as she waved off the chilled glass to drink straight from the bottle. “Troy Sheenan, the venture capitalist himself.”
Troy gave Callan a long look as she downed nearly one third of the bottle.
He liked Callan. He’d seen a fair amount of her growing up as she and Dillon used to chum around, despite their parents’ disapproval. But the Carrigan girls weren’t topics of conversation at their house. In fact, the Carrigans were never to be mentioned in their house. The feud between the families had been strong. If Dillon or one of the other boys mentioned Callan or another of the girls, Mom would leave the table in tears, and Dad would start in on his lectures. Or worse.
Troy watched Callan take another long swig from the bottle. Her bottle was nearly empty.
Something was definitely bugging Callan tonight.
“What’s up, kid?” Troy asked, taking a sip from his glass, deliberately dropping the nickname he and Trey had given her way back when, a nickname that always fired her up.
Her eyebrows lifted. “Kid, huh? You do know I’m practically running the Circle C these days?”
“Trailing in your dad’s shadow, more like.” Troy was just teasing but Callan wasn’t in the mood.
“You want to piss me off, don’t you?”
He gave her another long look over the rim of his glass. She was slender with dark hair that she usually wore in a ponytail—except when she was at the bar on a Friday night looking for trouble. Her slight boyish build made her look far younger than her twenty-five years. But her tight jeans and tank top showed off her curves all the same. “So what’s going on? Why are you here? I would have thought you’d be home doing your nails and getting all dolled up for the big Valentine Ball.”
“I’m not going to the Ball, and even if I was, I wouldn’t be getting my nails or hair done. And it wouldn’t take me two days to get ready. Wouldn’t even take me two hours. I’d just shower, put on my dress and boots and go.”
He shook his head, checked his smile. She was smart as a whip and still sassy, too, but he liked her sense of humor. He’d always found her refreshing. “So why aren’t you going?” He nodded at the young cowboys standing around the pool table looking forlorn now that Callan had left. “Didn’t any one of them ask you?”
“I have more fun here. Besides, the Ball’s expensive. Two hundred bucks a couple.”
“And you’re telling me no cowboy was willing to scrounge up two hundred bucks to take you?”
Her cheeks flushed pink. She glanced away, lips compressing. “I was asked. But I said no.”
“Wrong guy?”
She shot him a sharp look. “Is there ever a right guy?”
“You don’t like men now?”
She gave him another severe look. “Just because I can ride and rope better than any cowboy my age doesn’t mean I’m gay.”
“Never said you were.”
“Good, because I’m not. I just don’t feel like dating and doing the whole romance thing right now.” She pushed her empty beer bottle across the counter, away from her, and signaled to Grey that she wanted another. “Trying to come to terms with something and its not easy. I’m mad. And confused. But mostly mad.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
She laughed once. “You might regret saying that.”
He already was. But, he couldn’t back out now. “Tell me. If it’d make you feel better.”
“I don’t know what could make me feel better. Except maybe another beer.”
Grey arrived, with the needed beer. He popped off the cap and slid the bottle across the counter to her.
Callan snapped it up and took a sip.
Troy frowned. This wasn’t normal Callan behavior and he didn’t know what to make of it. “What’s going on?”
She didn’t answer immediately, but then she looked up at him, brows furrowed, expression grim. “I learned some dark Carrigan family secrets.”
“How dark?”
“Pretty damn dark.”
“Why don’t you just tell me? Then I can get back to worrying about my own problems.”
“You think this has nothing to do with you?”
Her words were full of challenge—so like Callan. “Maybe you should get to the point.”
“Maybe I will. The thing is—our Mom had an affair.”
He stared at her. Was this the beer talking? He remembered Bev Carrigan as a very proper sort of woman. Beautiful, with nice manners and a gentle way about her. “You’re talking nonsense, Callan. Maybe you should find a nice, gentlemanly cowboy to give you a ride home.”
“I don’t need a ride home. I plan on crashing on Sage’s couch when I’m done here.” Callan shredded the label off the bottle. “But first, hear me out. I want you to listen to my story.”
“Your Mom’s been gone a long time. Why did this come up now?”
Callan’s smooth jaw tightened, her expression fierce. “The timing sucks. I couldn’t agree more. But with all that’s been going on with Mattie and her husband—they split up this fall—Sage decided to come clean. Apparently she’s been keeping this secret since she was only twelve years old.”
Troy’s head throbbed. He had enough drama with Trey in jail and McKenna engaged and Cormac trying to raise April and Darryl’s baby as if he was daddy material when Cormac was the least likely of all the Sheenans to settle down.
And now Callan was throwing all her family stuff at him, too.
“Hang on,” he said, rubbing at his temple. “Wes and Mattie are separated?”
“On their way to divorced.”
“Too bad.” He’d seen Wes at a few rodeos. The man knew how to ride a bull. But marriage—that could be harder. “So what does that have to do with Sage keeping a secret?”
“She thought Mattie might be more inclined to work out her troubles with Wes if she knew that our mother had an affair. And that it hadn’t ended in divorce for our parents.”
Twisted logic, in Troy’s mind. But he could sort of see the connection. “How did Sage know her Mom cheated on your dad?”
“She walked in on them.”
Wow. That was pretty heavy. And life changing for a kid.
Kind of like him walking in and discovering his mom was dead.
“Sorry,” he said gruffly. “That’s shitty. For Sage, and for all of you.”
Callan took another long drink. “Thing is, Troy, our mother was with your father.”
Troy went cold all over.
For a moment he couldn’t think, or speak. For a moment there was just silence, and then a buzzing in his head. The sound a radio station makes when you haven’t dialed in properly to the right channel.
The buzzing continued unabated.
And he thought of his mom. Not his dad.
Was this why?
Was this the reason for her terrible sadness? For her endless loneliness?
Troy stared blindly
down into the pale gold of his beer. He couldn’t believe it.
And yet...
He could.
Bev Carrigan and his dad?
“You’re sure?” he asked roughly.
“Yep.” Her voice was quiet, her expression strained.
Shit.
He wished he’d never stopped in at Grey’s. Wished he’d gone straight from dinner to his room. Wished he could have avoided this conversation tonight. Wished he could have avoided this conversation for the rest of his life. “Does everyone know?”
“No one knows. Just you, me, and my sisters.”
He drank, and then set the glass down and pushed the half empty glass away. “Lucky you, me, and your sisters,” he muttered, reaching for his wallet to drop a five and a couple ones on the counter.
He rapped his knuckles on the counter to let Grey know he was leaving and then glanced down at Callan who suddenly looked very small and young on the bar stool. “My dad’s dying,” he said bluntly.
She nodded once, her dark braid slipping across her shoulder. “Dillon told me.”
“But you didn’t tell Dillon about the affair?”
She shook her head. “He’s the one who moved home to take care of your dad. Doesn’t seem fair to lay this on him, too.” She managed a tight, tough-girl smile. “But you’re Troy, the V.C. I figured your big shoulders could handle the truth.”
Chapter Nine
Thursday afternoon Louise came bounding up the stairs to the second floor landing where Taylor was adding some of the photos and memorabilia of Marietta in 1914 to the second floor display cabinet. Taylor had found them in a box in the library’s storage vault and thought it was the perfect time to change displays with the Valentine Ball tomorrow, which launched the 100 year anniversary of the Great Wedding Giveaway.
“Does Margaret know you’re doing this?” Louise asked, stooping to get a look at the faces in one of the photographs.
“Nope.”
“She might not like it. She was very partial to the agriculture display. Her dad was a farmer.”
“Yes, I know. But the display was almost twenty-three years old. I think a change is in order.” Taylor sat back and dusted her hands on a soft cloth she’d picked up at the Mercantile on Main Street. “And what is she going to do? Fire me? She can’t. She didn’t hire me.”
