by Anna Jeffrey
Tonight, the house had a dark and familiar loneliness about it. Generations of Parkers before him had hunkered within its walls, hoping not to draw attention and risk the small-town society’s condemnation or ostracism.
Only his great-grandmother had worn her Comanche relatives proudly. She hadn’t worried about what the neighbors might think or say. He remembered her as a skinny, bark-tough woman who feared nothing living or dead except Earl Cherry. Dalton’s mind spun back to the night Cherry, in one of his drunken tantrums, had left her shaking and crying after threatening to burn her house to the ground. If his mom had had any balls, she wouldn’t have lived with a bullying son of a bitch who had heaped abuse and intimidation on the whole family, especially when he targeted an aged widow who didn’t weigh a hundred pounds.
Through Dalton’s life, no matter where his thoughts of family had wandered, at some point, they always came back to his animus for Earl Cherry. When he was away from here, it no longer felt important, and he could and did avoid thinking about it. But here in the place where he had spent his most miserable years, on a dark, silent night, memories rose all around him as if to swamp him. He hadn’t suffered unease and vulnerability so profoundly in a long time, even in the savagery of the wars he had recorded for history.
This damned old house was haunted, he decided, forcing the blackness from his mind. He sat down at the dining table with his computer and took himself to the place where he was happiest—immersed in his work.
I know a little about sex, yeah.
Something told Joanna he knew more than a little.
Jerk! She yanked off her clothing and pulled on her knit shorts and T-shirt. Prick! At the bathroom sink she scrubbed her face harder than usual with a rough washcloth, carefully avoiding the tender lump between her eyes. Conceited bastard! She rubbed her face dry with a hand towel, leaving her cheeks and chin rosy. She threw down her towel, leaned in closer to the mirror and examined the injury to her forehead, dabbed on more antibiotic cream and applied a Band-Aid to the wound. She studied the fine lines forming at the corners of her eyes. Crap. She needed to wear more sunscreen. And a hat.
She generously slathered on antiwrinkle cream, then stamped up the hallway to her bedroom. In her sixty-year-old house, the bathroom wasn’t attached to the master bedroom. In truth, her little house had no master bedroom. What it did have was two small bedrooms just alike, with one bathroom between them. But she made no complaint. The house was perfect for her. How much room did a person who spent very few hours at home need?
The best thing about the house wasn’t a part of the house at all. The best thing was in the house, in her bedroom. Almost filling the room was a queen-size Tempur-Pedic bed that had cost her a fortune. With the hours she worked every day, seven days a week, she had reasoned when she bought it, the least she could do was reward herself with an excellent place to lay her weary body at night. Now she flopped back on the bed, spread her arms wide, and with a huge groan of pleasure, closed her eyes.
So just how the hell long would Dalton Parker be here? And how could she avoid running into him?
And she did have to avoid him. Good grief, every time she saw him, something weird happened to her insides and he made her so nervous she couldn’t function.
And now he had brought up sex, for crying out loud.
Sex. Was the idea of sex responsible for the weird thing that happened to her insides? The word came to her every time she saw him. If there had ever been a time when just seeing a man automatically brought sex to mind, she couldn’t recall it.
Well, she had no intention of ever letting something so perverse escape the confines of her innermost musings. And for a very good reason. For her, sex hadn’t been so great. She had never known a fantastic lover like those she read about in romance novels. She doubted such men existed in real life.
Shari was the only woman she knew who appeared to have a fantasy sex life. But different strokes for different folks, Joanna figured. What Shari thought fantastic might be awful for someone else.
She got to her feet, pulled back the covers and slid between them with a great sigh, thinking of her last relationship that had included sex. It had been with Scott Goodman and would have to be classified as spotty at best. Much of the time their encounters had been clumsy. Embarrassing, even. She didn’t know if that was her fault or his, but she suspected the problem lay with him.
The experience had been so awkward, so juvenile, she was embarrassed to discuss it even with Shari, with whom she discussed everything that had anything to do with sex. She had been relieved when she learned that Scott was seeing someone else because at that point, she had begun to consider that she could get just as pregnant with a lousy lover as with a great one.
It was all in the past. And just as well. No lover was the answer. She had given up.
But as she drifted toward sleep, a filmy image of the swarthy Dalton Parker without his clothes evolved in her mischievous mind.
The next morning, Joanna drove toward the Parker ranch hoping not to run into Dalton. He had spent a good part of the night in her head; she didn’t want to be around him the whole of today. Hadn’t he said he intended to start work on the fence? That project should cause him to leave early and return late.
Arriving at the ranch, she saw all of the ranch’s vehicles in place—the blue beat-up Ford pickup, Clova’s newer Dodge Ram dually and the ATV. So Dalton must still be inside the house. Good. She hoped he stayed there.
She went directly to the barn and picked up two slabs of hay to feed the donkeys. She put them by the egg-tending room door as she stepped inside. She donned her cap and gloves and started toward the chicken yard, carrying the hay and her egg baskets and bucket.
She had just put the hay in the donkeys’ manger and returned to the gate to pick up her baskets and bucket when Dalton approached. He had on work clothes—faded jeans, a chambray shirt and suede vest and a faded cap. He wore the typical ranch garb so easily, he looked at home in it. The only item that conflicted with his cowboy appearance was his mirrored aviator sunglasses. He came to the fence.
“Watch the hot wire,” she warned him and pointed to the low electric fence wires.
He looked down at his feet, and she did, too. He had on well-worn Ropers. She wouldn’t have guessed he even owned a pair of Ropers. But of course he was a cowboy. He might no longer be directly involved with ranching, but he had grown up a cowboy.
He looked up. “What, this place is wired?”
“The two bottom wires are hot. To keep out the predators.”
“Huh.” His sunglasses hid his eyes, but the usually cocky smirk had left his mouth. “I think Mom’s got a fever,” he said solemnly. “She’s feeling pretty bad. Says she can’t get her breath. I’m gonna take her into town to the doc. I thought you might go with her.”
Joanna had been the one to admit Clova to the hospital back in the spring. Without a word, she set her egg baskets on the ground, peeled off her gloves and stuffed them into her pocket. Then she hurriedly walked to the house and on into Clova’s bedroom. She found Clova still in bed, her eyes bright from fever. Her skin had a pasty pallor. “Hey,” Joanna said softly. “Dalton says you’ve got a fever.”
“A little bit,” Clova replied. “He called up Russell’s answering service and left a message to meet me in his office. I feel like I got the same thing again.” She threw back the covers and turned to sit on the edge of the mattress.
Joanna rushed to her. “Let me help you get dressed. You should go on in to the emergency room now and see whatever doctor is there. It’s Sunday. Dr. Jones might not get the message for hours. Just stay right there. Let me find you some clothes.”
She pulled clean clothing from Clova’s closet, glancing toward the doorway, where Dalton stood with his hands on his hips. His sunglasses dangled from one hand and Joanna could see an expression of helplessness and concern on his face. “I think I told you she had pneumonia in the spring,” she said. “It’s better to be safe
than sorry and take her on in to the ER.”
A small frown tented his brow and he nodded.
“You could go heat up the pickup while I help her get dressed. It’s cool out.”
He nodded again and turned away without comment. As Joanna helped Clova to her feet, she heard the front door close.
An hour and a half later, she and Dalton departed acker County Hospital in the dually, having left Clova behind as a patient with respiratory therapy prescribed and tests pending.
He had remained stoic and silent all through the visit to the ER and the doctor’s decision to admit Clova to the hospital. Joanna had done most of the talking. When they checked her into the hospital, rather than argue over Clova’s lack of insurance, Dalton had signed some kind of document, guaranteeing payment of the bill. Now Joanna wondered just how well-off he was. The cocky arrogance she had seen in him so often had been replaced by a glum face and worry lines.
“Mom never used to get sick,” he said, now looking straight ahead, both hands on the steering wheel as he herded the big dually through the town’s narrow streets toward the highway.
Joanna stared straight ahead, too, puzzled by his apparent obtuseness. But then, how could he be expected to know what had been going on in Texas? Even if Clova had been in touch with him, Joanna knew she wouldn’t have told him the truth of things. Clova was a private person. Joanna knew of her problems herself only because she spent so much time at the ranch.
Joanna had been around Clova daily for more than two years. She had seen the weakening of her health and spirit with every juvenile and dangerous episode Lane brought home and laid on the doorstep like some damn tomcat wagging home a trophy, every new unexpected demand for cash the ranch didn’t have. Clova’s decline had happened so gradually, Joanna had come to terms with it the same way.
Dalton appeared to be so flummoxed, she felt a need to explain more about his mother. “She’s older now, Dalton. And run-down. She’s had the ranch to take care of all on her own and doing a man’s work the last few years. Not only has Lane not been much help, his shenanigans have kept her in a state of constant worry. His DUIs, his fines, his child-support payments. It’s all cost—”
“What child support?”
The pickup lurched to a jolting halt. She grabbed the dash to keep her forehead from banging the windshield. She shot a look of outrage at Dalton, but like a black, violent storm, his dark eyes bore down on her. A few seconds passed before she found words. “For—for his daughter.”
“What daughter?”
She sat there stupefied, absorbing the fact that he didn’t know his brother had a child or that he himself was an uncle. Uncomfortable in the heat of his glare, she turned to stare out the windshield. “He and Mandy Ferguson have a little girl. She’s almost two. I—I can’t believe you didn’t know.”
“How the hell would I know? Why the fuck didn’t they get married?”
Stunned at his reaction, Joanna turned back to him. She had already said too much to stop now. “Because she doesn’t want to live with a drunk,” she barked. “And her family doesn’t want her to, either. And no one blames her or them.”
“Jee-zus Christ,” he growled, yanking the dually into gear. “How much are the fuckin’ child-support payments?”
“I think it’s eight hundred dollars a month.”
“Jesus Christ. That’s nearly ten thousand dollars a year. Who is this woman? Does she work?”
“Of course she works,” Joanna snapped. “Her folks own the Dairy Queen. She works behind the counter.”
“Goddammit,” he growled.
“She’s a nice girl. She and her mother used to be customers in my shop. She really cared about Lane, but the way he’s been, no one can care about him for long. He’s got this wild streak about him. He’s just too—too…well, unpredictable.”
“How many DUIs has he got?”
“Why are you grilling me?” she said, almost shouting now. “Why don’t you ask your mother or your brother about these things?”
“Because I’m asking the person who seems to know every fuckin’ thing that goes on around here,” he almost shouted back.
She drew a calming breath and lifted her chin. “I would really appreciate it if you would spare me the profanity. You’re not a marine any longer.”
“Just goes to show how much you don’t know,” he snarled. “Once you’re a marine, you’re always a marine.”
She sent him a fierce glare. “Look, I’m not a prude, but your language is starting to make my ears bleed. I hate the F word.”
He glared back at her just as fiercely, as if he were stunned that she would dare criticize him.
“I don’t know how many DUIs he’s got,” she said, moving on. “But I won’t be surprised if he loses his driver’s license this time. I think it only takes three. I think it’s possible he could even go to jail. I don’t know what Clova will do then.”
Dalton’s shoulders seemed to sag. He let out a deep breath, like a deflating balloon. Still hanging on to the steering wheel with both hands, he stared straight ahead, slowly shaking his head. “I never thought…I don’t know what I thought.”
Joanna heard a little break in his voice. She couldn’t guess what it meant. Nor could she guess Dalton’s true feelings for his mother and brother. Or, now, for his niece. She had pegged him for a libertine. A traditional attitude, such as outrage that a man hadn’t married the woman with whom he had fathered a child, was the last thing she would have expected. Every encounter with him brought a surprise.
Chapter 12
At the ranch, Dalton parked the dually beside the ranch pickup. “I’ve got to get these fence posts loaded into the work truck,” he said grimly, more to himself than to her. “Got to get started on that fence.”
He appeared to be so upset and worried that Joanna’s proclivity for worrying about other people rushed to the surface. She felt sorry for him. Last night’s sparring match in the kitchen and today’s in the dually faded into the background of reality and now seemed silly. “Did you find someone to help you?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I’ll manage.”
She hesitated a few seconds, suspecting that “manage” was what he had always done. Managed whatever life handed him. Though she hadn’t been around him much, she somehow knew he was a man who made the best of the worst circumstances. She knew exactly how he felt. On a different scale and under less calamitous events, she lived her life much the same.
She wondered if he would accept her help. Finally, she knew she had to offer. She would do it for anyone. She looked up at him, shielding her eyes from the morning sun with her hand. “Look, it’s not very smart to take on that fence alone. I’ll make a deal with you. If you’ll help me get my eggs gathered, I’ll help you with the fence. I wasn’t going to do anything special today, anyway.”
He stared down at her, a tic jumping in his square jaw. “Why would you do that? What do you know about building a fence? Besides, you can get cut up by barbed wire.”
“I know teenagers who build fence. If they can do it, I can.”
Looking off into the distance, he inflated his cheeks and blew out a loud breath. “Okay. Show me what to do.”
“Just wait here. I’ll be right back.”
She walked over to her egg-washing room, picked up two baskets and two blue plastic buckets and returned with them. She handed him one of each. “Gathering eggs isn’t rocket science. You just pick them up and put them in the basket. If you find a cracked or broken one, put it in the blue bucket so I can trash it. If you throw it on the ground or leave it in the nest, the hens will eat it, and that trains them to eat eggs. I don’t want them to get into that habit.”
“Stupid birds,” he muttered, taking the basket and the bucket and looking from one to the other as if each were tainted.
“You don’t have to like the hens to gather the eggs, okay?”
They worked in silence. Dulce scratched and clucked along behind them. Every
time Dalton turned around, she was underfoot. “Chicken, you pushing your luck,” he told the hen after he had almost stepped on her several times and sent her squawking and flapping away. Joanna suppressed a smile. Something told her Dulce was in no danger. Dalton might be arrogant and gruff, but he wasn’t mean natured.
When they finished, he handed over his basket filled with eggs and the bucket holding four cracked ones. He walked beside her as she carried them toward her room, his size and close presence making her feel small. “How are you going to get that bundle of fence posts into the ranch truck?” she asked him.
“Well, babe, I’m gonna break it up and load ’em a few at a time. I’m not Superman, you know.”
She held back a grin, remembering the thought she’d had yesterday in the kitchen. “I have to wash these eggs. I can do it while you load the posts. I’ll hurry so I can help you.”
She scrambled into her coveralls, cap and gloves, washed the eight dozen eggs and laid them out to dry. When she went outside, she saw the fence posts already loaded, along with all of the tools and supplies. Dalton was nowhere to be seen. Just then, he came from inside the house carrying a brown paper grocery sack, a denim shirt and a pair of gloves. “I brought some cheese and bread and water for lunch,” he said.
“Ugh.”
“Hey, don’t bitch. I crawled all over a fu—a jungle in Thailand once with little more than that in my pack.”
If anyone else had made that statement, she would have been so curious she would have asked for more information, but he wasn’t just anyone. Besides, as contentious as he was, if she asked, he might tell her it was none of her damn business. “Whatever,” she said. “I don’t eat much anyway.”
