"Yeah, it's mine. Just throw it on the center seat."
He'd cleaned out two bags of fast food wrappers and rodeo flyers earlier, but he hadn't thought to remove the two textbooks that rode along with him everywhere.
She disappeared, presumably to put his textbook back in the cab, and then returned. She leaned her elbows on the side of the truck and propped her chin there. "I don't suppose you'd let me help?"
"Nope," he grunted. "Not much to do. All the prep work was earlier."
He unfolded a red Indian-style blanket and spread it on the back half of the pickup bed. Then he patted a spot near the tailgate. "Hop on up."
He pulled the rest of his goodies forward so the meal would be close in reach and then sat next to her. Both their feet dangled in open air, almost, but not quite touching the long summer grasses below them.
He popped open the picnic basket and pulled out plates he'd borrowed from Gramma's china cabinet. Paper was too flimsy—it would fly away if they got a good gust of wind.
"So…you're taking college courses?"
Of course she wouldn't leave it alone. He kept his head down, kept his focus on grabbing the silverware that seemed to have filtered through everything else to the bottom of the basket. "I got my GED a couple years ago. I'm about halfway through a business degree. Mostly taking online classes. It's not a big deal."
Not anymore, it wasn't.
He finally fished out the last fork and held it up triumphantly before he handed it to her.
A rogue butterfly flitted up and landed on the knee of her jeans. A slow smile spread across her lips.
"Huh," he said softly. Not softly enough, because the Monarch burst into flight.
Jess was quiet as he dished out the grilled chicken pasta salad he'd made earlier.
Grilling was no hardship, and going to the store to get supplies for the pasta salad had eaten some time out of his day, kept him away from Gramma and her talk. And he'd provided Gramma a meal, as well.
"This is really good," she said after she'd taken a bite.
"Thanks. I'm not much of a cook, but at least I can read a recipe. Wait'll we get to dessert."
He stuffed his mouth and took a moment to look around. The wide-open plain was quiet. He'd purposely picked a pasture away from the destroyed pecan groves. Away from the memories of horsing around with Sean and their other buddies.
The setting sun painted the sky with rich hues. Cicadas buzzed, but it was a far-off sound from the creek just over the rise. Their noise created a nice ambiance. He'd wanted romance, and here it was, cowboy style.
He was used to wide open spaces—in the off season, he often joined up with a local ranch, wherever he happened to be, taking temp work until the season started up again.
But there was something about being here, being home, that he never felt anywhere else. Now, when he'd been gone so long and ruined things so spectacularly, it left a bitter taste in his mouth.
"So what do you want to do with your degree?" Jess asked after he'd been lost in his thoughts for probably too long.
"Don't know." He stuffed another bite of chicken and pasta in his mouth and chewed. "When I was a kid, I only wanted to grow up and run the family business with my granddad."
Where had that come from? It wasn't information he shared with anyone, but it had just popped out.
Maybe being back on the family farm was doing things to his mind.
"The family business?"
She turned those curious hazel eyes on him, and it was as if she'd waved a magic wand. Words just tumbled out.
"This used to be a pecan farm." He pointed to the south with his fork. "You see that dark line, right at the horizon? That was one of the groves." He had to swallow hard to get the lump of pasta down his throat.
"And now your brother wants to use the farm for his cattle?"
Good guess, but it was so much more than that.
"Dusty and Lindsey have partnered up. His bulls are all over on her land." He guessed that if Jess hadn't let the textbook thing slide, she wouldn't give up on this either. "Right before Gramps died, Cotton Root Rot moved in. It's a disease that kills the trees. We lost all of them. If Gramma had replanted, the trees would've been mature by now, perfect for getting a good harvest every year."
He stared off at the distant grove, almost impossible to see against the darkening twilight sky.
"But she didn't replant," she said softly.
He shook his head. "I guess it was too much for Gramma. She was still grieving and…"
And it had been too soon after he'd killed his best friend.
"And then I left." He shrugged. "Now it's too late."
Her eyes scanned the land all around them. "But there's plenty of land. Surely you and your brother could share it, if you wanted."
He leveled his gaze on her. "It's too late for me to come home. About six years too late."
He saw the optimism and determination shining in her eyes and knew she was going to say something like, it's never too late! But he hadn't meant their conversation to take such a serious turn. He'd come to grips with the truth a long time ago.
His plate was almost empty, and he propped one elbow on the side of the truck bed beside him. "So tell me why someone as pretty as you isn't married by now."
It wasn't quite dark enough to hide the flush that crept up her cheeks. She ducked her head. "I guess I'm married to my work."
He nudged her boot with his. "Not buying it."
She looked up at him from beneath her eyelashes. "Maybe I just haven't met the right guy yet."
She would. He knew it in his gut, where a rock had settled hard.
He wasn't right for anybody. Never would be.
But that didn't stop him from wishing all the same.
Chapter Five
Luke found himself sneaking glances at the woman in the passenger seat as he drove her home well below the speed limit. No reason to rush the end of this night, even if she had called an end to their stargazing, laughing through yet another yawn.
He'd wanted nothing more than to kiss her as he'd sat beside her in the truck bed. They'd scooted up so they could lean against the cab, and the night wind had brought a chill, so he'd let her bundle up in the picnic blanket as they'd rested against the truck, shoulder-to-shoulder.
He'd been a gentleman and hadn't even asked to share her blanket. There should be some kind of award for that level of self-restraint.
After the serious talk during dinner, things had turned more light as they'd enjoyed dessert and then cleaned up in the dark, with just the dome light from his truck to illuminate things for them. He'd told stories—not even embellishing that much—about his best times in the ring, and she'd shared more about her sister and her parents.
It had been a great first date. Felt like it could be a start to something much bigger.
Something he didn't have the guts to want.
So he kept stealing glances as she tried not to nod off.
Kept wondering if he could finagle a good night kiss. If he should.
It was late enough that the streets in town were deserted, until he pulled up to the cross street that turned onto the main drag.
Two pairs of headlights shone side-by-side. At this time of night and on a two-lane road, that could only mean one thing: kids were out racing.
Blind panic flashed through him. He and his friends had done it—sometimes with other kids along for the ride in the beds of their pickups. Now he knew how wrong things could go.
All it would take was one tire to blowout, one teenager steering a little too far off the shoulder, and they could crash.
And he knew firsthand how devastating that could be.
The headlights were getting closer. Going faster.
He started flashing his lights and honking his horn, startling Jess, who sat up ramrod straight. "What—?"
The two sets of headlights didn't slow. If anything, they accelerated.
He had to stop them.
The racers were still two blocks away from his intersection, but it was hard to judge how fast they were going. Fifty? Sixty?
"Wait!" Jess cried out. Her hand reached over and clutched his forearm as he gassed it, then parked his truck right in their path. If they didn't stop—
But they did stop, both cars rolling up without so much as a squeal of brakes.
He rolled down his window. From this angle, he couldn't tell if they'd done the same. "You could kill somebody racing like that!" he shouted. "I'm calling the cops!"
The car on the right, a tricked-out small pickup that had been lowered almost to the ground, laid on the horn, and someone from inside put their arm out the window with a rude hand gesture.
Luke was the first to move, rolling his pickup past the intersection and onto the street beyond, where he pulled over, shoved the truck into Park and shut off the engine.
"What in the world was that?" Jess demanded, voice shaking.
He figured she had a right to be mad. He'd pulled out into the street without any consideration for having a passenger beside him. He hadn't even thought.
He couldn't look at her. He somehow managed to unbuckle his belt with shaking hands that didn't seem to work right and barely got out of the truck before he chucked up his dinner right there on the street.
#
Jess remained in the cab, too shaken to move.
It didn't stop her from hearing Luke lose his dinner just outside the open truck door.
She was totally awake now, heart hammering.
What had he been thinking? Had he been thinking?
It had been completely reckless, what he'd done. Kind of like what he did for a living.
She pressed shaking hands to her cheeks.
The only reason she wasn't outside the car taking a piece out of his hide was that he seemed just as upset as she was. Maybe even more, judging by his bodily reaction.
And then he was there, his silhouette dark against the yellow light from the dome. He braced both arms on the frame of the truck but didn't get in. "Sorry. I'm…sorry."
She didn't know what to say.
He ran a still-shaking hand over his face. "I didn't—I didn't have time to think that through. It was stupid."
Yes, it was.
"But so was what they were doing. If they only realized…"
She still had so much adrenaline pumping through her, it was hard to focus her thoughts, but suddenly it made sense.
He hadn't done it because he wanted a taste of danger or an adrenaline rush. He hadn't done it to teach some kids a lesson. He'd done it because he was scared for them—for what could happen to teenagers he didn't even know.
In his own stupid way, he'd been trying to protect them.
When moments passed and he still hadn't gotten in, she asked, "Do you need me to drive the rest of the way?" In the darkness outside and with her being in the brightly lit cab, she couldn't see his whole face, only the muscle ticking in his jaw.
Finally, he shook his head and got in. When he slammed the door, the interior light went off. He turned over the engine and put the truck in gear.
She spent the final two minutes of the drive home trying to read his face in the faint light from the dash. He didn't look at her once.
He pulled in behind her car again, but neither of them made a move to get out of the truck. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly, she could see muscles in his wrists flex.
"I'm real sorry. Again." He looked straight out the windshield as he said it.
This wasn't the end to their date she'd imagined, not even close. She wasn't sure she should let him drive home, not with the state he was in.
So instead of getting out, she unbuckled her belt and scooted closer, edging onto the center bench seat.
He looked down at her, his eyes slightly wider with surprise, glittering in the darkness. He kept hold of the wheel with both hands.
Somewhere, she found the courage to ask, "Do you…want to talk about it? About what happened back then?"
His hat rested on the dash, where he'd left it when they'd been stargazing. Now his left hand moved, rifling through his hair and resting momentarily at the back of his neck before he reached forward and clutched the wheel again. "No. No, I really don't." He said it on a half-laugh, but she heard the desperation underneath.
She couldn't just let it go.
"Have you ever talked to someone about it? A friend? A therapist?"
He smiled grimly. "Yeah. Buddy of mine on the circuit dragged me to cowboy church a few times." He glanced at her face and must've seen that he'd lost her, because he explained. "Sunday mornings on the circuit, those of us who're believers get together for an outdoor service. Usually led by a cowboy, not a preacher. Cowboy church. Anyway, so this buddy of mine, Wes, knows there's something wrong and keeps dragging me along with him to cowboy church until eventually I caved. Confessed everything."
The lines on his face had eased incrementally while he'd mentioned his friend and his friend's involvement.
"So you've accepted that God forgives you," she said softly, "but have you forgiven yourself?" It was an impertinent question, totally none of her business, but there was a part of her that couldn't stand to see the cowboy hurting.
He rubbed that spot on the back of his neck again. "I've tried. But…"
She could only guess how difficult it was to go through what he had. There was no timetable on forgiveness, no easy way to work through the grief and guilt. At least this friend had pushed him to try.
"If you ever want to talk…to me…I'm here," she whispered.
He looked at her again, his hands flexing on the wheel. He didn't smile. "I gotta get back. Check on Gramma."
She hadn't expected him to open up and spill everything, not really, but his words felt like a brush-off.
She smiled a wobbly smile and got out. What else could she do?
#
Luke made it back to Gramma's place without any further mayhem, but he couldn't go inside. Couldn't face his bedroom, couldn't even face the mind-numbing infomercials that would be on TV this time of night.
He sat in the back porch swing, let his boots hang off the edge of the porch as he stretched his legs out.
He'd made a complete fool of himself with Jess tonight. He knew. Every foundation of friendship and maybe something more that he'd laid with the beginning of their date—erased. Because he'd freaked out and nearly gotten them killed.
Because he couldn't let some random teenagers behave like teenagers did.
And then he'd broken down in front of her like a little girl. Humiliating.
Have you forgiven yourself? Her soft-spoken question wouldn't stop bouncing around his head.
Wes liked to talk about God's forgiveness, how all Luke had to do was accept it. Said Luke could have it, even though he didn't deserve it in any form or fashion.
He'd told her the truth. He'd tried. So many times. He wanted that forgiveness, wanted relief from the crushing guilt that he never could seem to escape.
He just couldn't find it. Not out on the circuit and sure as heck not here in Pecan, with shadows chasing him around every place he stepped boot in.
By now he figured there was no freedom for him, not from what he'd done. Best he could do was box up everything to do with Sean—his guilt, memories, ties—and shove it down inside.
And that'd been working so well for him.
Grit burned in his eyes as he watched the sky for one of those falling stars. He didn't deserve forgiveness—because it should've been him.
Sean had been a firecracker. Short fuse, easy to rile up, and easy to make him laugh, get him to forgive you right after. He'd loved fun, whether riding four-wheelers or playing video games or swimming in the pond.
He'd been the best friend everyone wanted.
And Luke had killed him with one stupid stunt.
It didn't matter that it hadn't been intentional. Didn't matter that he'd wept over the broken body of his best friend, begging
God not to take him.
Sean was gone.
And Luke didn't deserve anything good in his life anymore.
Chapter Six
Something sharp was poking him. And his neck hurt.
Luke came awake all at once. Bright sunlight streamed directly into his eyes—no window or blind to filter it out.
His butt was numb, and he had a crick in his neck, a bad one.
A dove cooed, and crickets chirped, morning sounds he associated with his childhood.
He remembered staring up at the stars late last night, thinking about Sean. Mulling over Wes's advice.
Apparently, he'd fallen asleep in the porch swing sometime in the early hours.
And Gramma was staring at him from way too close. It was her finger poking into his upper arm.
"Good. You're not dead."
He wished for his Stetson—he must've left it in his truck last night—so he could pull it down over his eyes and maybe fall back to sleep. It was too early—he glared at the rising sun—to deal with Gramma.
But apparently she'd decided she was done being avoided, because when he started to get up, she rapped his shin with her titanium cane.
"Ow!" He thought about trying again but stayed in his seat and instead bent to rub his aching leg.
"If you don't straighten up, I might knock your head next time."
He winced just thinking about it, squinting up at the tough old woman who'd raised him and his brothers. "What?"
He braced for another whack. Maybe he could've been a little more polite, but he had a suspicion he wasn't going to like whatever it was she'd been waiting to say.
"You want to move over?"
Grudgingly, he straightened up from where he'd slouched into the swing sometime in the night. She perched next to him, keeping her cane at hand. Her scent wafted on the morning breeze. Patchouli and something else he and his brothers had never been able to identify. Just Gramma.
He eyed her cane, wondering if he could reach it before she could. Probably not.
They both looked out over the property. From this side of the house, you could see a corner of the barn and the corral. To the south, the green prairie disappeared where stunted, broken pecan trees had once been a pretty, producing grove. Where everything had died.
The Butterfly Bride Page 4
