by Diane Kelly
“For now,” Nick continued, “Brett thinks it’s cool dating a federal agent. But as the reality sets in, things are going to fall apart. I guarantee it.”
I turned back, glaring at him across the hall, shooting daggers at him with my eyes. “What makes you such an expert?” I spat.
“Been there myself,” he said matter-of-factly. “This job cost me a fiancée.”
“You were engaged?” My rage was instantly replaced by a surge of pure jealousy at this unknown woman, then anger at myself for feeling it. I had no right to feel possessive of Nick. He wasn’t mine.
Just say the word.
“It was a while back,” he said, “before Mexico.” He failed to elaborate further on his derailed nuptials and I didn’t push him. No doubt it was a sore subject. “Not everyone can handle a relationship with someone like us, Tara. It takes a very independent and brave person.”
“Brett’s brave,” I replied. “When I was stuck in a hole being shot at, he snuck up on the shooter and whooped the guy upside the head with a pipe.”
Nick raised a brow. “No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Guess I’ll have to give him some credit, then. Still, I don’t think he’s got what it takes for the long haul. He doesn’t get why you do this, does he? He doesn’t understand you.”
It was true. Though Brett respected my work, he’d never understood why I was willing to take the risks I took for my job.
But Nick understood.
Fully. Completely. Intimately.
I felt my throat grow tight. “Please don’t do this,” I whispered, my voice high and squeaky.
“Don’t do what? Tell you the truth?”
Exactly. Nick was putting into words the fears I now realized I’d harbored in the back of my mind all along.
When I failed to respond, Nick asked, “What do you see in him?”
What did I see in Brett? Lots of things. He was a nice guy, sweet, thoughtful. I admired his work ethic. But, admittedly, one of the things I liked was that he was generally an easygoing, undemanding guy. Our relationship didn’t take much effort, on my part at least. “He’s an easy guy to be with.”
“Easy?” Nick emitted a snort of derision. “Since when does Tara Holloway take the easy way out?”
“I get enough challenges every day on the job,” I replied. “I don’t need my personal relationships to be work, too.”
My intercom buzzed. I pushed the button and Viola’s voice came over the speaker. “Your parents are here.”
“Thanks,” I told her. “Gotta go,” I told Nick.
He skewered me with a pointed look. “This conversation isn’t over.”
I hung up my phone. The conversation might not be over, but it had concluded for now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Outbid
I met my mother and father in the building’s foyer, giving them each a big hug.
My dad was a weatherworn, broad-shouldered man, old-fashioned and no-nonsense. If someone were to be cast as my dad in a movie, the role would have to go to Tommy Lee Jones. Mom, too, was a bit old-fashioned, chestnut-haired and petite like me. Though she was down-to-earth, she appreciated the finer things in life, too. Reba McEntire would be cast in her role.
Dad wore his best pair of cowboy boots, a pair of starched and ironed jeans, and a classic white button-down. Mom had dressed in a blue A-line dress and low heels, sophisticated enough to fit in here in the somewhat pretentious city of Dallas, but comfortable enough for the six-hour roundtrip drive they’d make today. My hometown of Nacogdoches lay three hours to the east, in the piney woods, not far from the Louisiana border.
They’d made the trek for this morning’s government auction, but couldn’t stay the night. Dad had a load of hay to deliver to a horse-breeding facility first thing tomorrow morning.
Mom put a hand on each of my shoulders and squinted at my face. “What’s wrong with your eye?”
“It’s just a sty, Mom. No big deal.”
“It looks horrible.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You’re not getting enough sleep, are you?”
“I’m sleeping fine.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.
“You should come home for a nice, long visit. Get some rest.”
“I will,” I promised. “As soon as things slow down.” Heck, I’d love to go home and let Mom take care of me for a few days.
“Put a warm teabag over your eye,” Mom suggested. “That’ll get rid of the sty.”
The last home remedy my mother had suggested was to coat my hair with mayonnaise to get rid of lice I’d contracted from trying on a hat at a thrift shop. While her advice had worked, my greasy hair had induced a large hunting dog to knock me down and lick my head. The beast had nearly given me a concussion.
We made our way out to Dad’s pickup and loaded in. As I had since I was a little girl, I sat between my mother and father, where I’d be both safe and in easy reach should I smart off and need a corrective smack. I’d never actually received the threatened smacks, though I’d had a hostile finger pointed in my face a few times. I was much too old for insincere threats or finger-pointing now, but old habits die hard.
I gave Dad directions to the auction site, which was at the livestock barn on the Dallas fairgrounds. We arrived twenty minutes later and parked. The enormous, permanent Ferris wheel loomed motionless over us as we walked through the lot into the sprawling metal building.
During the annual state fair, the building housed everything from pigs, to cows, to llamas, to ostriches. Today, though, the space housed an assortment of items seized from deadbeats who hadn’t paid their taxes. Though the stalls had been hosed down, the place retained the faint, earthy smell of farm animals.
The Treasury Department hired a local auction service to conduct the sale. While the fast-talking auctioneers were more used to negotiating the sale of steers and sows, they did a fine job with the assorted electronics, jewelry, and tools that made up much of the seized inventory.
Dad filled out the requisite paperwork, obtained a paddle bearing his assigned number—362—and led us to three seats on the second row. As we sat, I spotted Betty Buchmeyer across the aisle. With her was a fiftyish man that must be her son. He was the spitting image of his father, both figuratively and literally. He held a paper coffee cup to his bulging lower lip, but rather than drinking from it he expelled a glob of tobacco into the makeshift spittoon. August Buchmeyer wasn’t in attendance. According to information we’d received from the district attorney, Buchmeyer had accepted a plea bargain and was serving six months in a psychiatric facility.
I glanced around the room. Several country-looking folks were seated about, but without the Lone Star Nation T-shirts there was no way to tell whether they were also members of the group. The last thing I wanted was to be ambushed. Maybe they wouldn’t recognize me with the unsightly bulge on my eyelid. Or maybe they’d think I suffered from a contagious disease and keep their distance.
We waited while the auctioneers sold off a numbered G. Harvey print, followed by a first edition of Elmer Gantry by Sinclair Lewis. The first went to a woman in a gauzy and colorful bohemian dress, probably an art dealer. The latter went to a stooped man with round-framed spectacles, probably a retired librarian or English professor.
Some odd things made their way onto the auction block. A canoe that had been fitted with wheels, a motor, and a steering apparatus. A half-dozen naked male mannequins. A neon sign that read GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS! Although the Buchmeyers’ chickens had been seized by the sheriff’s department after the cockfighting incident, the birds wouldn’t be on the auction block today. They’d been rescued by an animal welfare organization and would live out their lives strutting and pecking dirt at a sanctuary. I was glad to know the speckled hen I’d befriended wouldn’t end up on someone’s dinner plate.
When the cases of Spam came up for auction, Betty Buchmeyer engaged in a brief bidding war against an Asian man wearing white pants and a
white T-shirt, his clothing spotted with food stains. A fry cook, perhaps? After a bit of back and forth, the man gave up and the canned meat was once again the property of the Lone Star Nation. With any luck, clogged arteries would prevent the secessionists from launching any violent takeover they might have planned.
Finally, it was time for the guns.
The auctioneer started with the lower-ticket items, used guns in varying, and sometimes questionable, condition. Once those were out of the way, he began to peddle the brand-new guns that Nick, Jenkins, and I had seized at the Buchmeyers’ place. He began with a semiautomatic shotgun, starting the bid at a bargain price of fifty dollars. The gun retailed for twelve hundred.
Dad raised his paddle, along with a dozen other men, including the Buchmeyers’ son. After several rounds of bidding, Betty reached out a hand to hold her son’s arm down. Either they’d replaced the guns already or they’d run low on cash and couldn’t bid any higher. I was hoping it was the latter.
The group dwindled down to Dad and a deep-voiced man at the back holding paddle number 437. The man’s voice seemed oddly familiar. Was it one of the men who’d been arrested the night of the cockfight? Hard to tell when he issued only clipped bids and not complete sentences.
When the price reached eight hundred, Dad bowed out. “Too rich for my blood.”
The man with the deep and oddly familiar voice won the bid at $815.
Though Dad lost this initial battle, he later managed to snag both a short-range rifle and a handgun for rock-bottom prices. All in all, not a bad morning.
When we went to claim Dad’s new guns, I was surprised to see Nick at the front of the line. He doled out a stack of cash, signed the paperwork, and turned around, his new semiautomatic shotgun in his hands. No wonder that deep voice had sounded familiar.
Despite our earlier unpleasant conversation, Nick’s face brightened when he saw me. “Hey, Tara.”
Mom took one look at Nick, grabbed the paddle out of Dad’s hand, and began to fan herself with it. “Boy howdy,” she whispered under her breath. “Something’s giving me one mother of a hot flash.”
That something headed our way, stopping when he reached us. I introduced him to my parents, noticing my mother blush when Nick flashed his chipped-tooth smile at her.
Dad eyed the shotgun in Nick’s hands. “So you’re the one who outbid me.”
“Sorry, sir,” Nick said. “But I’ve got something very precious to protect.” He glanced my way.
I tried not to swoon.
“We were heading out to lunch,” my mother told Nick. “Would you like to join us?”
Nick glanced my way again, but ignored the shake of my head. “That’s mighty nice of you, Mrs. Holloway. I’ll take you up on that offer.”
We headed out to the parking lot, Mom and I walking ahead of the men, who were discussing the weapons they’d just picked up.
Mom looked back at Nick. “He sure is one good-looking cowboy,” she whispered. “I can tell he’s sweet on you, too. He lit up like an offshore rig when he saw you.”
I shrugged. Whether Nick was sweet on me or not was irrelevant. So why did the thought give me such a thrill?
“I’m in a committed relationship with Brett, remember?” A troubled relationship at the moment, but committed nonetheless. “Just a few days ago you were suggesting I scout churches for our wedding.”
“Perhaps I was a bit hasty,” Mom said, taking another glimpse back at Nick and fanning herself again. “It never hurts to play the field before you settle down for good.”
True. But that strategy could backfire, too. If I slowed things down with Brett to give Nick a try, I could end up losing both of them.
A few minutes later, my parents, Nick, and I were seated at a booth in a nearby café. Mom and Dad sat on one side, Nick and I on the other. Nick’s arm was draped across the top of the booth behind me, a casual yet familiar gesture that caught my dad’s eye. He shot me a questioning look. I pretended not to notice. Heck, I had a lot of questions myself. One of which was, how much longer could I resist this sexy cowboy’s charms? Just having him sitting beside me had my girlie parts on alert.
Nick and Dad talked easily. Not surprising, I suppose. They’d had similar upbringings. Both were farm boys, both were former high school linebackers, both were diehard Cowboys fans. Just three weeks until the preseason games. Not to mention the cheerleaders in their skimpy halter tops, hot pants, and white go-go boots.
Mom asked Nick about his family. Nick noted that he lived with his mother but was looking for a place of his own.
“’Course I haven’t been in too much of a hurry,” Nick said. “It’s nice having someone to clean up after me and do the cooking. My mother makes the best chicken-fried steak in Texas.”
Dad set his tumbler of tea back down on the table. “That’s pure blasphemy, son,” he said jovially. “Tara’s mother makes the best chicken-fried steak in the Lone Star State.”
“It’s true,” I said.
Nick’s gaze locked on my face. “Well, then. You’ll have to come over for dinner, judge for yourself.”
Backed myself into that corner, didn’t I?
“Mom’s been wanting to meet you,” Nick added. “To thank you in person for what you did for me.”
Dad sat up rigid in his seat. “And what was that, exactly?” He looked from Nick to me, waiting for an explanation.
I’d told my parents that I’d driven to Mexico to retrieve an agent who’d been stranded down there. But I hadn’t exactly told them I’d smuggled the guy back across the border in the toolbox of a pickup truck. They knew I did some crazy things, but risking jail time to transport a wanted fugitive went beyond my usual level of crazy.
I tried to send Nick a telepathic message with my eyes.
Fortunately, the guy could read me like a book. “She gave me a ride when I needed one,” he said simply.
Dad’s expression was skeptical, but he didn’t push the matter further.
Nick, however, didn’t stop pushing me. “You don’t have plans for Sunday night, right? I’ll tell her we’ll come for dinner then.”
Before I could protest, my mother chimed in. “That would be lovely.”
I shot my mother a look across the table. She responded by batting her eyes at me and fanning herself again with the paddle.
* * *
After lunch, Nick offered to give me a ride to the office so my parents could head on home to Nacogdoches without having to backtrack through Dallas traffic.
I gave each of my parents a hug and kiss on the cheek. Dad gave Nick’s hand a shake, as did Mom. She tossed me one final raised brow as she and Dad climbed into their truck.
Nick opened the passenger door on his pickup and held out a hand to help me inside. He made his way around the bed, climbed in the driver’s side, and stuck the keys in the ignition, but he didn’t start the engine. Instead, he glanced over at me. “Think I passed muster?”
“What do you mean?”
“With your parents. Did they like me?”
He’d passed with flying colors. Heck, I think my mother had a crush on the guy. Still, whether my parents liked him or not didn’t matter, did it? “What’s it matter?”
“It would be nice to know they’ve got no objections to me,” he said, “seein’ as how I’m bound and determined to make you my woman.”
An instant blush warmed my face. “They liked you just fine.” I turned away, away from his sexy grin, away from those soulful, whiskey-colored eyes. “I really wish you’d stop talking like this. It makes me uncomfortable.”
“Why?”
I turned back. “You’re trying to get me to cheat on my boyfriend. What does that say about you, Nick?”
He was the one who blushed now, but it was with red-hot anger. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“Isn’t it?”
“No,” he said adamantly. “I’m not trying to get you to cheat on Brett. I’m just trying to make you realize there might
be someone better suited for you.”
“You, you mean?”
“Maybe,” Nick said. “Maybe not. Hell, you won’t know unless you give it a shot, will you? But Tara, whether things work out with us or not, I still think Brett’s the wrong guy for you.”
“Can we stop talking about this?” I shouted, angry now, too. “My personal life is none of your damn business!”
Nick looked taken aback. “All righty, then. Does this mean I shouldn’t ask what the hell’s wrong with your eye?”
“No!”
We drove back to the office in silence.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
My Human Security Blanket
Ross faxed me a copy of the restraining order later that afternoon. Another copy was on its way to the Buchmeyers’ place, along with instructions for copies to be distributed to every member of the Lone Star Nation. None of them was to come within three hundred feet of me. Little consolation given that many rifles had a range much longer than three hundred feet. But maybe it would scare off any crazy True Texans intent on invading my home.
Brett and I talked via Skype Thursday night, but the conversation felt awkward and strained. Not surprising. My feelings were all over the place. Why had Brett agreed to let Trish pick up his mail and water his plants? Didn’t he realize that was inappropriate? Or was I being too old-fashioned, assuming a man and woman couldn’t be just friends?
Who was right and who was wrong?
I had no idea.
Things with Brett used to seem so simple. Now our relationship felt as confusing and complicated as the tax code.
“Any chance you could take a day or two off from work and fly out to Atlanta?” Brett asked. “There’s a beautiful rose garden in Fernbank Forest. You’d love it.”
As much as I’d love to see Brett in person and try to get things between us back on track, the timing wouldn’t work. “I wish I could,” I said, “but I can’t. Work’s too busy right now.”
His brow furrowed and he stared at me from the screen for a few seconds, concern in his eyes. “Okay,” he said finally. “I miss you. A lot.” He reached a hand out to touch his screen, as if attempting to connect physically with me through cyberspace.
