by Janet Dailey
“What do you find in there, Luke?” she asked after he’d taken a sip.
There came that smile again, intent on deflecting the question. “I’ll let you know when I find it, Ima Jane,” he said and winked.
A sigh of regret slipped from her. “This grieving has gone on too long, Luke.”
“Is that what people are saying?” His smile remained in place, but there was a coolness in his eyes.
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“Everyone’s entitled to their opinion. Here’s to yours.” He lifted his glass in a toasting salute, then tossed down a swallow.
Her mouth thinned at the gesture. “You haven’t been to church in ages, Luke. Why don’t you come tomorrow?”
“Are you worried about my soul?” Luke jested.
“Among other things.”
“Such as?” he asked in an amused voice dry with challenge.
Always free with her opinion, Ima Jane wasted no time offering it. “It’s high time you started dating again. A strong, handsome man like you, you ought to have your arm around a woman instead of sitting here by yourself hugging that drink.”
“Turning matchmaker, are you?” He grinned, then turned sideways on the stool, casting a jaundiced eye over the customers in the bar. “Take a look and see if you can find any likely candidates. And don’t suggest Babs Townsend. She’s been married and divorced three times. A track record like that only spells trouble. More trouble I don’t need.” His glance paused briefly on a fresh-faced blonde with a scattering of freckles on her nose. “Sally Crane is single, but she’s barely nineteen. That’s like robbing the cradle.” Swiveling back, he directed a smug glance at Ima Jane. “You’ll have to admit, the choice goes from slim to none.”
“How about the one who just walked in?” she murmured, the light of the insatiably curious leaping into her eyes.
With a turn of his head, Luke glanced toward the entrance. There was no missing the woman who paused inside the door. She had on an oversized cotton sweater the color of antique gold that failed to hide the ripeness of her figure. A pair of wheat-tan slacks accented the long length of her slender legs. A pair of sunglasses sat atop auburn hair that was a mass of long, unruly curls, curls that gleamed like silk in the muted bar light.
“Who is she?” Luke knew he had never seen her around before. Drunk or sober, he wouldn’t have forgotten a woman who looked like this one.
“Never saw her before,” Ima Jane admitted, then threw him a sly glance. “She’s a looker, though.”
Ignoring that, Luke centered his attention on the woman, studying the hesitation in her manner as she made a visual search of the bar’s interior. She fastened her glance on a point at the rear, tugged the strap to her purse a notch higher on her shoulder, then struck out in the direction of the restrooms, an easy grace to her striding walk. Luke tracked her until she disappeared from view.
“Did you see that?” Ima Jane chuckled.
“What?” He took a sip of his drink.
“Every man in the bar sat up straighter when she walked in. And a few got kicked under the table.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“I wonder what she’s doing here?” Ima Jane murmured, curiosity surfacing again in her voice.
“Probably just passing through.” He felt a trace of regret at the thought, which amused him.
Without really intending to, he found himself watching for her return. She was back within minutes, the sunglasses no longer roosting atop her head. This time she walked directly to the bar, giving Luke a full frontal view of her face. Beautiful was too strong a word to describe her, a decision he based mainly on the refreshing honesty of her features. Her eyes were big and brown, and direct in their regard. He was almost sorry that Ima Jane was the object of her interest. She slid onto a stool two seats from him and flipped open her purse.
“What would you like?” Ima Jane inquired, studying her customer with curious eyes.
“Coffee, please, and”—she pulled a road map out and laid it on the bar top—“some directions.”
“I had a feeling you were lost.” Smiling, Ima Jane filled a thick white mug with coffee and set it before the woman, adding a spoon, a pitcher of cream, and a glass canister of sugar.
“I don’t think I’m lost, exactly.” The curve of her lips held a touch of self-deprecating humor. “I’m just not sure where I am.” She added two spoonfuls of sugar to the mug and stirred her coffee. “I was told if I stayed on this highway, I would come to a town called Glory. I was hoping you could tell me how much farther it is.”
Startled, Ima Jane blinked in surprise. “You’re looking for Glory?” What had previously been simple curiosity now took an avid turn.
“Yes.” She hesitated, suddenly uncertain. “Have I taken a wrong turn somewhere?”
“It isn’t that,” Ima Jane hastened to assure her, suppressed laughter bubbling in her voice. “It’s just . . . strangers coming to Glory are about as rare around here as palm trees.”
“I can believe that.” The woman smiled, and it was like a light had suddenly been turned on, illuminating her entire face. “The town isn’t even listed on the map. Is it very far from here?”
“This is it,” Ima Jane informed her.
“This is what?” Confusion showed in the woman’s expressive brown eyes.
“Glory. You’re here.”
“You’re kidding.” Disbelief riddled her voice. She half turned, glancing behind her toward the entrance. “I could swear there wasn’t a sign—”
“A snowplow knocked it down a few winters back.” Luke joined the conversation.
When she turned her dark brown eyes on him, he had the urge to lift her off that stool, slide his fingers into those rich auburn curls, and feel the softness of a woman’s body in his arms once again. It was an urge that told him the liquor was working its magic, blocking the unwanted memories and unlocking the old wants and desires of the flesh.
It was an impulse he wouldn’t have entertained if she had been local. But this woman was safe. Strangers might come to Glory, but they never stayed. There were no job opportunities here, no future. The town was dying, slowly but surely, like so many other small rural communities.
“It’s a relief to know that,” she said on a sighing note. “I couldn’t imagine how I had missed the sign when I was watching so closely for one.”
“Let me be the first to welcome you to Glory, Wyoming. My name’s Ima Jane Evans. My husband, Griff, and I own this place.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Evans.”
Ima Jane laughed at such formality. “Nobody ever calls me that. I’m just Ima Jane to everyone. We pretty much stick to first names around here.”
“It’s the same way at home, for the most part.” The coffee mug was halfway to her mouth before she thought to add, “My name is Angie Sommers, by the way.”
“Glad to meet you, Angie Sommers,” Ima Jane replied then indicated Luke with a wave of her hand. “This is Luke McCallister. He owns the Ten Bar Ranch outside of town.”
Putting a foot on the floor, he straightened from the stool and extended a hand to her. “Hello, Angie.”
After switching the mug to the other hand, she reached out to take his. “Hello, Luke.”
It had been a long time since he’d held a woman’s hand. It felt small and smooth and warm, with a gently firm grip. Luke held it a few seconds longer than was necessary, betraying his rising interest in her. A recognition of it registered in her expression, along with an answering flicker of cautious interest. That told him right then and there that she wasn’t the kind of woman who was free and easy with men. Part of him was disappointed.
Observing the exchange, Ima Jane inserted a sly, “In case you’re wondering, Angie, Luke is single.”
A hint of color rose in her cheeks. Luke covered the awkward moment with a chuckle, resuming his seat. “Don’t mind Ima Jane. Along with all the other things she does on the side, she’s been thinking ab
out trying her hand at matchmaking.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” Ima Jane challenged in mock indignation. “Here I have two attractive people sitting at my bar—alone on a Saturday night. What’s wrong with trying to bring them together if I can? Surely there’s no harm in that, is there?”
“No, there’s no harm in it,” Angie agreed, her smile pointedly polite, offering no encouragement to either of them.
“You’ve made your pitch, Ima Jane. Now it’s time to back off,” Luke told her, amused by the ploy.
“If you say so.” Ima Jane lifted her shoulders in an expressive shrug and shifted over to the bar sink, then caught up a towel to wipe the glasses on the drainboard. “Where is home for you, Angie?” she asked, changing the subject, but Luke knew better than to think she was giving up.
“Southern Iowa.” Holding the mug in both hands, Angie sipped at its sweetened contents, then lowered it, murmuring appreciatively, “Mmm, the coffee tastes good.”
“What brings you to Glory?” Ima Jane was too nosy not to ask.
“Some family business.”
Startled by the answer, Ima Jane halted in midswipe. “You have family here?”
Luke could practically see Ima Jean sifting through her memory banks trying to recall which of the local residents had relatives in Iowa.
“In a manner of speaking, I—wait a minute.” Angie abruptly lowered the coffee mug and turned wide, questioning eyes on Luke. “What was the name of your ranch again?”
“The Ten Bar,” he replied, with a slightly puzzled frown.
“The Ten Bar.” She tested the sound of it, then dived into her purse, digging until she came up with a small, spiral notebook. She flipped through the first few pages; skimmed the handwritten notations on them; then planted the pad of her finger on a page and released a low, exultant laugh. “The Ten Bar. I knew that sounded familiar.” Her dark eyes were sparkling when she looked at Luke. “That’s where my grandfather’s body was found.”
The announcement stunned both Luke and Ima Jane. But Ima Jane was quicker to recover her speech.
“That was your grandfather?” she repeated on an incredulous note, then darted a quick glance at Luke. “We had heard the body had been identified, but they hadn’t released any name.”
“They’re probably waiting until they get the records I brought with me before they make it official.” Angie returned the notebook to her purse. “But there really isn’t any doubt it’s him.”
“What was your grandfather’s name?” As always, Ima Jane went straight for the facts.
Angie hesitated ever so slightly before answering. “Henry James Wilson.” Then she added, with a smile of fond remembrance, “But my grandma always called him Hank.”
Luke fired a glance at Ima Jane, but the significance of the name clearly hadn’t registered. Smiling to himself, he took a leisurely sip of his drink and wondered how long it would take before the name sunk in.
Chapter Four
“And now you’ve come all the way to Glory to claim the body. That’s nice.” Ima Jane nodded in approval. “Will you be taking him back to Iowa for burial?”
“That’s what I’d like to do,” Angie admitted, then switched her attention to Luke, the shine of barely suppressed excitement in her eyes. “Meeting you practically the minute I arrived—it almost seems fated. You see, I planned on getting directions to your ranch so I could visit the place where his body was found. I know Grandma would have wanted me to do that. Would you mind showing it to me? Sometime when it’s convenient for you, of course.”
“Luke would be happy to show you,” Ima Jane volunteered when he hesitated.
A dry smile slanted his mouth. “In case you haven’t noticed, Angie, Ima Jane always sticks her nose into everybody’s business.”
“Luke McCallister, that is an awful thing to say,” Ima Jane protested, both hands coming to rest on her hips in a combative pose.
“It’s also the truth,” he retorted, then glanced sideways at Angie Sommers. “Have you eaten tonight?”
“No.” But she seemed to hesitate as if she had a fair idea of what was coming next and was still trying to decide on her answer.
“Neither have I. Let’s grab ourselves a table and over dinner we can settle on a time for you to come out to the Ten Bar.” He swung off the stool and picked up his drink to drain it, then added the warning, “Believe me, as long as you keep sitting here, Ima Jane will ply you with questions until she’s learned your whole life story. And she’ll do it so slickly you won’t even realize it until it’s over.”
Ima Jane was quick to object. “I resent that, Luke.”
“But you can’t deny it.” A smile crinkled his eyes, taking any sting from his words.
“You’re right. I can’t.” She grinned and waved the towel in her hand, shooing them away from the bar. “You two go have your dinner. I’ll have my chance another time.”
This time Angie didn’t hesitate, pausing only long enough to gather up the map, her purse, and her coffee cup before sliding off the stool. All the way from Iowa, she had driven with her fingers mentally crossed, hoping she would have the opportunity to talk at length with the owner or foreman of the ranch where her grandfather’s body had been found. She certainly hadn’t expected it to come so quickly—or that he would be so young. At least, young in the sense that she had expected him to be much older.
She cast another glance at Luke McCallister as he guided her toward a vacant table. She had never been very good at guessing people’s ages, but she suspected he had to be somewhere in his middle to late thirties. Strictly speaking, he wasn’t handsome, but there was no denying his rugged good looks were attractive in a rough, masculine sort of way. And she would have been less than honest if she didn’t admit to a tingling awareness of him as a man. That was part of the reason she had hesitated about having dinner with him. That, and the possibility that a lot of time might be wasted fending off passes.
“Ima Jane meant what she said,” Luke remarked when he pulled out a chair for her. “She’s confident that she’ll get another crack at you.”
“Why’s that?” Angie placed her coffee mug on the table, then sat down in the chair, laying her purse across her lap.
“She figures you’ll need a place to stay tonight, and the closest motel is sixty miles away.” Luke sat across the table from her. “They have rooms upstairs that they rent out . . . usually to stranded motorists.”
“I’m afraid she’ll be disappointed. I already have a place to stay tonight.” Angie saw the flicker of surprise in his blue-gray eyes and smiled. “I borrowed my uncle’s pickup camper to make the trip. It’s a gas hog, but I have a bed, a kitchen, and a teeny bathroom.”
He chuckled, and the low rumble of it was decidedly appealing. “I can hardly wait to see Ima Jane’s face when she finds that out.”
“She seems nice.” Angie glanced back to the bar.
“She is nice. Just nosy.” He raised a hand, signaling to one of the waitresses. “Griff offers a very limited menu,” he informed her. “You can have your choice of steak, fried chicken, or today’s special—which happens to be barbeque ribs. All the dinners come with salad, french fries, or baked potato. For sandwiches, there’re hamburgers or hot dogs.”
She laughed softly. “When you said limited, you meant it.”
“It keeps the waste and spoilage down, and the inventory fresh. Operating a business in a small community solely dependent on the local trade, you have to keep it lean to survive.”
In the background, a jukebox blared a country tune, competing with the steady chatter of voices, occasionally punctuated with laughter. Angie ran an idle glance over the crowded tavern.
“It looks busy tonight,” she remarked.
“On Saturdays it always is. Some say they come for the food and stay for the gossip. The rest claim it’s the other way around. I guess it’s a toss-up which is the bigger draw.”
Angie noticed a waitress approaching their table. �
��Is there anything in particular you’d recommend?” She took a sip of coffee, watching Luke over the rim. He was much too easy on the eyes.
“Take your pick. It’s all good,” he said, with an idle shrug, then sat back in his chair, turning to the waitress. “Hi, Liz. How’s it going?”
“Don’t ask,” the sun-streaked blonde replied, looking flustered and rushed as she flipped through her order pad, searching for a blank page.
“I understand congratulations are in order.” Something gentle and warm entered his expression, softening all the hard, sharp angles in his face.
“Ima Jane told you, did she?” A sudden small and shy smile appeared in the girl’s face, bringing a glow to her eyes.
“Naturally,” Luke replied, then explained to Angie, “Liz is expecting.”
“How wonderful.” Angie was quick to express her joy for the girl.
“It is wonderful.” The waitress nodded. “Scary but wonderful.” Someone called to her from another table. “Coming,” she promised, the harried look returning to her face when she directed her attention back to them. “What can I get you?”
“Steak.” Angie said the first thing that popped into her mind, then went with her choice. “Medium, with french fries and Italian dressing on the salad.”
“How about you, Luke?”
“The usual steak. Griff knows what I want. And another drink.”
She scribbled down the order, then flipped the pad shut, glancing at the mug in Angie’s hand. “Do you need a refill on that coffee?”
“Please.”
“I’ll be right back with the pot—and your drink, Luke.” She started to move away from the table, then stopped and lightly touched Angie’s shoulder. “We’re all sorry about your grandpa.”
Too stunned by the expression of sympathy from a total stranger, Angie wasn’t able to voice a response before the waitress moved away from the table. She was still struggling with the surprise of it when she glanced at Luke and saw the twinkle of laughter in his eyes.
“I did tell you that gossip was served right along with food and drink,” he reminded her. “By now, everyone in the place knows who you are and why you’re here—and are busy speculating on everything else.”
