by Brenna Zinn
“You’ve always been too kind.” In four long strides, he crossed the distance between them, then picked her up and swung her around. “You are by far the best thing I’ve seen all day.”
“Since you’ve probably only seen your daddy, I’m not sure how much of a compliment that is.” She swatted him on his arm. “Now put me down before you and your big muscles crush me.”
“Only if you promise to doctor me up a cup of coffee. I want an Anne special.”
She stared down at him, bright eyes sparkling. “Must have had one devil of a night to want a shot of whiskey in your coffee. Not like you to drink so early in the morning.”
“Trust me, as soon as Lyle and I figure some things out, I’m going back home and sleeping the next twenty-four hours straight.” He carefully lowered Anne to her feet. Despite deep weariness taxing every muscle in his body, he reached behind her ear and withdrew a rose he’d placed up his sleeve before leaving his car. “No wonder you smell so good,” he said, handing her the stem.
Anne let out a laugh. “You and your magic tricks.” She brought the small bud up to her nose and breathed in. “It’s lovely. Thank you.”
“You deserve something special. It’s the least I can do.”
“I don’t know about that, but I’ll take it anyway.” She placed the rose in a juice glass with water and set it on the counter. “Lyle still outside?” Anne asked while retrieving a coffeepot from stove. She poured the black gold into a Texas-sized cup, then added a shot of Jack Daniels from the bottle she kept in the pantry.
“In the driveway. He’s on the phone with Cotton.” Bennett drew out one of the sturdy wood chairs around the kitchen table that had once been the door to an old mission. Feeling bone tired, he allowed himself to collapse onto the seat.
The last time he’d pulled an all-nighter he’d been up to his neck in long legs and satin with one of the most gorgeous and sophisticated socialites New York had to offer. What a difference two months made. Now he was deep in the heart of Texas, and the most refined thing he’d seen since moving to the Lone Star State he’d found in a sugar bowl.
Anne’s pink-encased iPad rested on the table the next seat over. He glanced at the screen. “What’s this?”
She waved a dismissive hand at the tablet and placed the steaming mug on the table before him. “Only a silly idea.”
“The one thing I can safely say is there’s nothing silly about you. You’ve got more brains than Lyle and me combined.” The statement couldn’t be more true. Anne was a long-standing member of Mensa. A bona fide genius. One of many reasons he adored the blonde beauty.
He patted the seat of the nearby chair. “What’s going on in that clever mind of yours?”
The muscles around her mouth moved. She started to speak, stopped, shook her head and then drew in a breath. “I want a dog. A big dog. A great big dog.”
When she finished speaking, a sly smile spread across her lovely face and she relaxed. She actually looked relieved to have said out loud what was on her mind.
Bennett expected his stepmother to say something about organizing a local canine rescue group or chairing a lavish fund-raising event for the humane shelter. He never dreamed she’d wanted a dog. In all the summers he’d come to stay with Anne and Lyle, he had never seen a pooch on the ranch. Not even so much as a little Chihuahua. They had owned, at one time or another, just about every other kind of domestic animal, as well as some not so domestic. The zebras and llamas had been particularly odd. But never a dog.
“I thought Lyle didn’t like dogs.” He pulled the tablet closer. On the screen a humongous furry face with the head of a horse and drool falling from its jowls stared back. “Is that a Mastiff?”
“Yes,” she said almost apologetically. “That’s Zena. She’s a full-blooded English Mastiff. She was rescued from an abusive owner and is now being fostered by a family in Bastrop. Isn’t she beautiful?”
There were many words that popped into his mind like huge, slobber and why, but beautiful wasn’t one of them. He shuffled through the pictures of the dog on the site. Zena was extremely good-looking and appeared healthy, if weighing about one hundred eighty pounds could be considered healthy for a full-grown Mastiff.
“You want to fill me in on why you’re looking at dogs the size of ponies?” he asked.
Anne retrieved the iPad and stroked the edge of the plastic case with the pad of a finger. “You know how your father is. If he’s not at work, he’s off biking or camping or kayaking or some such thing. And since Camma left for college last fall—” She stopped and shrugged her shoulders. “Well, it’s pretty quiet around here.”
That his half sister insisted on going to Texas A&M University rather than the University of Texas tickled Bennett no end. Lyle, a loyal UT supporter, had done everything within his power to change Camma’s mind about her choice of schools. She had stuck to her guns, hell-bent on becoming a veterinarian.
“Nest feeling empty these days?”
Anne nodded, the movement releasing some of the wavy strands from her loose bun. “Since Camma let us know she’s planning on staying in College Station for the summer session, I’ve been thinking about getting a little canine companionship. I haven’t talked about it with your father yet.”
Bennett’s jaw clenched. Even Anne was a victim of his father’s inattentiveness. “If Lyle would spend time with you like he should, you wouldn’t need a dog.”
Anne closed the cover of the tablet, pushed it to the side and then placed her soft, tiny hand over his. “Your father is who is he is. I knew he had a type-A personality and a strong need for plenty of elbow room before I agreed to marry him all those years ago. I wouldn’t have him any other way.”
The slamming of a door sounded from the garage, followed by heavy, clopping footsteps. Moments later Lyle swept into the kitchen, his face the same dark shade of red as his cycling jersey. His mustache had uncurled and lay limp at the sides of his lips.
“Butter my ass and call me a biscuit. That son-bitch Cotton done stole my money and run off to Mexico. Said he was dying of cancer and only has a few months to live. Wants to spend his last days getting drunk on the beach and letting some pretty señorita take care of him.” Lyle tossed his helmet on a counter. “I can’t believe it. After all these years, I can’t believe he’d do that to me.”
Anne pointed to Lyle’s bike shoes. “The metal clips on those things are going to ruin my wood floors, Lyle Truitt. You take them off right now then come and sit down. You look like you’re on the verge of having a heart attack.”
“Oh.” He straightened as though having just been chastised by a headmistress at a boarding school. Chagrin instantly changed his stern features. “Sorry, Anne.” Without another word, he sat down and removed the offending footwear. The old man’s brilliant wife had trained him well.
Capitalizing on his father’s distraction, Bennett moved in for his pitch. He wouldn’t find a better chance to persuade Lyle to demolish the strip club. “Having Cotton leave might be a gift in disguise. Iron Rods hasn’t made money, real money, in years. The building is in a neighborhood that’s up and coming in Austin, and the property couldn’t be any more prime. We have the potential of making an incredible amount of money if we tear down that old building and replace it with luxury condominiums. The—”
Lyle’s hand shot out, cutting Bennett off. “My answer is no. I ain’t having it. This conversation is over.”
“The economy is on the rise,” Bennett pushed through. “The timing couldn’t be more perfect.”
The old man placed a palm on each knee and leaned forward. His chest swelled and contracted several times before he spoke. “Here’s my two cents on the matter. You can’t toss a horseshoe in Austin without finding an old building getting torn down and a shiny new one coming up in its place. I drive down some streets and don’t recognize where I am anymore. Those old buildings are a part of Austin’s history, its culture. They are a big chunk of what makes Austin Austin. Once those
places are gone and pretty apartment buildings and banks ’n’ such take over, a person won’t know they’re in Austin anymore. They could be in any big city.”
“We could design a building that will be an Austin landmark. A prominent, distinctive structure that will enhance the flavor of the city.”
“Am I talking to the wall here?” Lyle’s voice rose with each word. “I said my answer is no. I want to preserve Austin. It’s perfect just the way it is.”
“All I’m asking you to do is think about it.”
The scowl on his father’s face marked the end of the discussion, but at least Bennett had planted a seed of the idea in in his head. As Iron Rods continued its inevitable decline, the topic would come up again. Eventually even Lyle would see the logic in replacing the dying club with something more profitable.
And with fewer memories.
“In the meantime,” Bennett changed the subject, “we need to figure out who is going to manage Iron Rods until we can hire Cotton’s replacement.”
Lyle angled closer, blue eyes narrowed and piercing. “I’m looking at him.”
Chapter Two
The sight of flashing lights from two fire engines and firefighters milling about on the sidewalk met Tatum Reynolds as she pulled into her designated spot. The scene did not make for a happy ending to what was already an extremely crappy day. Neither did the haze of gray smoke lingering outside the open front door and first floor windows of her townhouse.
Though her accident-prone roommate had started enough blazes to consider permanently adding the fire station’s number to their cell phone speed dials, coming home and finding this all too common spectacle still managed to fill Tatum’s belly with a nauseating mixture of fear, dread and a touch of good old-fashioned irritation.
Damn it! Not again.
Tatum removed her key from the ignition. She rested her forehead against the steering wheel and waited several long seconds for the engine of the old truck to finally sputter out while silently offering a prayer for her sanity and her roommate’s safety. Hopefully Heather had been through enough of these scrapes to escape without harm. There were no ambulances among the emergency vehicles. That had always been a good sign in the past. Chances were her roomie was absolutely fine.
Everything Tatum owned, on the other hand, was probably not. If history repeated itself, her bedding and every stitch of clothing she owned would reek of smoke. She’d have to wash everything two or three times just to get the smell out. Her many tutus and dance costumes would need to be dry cleaned, again.
She groaned. Add another expense to her already mountainous pile.
Between her college loans, her truck note and her maxed-out credit cards, her debt equaled that of a small country. If she didn’t find a job soon—a real job she’d trained for, not just working at Java Buena as an assistant manager—she’d have to take some drastic measures. Exactly what those measures might be, she hadn’t a clue and didn’t want to think about.
A knock on her car door startled her and she yipped as she sat up straight. She glanced at a fireman outfitted in full bunker gear waiting for her to roll down her window. Little did he know her POS clunker of a truck no longer had the ability to function at even that basic level. Instead, she opened the door, ignoring the ear-splitting screech of the rusted hinges and untangling all six feet of her frame as she ambled out. To her surprise, she had to look up to meet the firefighter’s eyes.
“Good evening, ma’am. Do you live in this complex?” the fireman asked while bright flashes of alternating blue and red light danced off the reflective tape trimming his insulated suit.
“Yes. I’m in the one that’s on fire.” She pointed at the condo just as three firefighters carrying fire extinguishers exited. Though their faces appeared solemn and serious, the slight shaking of their heads suggested a hint of bemusement. “Is my roommate okay? How bad is the damage?”
“Your roommate wasn’t injured. The fire has been contained.” He motioned her forward and guided her through the mayhem in the parking lot. “It appears someone left a hot pad under a baking pan in the oven. The pad ignited, but the fire was isolated to the stove.”
Tatum stopped mid step, not believing her ears. “Did you say a pot holder in the oven is what caught fire? A pot holder?”
“Yes ma’am.” The firefighter nodded. “We’ve just issued an all clear. You’re safe to go inside.”
Asking the fireman if she had to go into the townhome she shared with Heather tempted her as if she were a bank robber staring at an open vault of money, but Tatum held her tongue. Now wasn’t the time to be sassy. Goodness knew her roommate must be scared, if not frantic. But Lord love a damn duck. Heather had nearly burned down the place trying to bake a pot holder. A freakin’ pot holder!
As much as she loved her friend, Heather’s penchant for mishaps and disasters was enough to make anyone consider packing up and moving to the relative safety of the streets. At least there a person stood a fighting chance at survival.
The acrid stink of hot pad flambé intensified with each stride Tatum took toward the condo. By the time they reached the door, her eyes burned. She coughed and swallowed a mouthful of pungent air.
“The smoke is gone, but it’s going to smell in there for a while.” The fireman smiled, revealing a brilliant set of teeth. “Keep your windows and doors open for a few more hours. You’ll be fine.”
He stood directly under her porch light. For the first time, Tatum had a good view of the firefighter, who couldn’t be much older than herself. Maybe thirty. Strong, straight nose, dimpled and violet-eyed, he had the kind of look that conveyed warmth and confidence. His face communicated simple phrases like “Trust in me” and “I’ll take care of you.” The bunker gear he wore only added to the overall protector-of-mankind effect. He epitomized everything a scared person would want to see in a public servant sent to save lives.
She took a quick peek at his ring finger. Bare as the day he was born. Did firefighters wear rings when they went out on calls?
“Thank you, Officer—” Tatum allowed the word to drag out. Nothing like the obvious to get a man’s name. But then again, when could she ever be accused of being subtle?
The fireman reached up and tipped the brim of his helmet as though it were a Western hat. “Just call me Officer Murphy, ma’am. Glad we could be of help.”
Tatum barely suppressed a sigh. A cowboy and a firefighter all rolled up into one six-foot-something package. Oh yes, God did exist and she had exquisite taste.
Tatum unabashedly gazed into the purple fields of his amazing peepers. “Officer Murphy, if I can ever return the favor, don’t you hesitate for even one minute to ask. You hear?”
Yes, she was an incurable flirt. Who wouldn’t be after years of putting off men to pursue a dream of being a professional dancer? Between going to college and graduate school, practicing choreography for auditions and working at Java Buena, who had time for dating? Unfortunately, now that she was out of school and had more time on her hands, the dating pool had dried up to a tiny puddle. Despite her height, she practically had to hit a guy over the head to get him to notice her. Getting one to take the next step and ask her out seemed more difficult than executing a perfect fouetté on the dance floor.
It wasn’t as though she wanted to get serious with anyone. If her luck finally turned and she got a job with a dance company, she’d need to pick up and leave with little notice. Not exactly the kind of lifestyle that long-term relationships could be built around. She’d done her best to avoid having to choose between love and a career. That kind of gut-wrenching decision was one she hoped she’d never have to make. But going on a date or two, not to mention a little sex now and again, would be nice.
Where were the strong John Wayne-types who thought nothing of being bold and taking what they wanted…like her? Were men her age so insecure they couldn’t bring themselves to date a girl who didn’t need to wear high heels and had a little fire in her? Or were there so many att
ractive women in Austin that guys didn’t need to look her way?
Just like her dance career, her personal life seemed doomed to fail before it could even begin.
“Yes ma’am. I’ll do that,” the fireman responded. His smile grew into a full-on grin.
Satisfied he clearly understood her message, she turned and plowed into Heather, who wrapped her arms around Tatum’s waist and squeezed with the ferocity of a climber holding on to the side of a cliff.
“I’m so, so sorry. I really am. I was trying to make you a special dinner. It was an accident. I tried to be so careful this time.”
At least that’s how Tatum interpreted Heather’s unintelligible, rapid-fire sentences blended with hiccupping sobs.
Seeing her roommate less than her happy, jolly self pulled at Tatum’s heart. How could anyone hold a grudge against someone so freakin’ pretty and kindhearted? The woman had practically cheered Tatum through some of the most trying months of her life.
“I know. I know. It’s all right. Everything’s fine.” Tatum returned the hug and petted the long, loose curls flowing down Heather’s back. “I want you to tell me what happened, only slower this time. Okay?”
Heather sniffed back tears and nodded into Tatum’s shoulder. When her roommate gathered enough composure, she stepped back and produced a final full-body shudder. Even with her big, doelike eyes reddened and face flushed from crying, Heather still maintained her model looks. Her inability to be anything but beautiful at any given moment was maddening. Little wonder she had men climbing over themselves just to speak with her.
“You got a letter from the Orteil Dance Company.” Still sniffing, Heather walked to the kitchen table and picked up a slightly smudged envelope. “I didn’t know if it had good news or bad, so I decided to make dinner as a way to commiserate or celebrate.”
“The Orteil Dance Company?” Mentally pushing aside the most miserable twenty-four hours she’d had since slipping on the floor when auditioning for the American Ballet Theatre in New York, Tatum crossed the room and carefully plucked the linen envelope from Heather’s fingers. Finally some news from an audition she’d had over three months ago and cost more money to get to than she made in two weeks.
