by Ruth Wind
He grimaced. "I know that hurt." A taste of blood struck his tongue, and he wiped his cut lip quickly. He took her hand and pulled her up. "Let's get some ice on it right now."
She let herself be led to the end of the bar. "You're bleeding," she said as he grabbed a bar towel.
"It won't kill me." He filled the bar towel full of ice and twisted the ends, then lifted it to her face.
"That really hurt," she said.
It still hadn't sunk in. Lance wanted to get out of there before it did—she struck him as a woman who might be dangerous if her temper were engaged.
But a part of him was reluctant to leave just yet. Up close she smelled faintly of margaritas and the clean sweat of a woman's hard work, but there were lingering notes of some kind of light, flowery perfume. Not too sweet—maybe lavender. His mother grew banks of it along the back porch and he'd always liked the scent of it on an evening wind.
"You want to sit down?" he asked.
"For a minute."
He pushed her onto the stool behind the bar, and quickly poured a glass of water that he put beside her. "I'm gonna have to get out of here before the sheriff comes to haul me to jail. My mother's gonna kill me as it is."
"Your mother?" she echoed. "Men like you don't have mothers."
"Now, see, that's where you're wrong." A stab through his ribs straightened him suddenly. He grunted, putting a hand on the place where Gus's beefy fist had landed all too solidly. "We do. They just despair of ever civilizing us."
Her smile bloomed then, one more time. The pink lips curled, slowly, and a light wash of color touched her pale cheeks. Her entire face was transformed from the slightly defensive hard look of bartenders who had to deal with men like him day in and day out, and became something else. Something sweet he hadn't even been aware of missing.
"You're really pretty, you know it?" he said, and impulsively touched her unmarked cheek.
She only gazed at him. Still stunned.
Sirens sounded distantly and Lance looked over his shoulder. "That's my cue." From the pocket of his jeans, he took a roll of bills and peeled off several, which he put on the bar next to her glass of water. "Give that to Allen and tell him I'm sorry. Take care now." He winked. "I'll be back."
As he leapt into his car, hearing the sirens come closer, he remembered he'd forgotten to leave a tip.
* * *
Louise Forrest was in her element. As weary as she was from attending to what seemed like hundreds of details for her husband's burial, she felt perfectly calm as she lifted the lid on a bubbling pot of black-eyed peas. The bacon-scented steam made her mouth water. She smiled. The peas were for her youngest son, Tyler, who could never get enough of the Southern treat she'd brought with her as a seventeen-year-old Texas bride.
In the oven was a ham baked with pineapple, for Jake, her oldest. And in a big bowl in the fridge was the fruit salad made with whipped cream that Lance loved.
Her boys. It was hard to believe they'd all be home, together. She literally couldn't remember the last time that had happened.
Mary, her housekeeper, bustled into the kitchen. "Louise Forrest, what are you doing? You can't keep going like this! You'll collapse."
"Don't be silly. Cooking relaxes me."
"It isn't natural for a new widow to be so calm." Mary frowned. "I'm worried about you."
Louise turned. "I wish you'd stop insisting I should take to my bed." She lowered her voice, for Jake and Tyler sat in the other room, watching the television news. "I'll mourn my husband in my own way, in my own time."
Mary sighed loudly, but tied an apron around her waist and made preparations for setting the table.
Louise frowned. Mary knew as well as anyone that Olan had barely shown his face within these walls for almost five years. She could count on one hand the number of times he'd actually slept here in that time. Louise had gone back to college and Olan, in a snit, took a mistress.
She would mourn him no more and no less than she'd mourn any old, but distant acquaintance. She wished it could be more, but the marriage had been hollow for a very long time.
The rumble of a big car engine sounded in the yard behind the house. Louise wiped her hands, hurried to the window and spied Lance getting out of a sixties Ford, lovingly restored. Her heart pinched—poor Lance. Of all of them, he'd mourn his father most sincerely. A part of her was glad that Olan would have someone to regret his passing, even if he'd done his best to drive this child away.
It was only as Lance slammed the door and turned toward the house that she realized he'd been fighting. Her mouth tightened. He looked like a tomcat that had just crawled out of the bushes, his beautiful hair tangled, his clothes disheveled, his mouth bleeding. There was something white wrapped around his knuckles.
"Been at it again, hasn't he?" said Mary, behind her.
"I reckon." Nonetheless, Louise smiled. Her boys were home.
* * *
Lance climbed the back steps carefully, a stabbing pain in his ribs. He hoped none of them was broken. On the next to the top step, he remembered the presents he'd brought for his mother, and limped back down to retrieve them. Carrying a grocery store bouquet of red carnations laced with baby's breath—her favorite—and a box of chocolate-covered cherries, he climbed back up the steps.
His nephew Curtis, small and blond and round at three, was the first to greet him. The boy blasted through the back screen door, leaving it to slam behind. "Uncle Lanth!" he cried, and let go of the chortle peculiar to little kids, an unthrottled joy that always struck right to the bottom of Lance's heart.
Lance knelt and caught Curtis by the legs. "Boy," he grunted—gasping at the sharp stab in his right side, "you're getting too big to carry! Where's your grandma and your dad?"
"Inthide." His big blue eyes went wide and he folded his little hands solemnly. "Grandpa's in heaven."
Not likely, Lance thought, but he kissed Curtis. "I know, slugger."
Curtis gingerly touched Lance's cut lip. "You have an owie? Grandma gots Band-Aids. G.I. Joe."
Lance laughed and nuzzled his face into Curtis's chest. "I missed the hell out of you, boy."
They went inside together, into the kitchen that was now crowded with the family waiting for the last of their fold. Lance's mother hugged him first, smelling of her trademark Chanel perfume. She exclaimed over the flowers and tsked happily over the box of chocolates. "You know I don't need this!" she protested, gesturing at her ample hips.
Then she slapped his arm. "You couldn't wait three days to have a fight, huh?" she said with a frown, peering at his lip.
"I swear, Mama, I didn't start it."
"Sure, sure," said Tyler, his younger brother, from the doorway. His little brother, who now stood taller than any of them.
Lance frowned. "Hell, man, you going mountain man on us?" Ty's pale blond hair was long, caught back in a ponytail, and there was a shadow of light beard on his jaw. "Don't be trying to grow a beard and make a fool of yourself, now," he said, and hugged him, pleased when a smile broke Ty's all-too-serious expression.
The last to give him a welcome was Jake, as dark as his brothers were fair, his hair months past the military cut he'd sported for almost twenty years. "Hope the other guy looks worse," Jake said ironically.
Lance thought of the bartender with a twinge of guilt. She was the only real victim in the whole thing. "He went down first, anyway."
"Go get cleaned up," Louise said. "Supper is almost ready and I don't want to be waiting on you."
Impulsively, Lance bent and kissed her cheek. "Yes, ma'am," he said. "Come on, Curtis, you can help carry my suitcase in."
"Okay!" In little cowboy boots, Curtis clunked after him.
Home, Lance thought, breathing deeply of the gathering evening that fell in the backyard. The sun lingered in a pale yellow haze behind the jagged mountains towering around the house, and a few birds clung to the pines, their whistles a wistful sound in the air that suddenly had a deep bite to it.
Home. Thank God.
* * *
Tamara had the worst headache in the history of the world, and Cody wasn't doing much to help. She'd managed to get him fed—applesauce with macaroni and cheese out of a box—and into the bathtub. Now she sat on the closed toilet in her little house, supervising, thinking with exhaustion of the test she yet had to study for. Accounting—her worst subject. She hated math.
"Look, Mommy!" Cody cried, pointing to the circle he'd drawn on his taut four-year-old tummy with a blue soap crayon.
"Beautiful," she said with a nod. "Come on, kidlet, hurry up. I need to wash your hair."
"No," Cody protested, covering his blond curls with his hands. "I hate that."
"I got new shampoo. It won't hurt if you get some in your eyes." Tamara picked up the bottle of baby shampoo to show him. On Saturday, she'd had to use some of her own shampoo. Cody had gotten into one of his silly moods while the shampoo was in his hair, and it had burned his eyes. "See?" She pointed to the label. "That says it won't hurt."
The doorbell rang. Tamara frowned in surprise. No one ever came to see her. She was, frankly, too busy to have time to indulge the nurturing friendships required. "Don't move," she said to Cody.
She walked to the doorway of the bathroom, her eyes on Cody, and called, "Who is it?"
"It's me," came a door-deadened voice. "Lance Forrest. I was in the fight at the bar this afternoon."
Lance Forrest. For a minute she bit her lip. "What do you want?"
"Just to make sure you're okay."
Even through the door, she liked the sound of his voice. Warm and not too dark, with a hint of a country drawl. Something unidentified moved through her. Annoying her.
"I have a present for you," he called when she didn't answer.
She rolled her eyes. "Give it to your mother." From the corner of her eye, she saw Cody put the soap in his mouth. "Cody, quit that!"
He made a face and tried to wipe away the blue soap on his lips.
"I already gave my mama a present," Lance said. "Come on, Tamara. I feel bad."
Cody bent his face toward the water. Tamara called out, "Oh, come on in!" and made a dash for the tub. "Let me help you, honey." She fished a washcloth from the water and wiped away the blue soap. "There."
She heard the front door open, and thought immediately of her clothes. An old, oversize T-shirt and a pair of sweats that had seen better days. She couldn't remember the last time she'd brushed her hair. No help for it now.
"In the bathroom, straight ahead," she called.
Defensively, she smoothed her shirtfront and pushed a lock of hair out of her face. She had to be crazy, even letting him in.
"Hi," he said, coming around the corner. He'd changed clothes since this afternoon, and wore a pair of button-fly jeans. He'd evidently worn them since time began, for the color was bleached nearly white, and the fit was practically indecent. The sinfully streaked hair glinted as brightly in the bathroom light as it had in the sunshine this afternoon, but now it had been brushed neatly, and his jaw was cleanly shaved. His shoulders seemed to fill the doorway.
For one instant, a moment filled with pure, unadulterated longing, Tamara wished she'd never heard his name. Then she'd be free to explore the promise that shimmered around him like an almost inaudible song.
But she had heard his name. All too often. And had learned to hate it.
From the bathtub, Cody chirped a cheery "Hi!"
Lance gave the boy a crooked smile. "Howdy!"
A queer nervousness rolled in Tamara's stomach, unexpected and worrisome. She looked at Cody. Blond and blue-eyed, his face was baby round, but would one day have the same carved planes as his father. His father, who was proving much harder to hate in person than in her imagination. Tamara hardened her resolve. For her cousin Valerie and the son she'd borne, Tamara could face the devil himself.
She looked at Lance. "That's Cody," she said. Would he see anything of himself in the boy? Probably not. You didn't see what you didn't expect. There were millions of blond, blue-eyed boys in the world.
"Hey, Cody. I like those tattoos."
Cody lifted an arm and flexed his thin muscle, making the white Power Ranger figure move his legs. "Lookit what he does."
"Cool." Lance hadn't moved from the threshold of the door, and now half lifted a small grocery bag in Tamara's direction. "Brought you something."
There was no amusement in his face now, no secret twinkle in the blue eyes. He looked … worn. Even so, it was the most singularly compelling face she'd ever seen. Strong bones, a beautifully shaped nose, the bright, bright blue eyes made even brighter by the depth of his tan.
"I guess I caught you at a bad time," he said, and licked his swollen lower lip.
"No worse than any other," Tamara said. "What do you want?"
"Who are you?" Cody asked.
"My name is Lance."
"Mr. Forrest," Tamara corrected.
Lance nodded. "Right. Mr. Forrest."
"Do you live in the forest?" Cody asked, and laughed at his joke.
"Matter of fact, I do." The twinkle leapt back to life in his eyes, and Tamara felt a strange sense of relief. "About a million trees all around."
"Wow."
Before the delay cost her any more time than necessary, Tamara spoke up. "I have to get him to bed. What exactly do you want?"
Lance sobered once more, and stepped forward to give her the bag he carried. "A steak," he said with a lift of one shoulder. "First you put it on your eye, then you eat it, and you'll feel a lot better by morning."
She took the bag and peeked inside. A thick, beautiful T-bone. In spite of herself, she felt a stab of hunger. Macaroni and cheese worked for Cody, but every so often, it would be nice to eat like an adult.
Nonetheless, she held it out to him. "Thanks, but no thanks."
"Oh, come on, what'll it hurt?"
She glanced at Cody, who listened intently. "Take the steak for a second, will you?" She picked up a towel. "Let me get this child out of the tub."
"I'll help you."
"That isn't—" she began, but Cody had already stood up, shivering, and Lance wrapped the boy in a towel. He held Cody close, pretending to shiver, and Tamara's protest died in her throat.
She wasn't truly prepared to see the resemblance between them, but even with the softness of toddler-hood still on him, Cody was a carbon copy of his father. A sudden and unexpected fear stabbed her stomach. What if Lance turned around right now and looked in the mirror? Would he see what was so plain to Tamara?
But he didn't turn. With typical little-boy trust, Cody yawned and put his head on Lance's shoulder. Lance rubbed a big tanned hand over the little back, as naturally as he'd swung his fists in the bar.
The picture pierced her. Lance wasn't supposed to be gentle—that much she knew. To hide her expression, she turned away, reaching to pull the plug from the drain. "If you put him down, he can go get dressed."
"All by himself?" Lance said in an admiring tone. "Man, you're really a big kid, aren't you?" He set the boy on his feet and straightened, watching as Cody pitter-pattered from the bathroom, towel clutched around him.
Tamara picked up the bag and held it out firmly. "Take your steak and all your little charming tricks and leave, please."
He didn't move. For a minute, he only looked at her, his eyes sober. "You don't like me, do you?"
"I don't know you."
"First impressions can be misleading. I don't have a fight every time I go into a bar."
She set the grocery bag on the edge of the sink beside him and crossed her arms. "I don't want to be rude, but I have a headache, and a test to study for, and I don't have time for all this."
He nodded, and she tried not to notice the way the light broke in bright gold bands in his hair, like threads of fool's gold in iron pyrite. "All right," he said. "Keep the steak. It really will help."
"No. Take it with you."
He looked at her, puzzlement in his blue eyes.
"I'm trying to make amends here. Help me out a little, huh?"
"I don't want your amends, thank you. I don't want anything from you. I just want you to leave."
For a long, quiet minute, he simply looked at her. Tamara felt a fluttering disturbance in those private, untouched parts of her body she'd thought might have finally got the message by now.
Obviously not.
Pinned in the soberness of his formerly twinkling eyes, she wished she could accept everything he offered. Not just the steak. Much more—the promise of pleasure and laughter, the promise of a few hours unburdened with the worries that ate up her days. Men like this made an art form of sex—the kind of sex that made you forget everything and just live.
An unwelcome prickle of awareness moved on her shoulders, down her back. It had been so long…
The trouble was, a few pleasurable hours was the sum total of all he offered, and her life wasn't that simple. Not anymore. She crossed her arms. "Please, just go."
"I am sorry you got hurt, Tamara," he said. "Maybe I'll see you around town."
She said nothing. If she gave him nothing to embroider upon, he'd have to leave sooner or later.
At last, he did just that—turned away from her and ambled toward the bathroom door, then paused with his hand on the threshold. "See you around," he said again.
And gave her the most wicked, charming grin she'd ever seen—replete with seductive dimples and twinkling eyes and a teasing promise of seduction that stole her breath. Before she could react, he was out the front door, closing it quietly behind him.
She stood in the middle of the bathroom, arms crossed, and shook her head in wonder as she remembered the steak on the sink. That rat—he'd known exactly what he was doing.
Well, he could grin and wink and flash dimples for a year and a day. It wouldn't do him any good with
Tamara. She had a real life to think about.
She got Cody tucked in, and heard his prayers. As he lay there on his pillow, printed with cartoon figures, Tamara reminded herself it was all worth it. For Cody, she could do anything.
Her headache trebled when she opened her accounting book. Dry figures lay dully against the page, and she took a breath, fighting the deep resistance she felt. As she had told herself a hundred times, bookkeeping and accounting were good jobs, with benefits. Later, after they were on their feet, maybe she could finish her English degree.
