“You really think so?”
He leaned forward. “Yes,” he said. “You’re young and you’re pretty and you’re smart. Some smart fellow’s bound to come along and want to tie the knot.”
Some of the starch went out of her. “It isn’t that easy, Purvis. I want somebody special. Somebody who thinks I’m special.”
He smiled. “You’ll find him.”
She looked up, searched his face, her eyes full of hope and dreams and doubt. “Maybe,” she repeated. “I’m a good cook, Purvis. Do you like spaghetti?”
A sweet shiver went through Purvis; he’d never felt quite like he did just at that moment, all off balance and hot under the collar. She expected to see him again. “Yep,” he said, well aware that he was blushing and mortified because of it.
“You’re a nice man, Purvis Digg,” she said.
“Thanks,” he replied, practically strangling on the word.
She laughed. “You’re supposed to say I’m nice, too.”
He was perplexed. He’d never dreamed there was a script for these sorts of things, but then, where women were concerned, there was a hell of a lot he didn’t know. “I am?”
She made that sound again, that throaty giggle that brought Christmas and glittering fields of snow to mind. “Not if you don’t think so,” she said, when she got her breath. Her cheeks were pink, and her eyes sparkled with merriment. Damn, Purvis thought, if she wasn’t every bit as pretty as Ann-Margaret.
“I don’t reckon you’d want to see a movie with me tomorrow night?” Purvis heard himself ask. He felt as though he’d been thrown off a horse blindfolded; the wind was knocked clean out of him and he was surrounded by a haze. There was a buzzing sound in his ears.
“I’ve got a class at the high school, over in Springwater,” she said. “It’s a college extension program. Computer stuff. We could get together afterward, though, if you don’t mind waiting. Have some spaghetti before the show.”
He sat there like a lump, for what seemed like forever, trying to take it all in. He had a real date, and nobody had fixed him up. “Okay,” he said.
“Good,” she replied, reaching for her purse and that Starting Over book of hers. It seemed well-thumbed, and he knew without looking that there’d be notes in the margins, and places highlighted in colored ink. “Now, I guess I’d better get home. Work tomorrow. We’re getting in a whole bunch of new books from the district office.”
“You want me to drive you home?”
“I have my car, Purvis,” she said reasonably. “I only live a few blocks from here anyway.”
“I could follow you, then. Make sure you get there safe.” Fine. Now she was going to think he was a pest, maybe even a stalker.
She smiled. “That would be nice,” she answered, and Purvis felt something soar inside him, like he’d just opened his front door and found the prize patrol standing on the porch, complete with TV cameras and a big cardboard check. “I live on Sycamore Street, in a garage apartment. It’s the Dooley place.”
Purvis had known Mrs. Dooley all his life; she and his mother were friends, and he’d mowed her lawn every week for a full year after he’d gotten home from ’Nam. Her son, Zeb, had been in his unit, killed in an ambush one hot summer night, and even after all this time it was still hard for him to face the old lady. He’d always thought there should have been something he could have done to help when it would have counted.
He laid a ten-dollar bill on the table for Flo and stood. “What time does your class let out tomorrow night?” he asked.
“Not until eight,” she said. “Shall I meet you somewhere afterward?”
“I’ll pick you up at the school,” he answered. They walked outside together; he meant to stand by until she was safely inside her car. With the likes of Randy and Odell Hough and God knew who else around, a person couldn’t be too careful.
“It’s okay,” she confirmed, with a slight smile. “Good night, Lawman.”
He laughed. “Good night, Cowgirl,” he said.
She got into her battered red VW, cranked up the engine, and put the bug in reverse. She waved, with a flutter of fingers, and backed out of her parking space, heading toward Sycamore Street… .
The reverie ended right there, and it ended abruptly. Somebody snapped their fingers in front of Purvis’s face, loud as a gunshot, and he sat there, blinking and disoriented.
“Yo, Purvis.”
Purvis focused on J.T., who was leaning over the desk, looking at him curiously, as though he’d never seen a specimen quite like him. “J.T.,” he said, as a greeting, and his voice sounded as rusty as an old plow left out in the field through a series of bad winters.
J.T. grinned and plunked into the visitor’s chair. “Just stopped in to ask if you could go to the auction with me on Saturday. You know, for the cattle.”
“I remember,” Purvis said, still disgruntled.
“You look weird,” J.T. said. “What’s the matter?”
“So do you,” Purvis shot back. “I figure the reason is your own business.”
J.T. laughed. “Fair enough,” he said. “Well? Are you coming to the auction with me or not?”
“Sure,” Purvis said, subsiding a little. He wanted to tell J.T. all about Cowgirl—Nelly—but it all seemed sort of fragile. Talking about her so soon would be like breathing too hard on a dandelion’s ghost before making a wish. “What time?”
“Bright and early. I’ll pick you up at your place around six.”
Purvis groaned. “Six it is,” he said. It finally registered then, just what was different about J.T. He was wearing new jeans and a white shirt, open at the throat. Purvis leaned around the desk to peer at his feet. New boots, too. “Them your big-city detective clothes?” he jibed.
J.T. waggled his eyebrows. “No. They’re my supper-with-Maggie-McCaffrey clothes,” he said.
“You don’t say,” Purvis replied. “Well, you behave yourself, hear? Maggie’s folks are good friends of mine, and I’d hate to have to deck my own deputy for stepping out of line with their daughter.”
“Me, out of line? Why, Purvis, I’m insulted by the mere suggestion.”
“You’re full of crap, is what you are,” Purvis retorted, grinning. “Maybe I came of age in the sixties, boy, but I never lost my memory.”
J.T. laughed, gave a loose, smart-ass salute, and left Purvis to his lonely pursuit of truth, justice, and the American way. He sighed. God, what he wouldn’t have given to be that young again.
He looked good, damn it. Real good.
Maggie slipped back from the Station’s front window, hoping J.T. hadn’t seen her watching him come up the walk. He moved with a confident swagger that would have galled her in anyone else. On him, that cocky strut worked only too well.
Maybe, she decided, frowning, he thought he was going to score with her. If so, he was in for a major disappointment. Probably.
She went to the door and wrenched it open.
J.T., catching sight of her expression, leaped back as though he’d just come face to face with Medusa herself, though his eyes were shining with amusement, and Maggie realized, to her private embarrassment, that she’d greeted him with a glare.
She relaxed, even smiled. For some reason she thought of the wedding dress, and put it out of her mind by force. “Hi,” she said.
“Is this the wrong night?” he teased, pretending chagrin.
“With you, Wainwright,” Maggie retorted wryly, “any night would be the wrong night.”
He stepped up onto the porch and pretended to be wrenching an arrow from his chest. He held a bottle of wine under his other arm. “Hey, what do you say we have supper down at the Stagecoach CafÈ?” he said. “That way, I can be fairly sure there’s no poison in the food.”
She laughed and stepped back to let him enter her domain. “Too late,” she said. “I’ve already cooked, so you’ll just have to risk the strychnine.”
He came over the threshold, bent to greet Sadie, who wanted to go home
with him and be his dog from that day forward, judging by the effusive way she greeted him.
“She likes me,” J.T. said, a little smugly.
“She likes the UPS man, too,” Maggie said.
J.T. sighed deeply. “Alas. Another devious woman.”
Maggie gestured toward the window on the opposite wall, overlooking June-bug’s garden, now sadly overgrown, but still charming, especially at twilight. She’d set up a small table out there, with wineglasses.
“Shall we go outside and sit down?” she asked. Meant as an invitation, the question came out sounding a little like a command.
J.T. did another of his comical recoils. Then his expression turned soft, and his dark eyes gleamed with a sort of smoldering amusement that made her nerves jump. He took in her pale blue silk blouse and beige slacks. “You look great, Maggie.”
He usually called her McCaffrey; even when they were younger, and madly in love, J.T. had used her last name. Hearing him say “Maggie” had a strange effect on her, in a multitude of scandalous ways and places.
“Thanks,” she said.
He drew her easily into his arms, as though to begin a waltz. He smiled down at her. “Remember, Maggie? How we used to hide in that old rose arbor outside and neck like crazy?”
She managed a nod. In that moment, it seemed that the memory was impressed into her very cells. He led her through the Station, outside, and around to the place where the table stood. Then he bent his head and tasted her lips, and when he drew back, she could still feel the warmth of his breath on her mouth. In fact, she could still feel his kiss.
“Let’s do it all again,” he said. “Maybe we can get it right this time.”
She didn’t have to ask what he meant.
6
“Forget it,” Maggie said, looking up into J.T.’s familiar, craggy face. She wondered if he knew she was bluffing, if he could possibly imagine how difficult it would be for her to resist any further advances he might choose to make. She certainly hoped not. “Last time I handed you my heart, you gave it back on a skewer. I’d prefer not to go through that again.”
His brow knitted. He was still holding her loosely, his hands grasping her hips in a way that made her heartbeat skitter. “I’ve paid for that mistake, in more ways than one. How about another chance?”
The idea took her breath away. She averted her gaze, would have stepped out of his embrace, except that J.T. caught her chin in his hand, gently turned her back to face him. “Whatever happens, McCaffrey, I’m sorry I hurt you, ever. If we can’t be lovers, let’s at least be friends.”
She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until she released a quivering sigh. She smiled a wobbly little smile. “You’ve always been a smooth talker,” she said.
He laughed, kissed her lightly on the nose. She was all too aware of the hardness and heat of his body, excruciatingly close to her own. Then, suddenly, he stepped back, eyes twinkling, and thrust out his hand. “Hello,” he said heartily. “My name is J. T. Wainwright. The ‘J.T.’ stands for John Tobias.”
She stared at him, puzzled for a moment, and then smiled again and took the offered hand. “Maggie McCaffrey,” she said. “ ‘Maggie’ is short for ‘Margaret Corrine.’”
“Good to meet you, Ms. McCaffrey,” he replied.
She felt her heart swell to overflowing, then burst wide open. Happy tears smarted in her eyes. “Mr. Wainwright,” she responded.
“Call me J.T.”
“And I’m Maggie.”
He thrust out a great, comical sigh. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Indeed you are.”
And they danced again, there in the yard of the Springwater Station, in the fading light of early evening, accompanied by the sort of music that is heard only by the heart.
“J.T.?” Maggie hated to spoil the mood. One thing about J.T., he was a romantic devil.
His dark eyes were dreamy, and a little bit bad. His voice was a low, hoarse growl. “What?”
“Sadie is licking my ankles.”
He looked at her in astonishment for a moment, glanced down, and then laughed. “Now, there’s an idea,” he said.
Maggie gave Sadie a gentle shove with the side of one foot. “Stop it,” she said to the dog. “I get the message. It’s supper time.”
“I’d rather lick your ankles,” J.T. observed dryly, his eyes alight.
The shove she gave him was a little less gentle than the one she’d administered to the dog, though she was smiling. “I wasn’t talking to you,” she said primly. “Anyway, you’ll have to settle for my world-class salmon mousse pastries. One of the items I’ll be serving when the bed-and-breakfast opens.”
“You cook?” he asked, feigning surprise.
“Not as well as you do,” she said, remembering his specialty, chicken enchiladas, from their youth. “But yes, I can cook. I took classes from a chef we hired for one of the hotels I managed in Chicago.”
He followed her back inside, into the kitchen area, examined June-bug’s carefully restored cookstove with interest while she dished up a bowl of kibble for Sadie. “This thing actually works?” he asked. He touched the shimmering handle on the oven and drew his hand back with an audible release of breath.
“Watch out,” Maggie said. “It’s hot.”
“Smart ass,” J.T. replied.
She grabbed two pot holders and elbowed him graciously aside so she could open the oven and remove the pastries inside. The luscious aroma rose around them in a steamy mist.
Sadie immediately lost interest in the kibble she’d just been given and tried to lick Maggie’s ankles again.
“Allow me,” J.T. said, apparently volunteering to carry the food out to the table in the garden. The alternative didn’t bear considering.
Maggie considered it all the same, and a rush of heat went through her, leaving her a little dizzy. “Thanks,” she said, somewhat lamely, and headed for the refrigerator, as much to duck his gaze as to fetch the salad she’d made earlier. Between them, they managed to carry all the food outside in one trip.
“It’s going to be great, seeing this place up and running,” he said, somewhat wistfully, tilting back his head to assess the Station in the gathering summer dusk.
Maggie shared the vision, seeing in her mind all that the old building had been, and would be again. “Yes,” she said. “That’s been a secret dream of mine for a long, long time.” The tablecloth rippled in a gentle breeze, and a candle, inside a copper lantern, waited to be lighted. The first of June-bug’s treasured roses were just beginning to bloom. She was relieved when he didn’t ask if she’d had other secret dreams.
J.T. poured what looked like a rich cabernet into the waiting wineglasses. Although Maggie saw the memories of the times they’d made out in that arbor smoldering in his eyes, he had the good grace not to mention them aloud. “When do you think you’ll be ready to open for business?”
“A week or two,” Maggie answered, watching as he set the wine bottle aside. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his well-pressed white cotton shirt, and his forearms were muscular and brown from the sun.
He caught her staring and grinned. “McCaffrey,” he said. “Stop looking like you’re about to scamper into the underbrush. I’m not planning to bite you.” He allowed his gaze to slide over her, at leisure. “Not so it would hurt, anyhow.”
Maggie felt a hot flush surge through her system and turned away quickly, nearly tripping over Sadie. “All right, that’s it,” she told the dog sternly. “Time out. You’ve been underfoot long enough. Go inside.”
Sadie gave a small whimper and let her usually perky ears droop, but she skulked off, following Maggie’s pointed finger and eventually disappearing around the side of the Station. No doubt she’d head straight for the bowl of kibble Maggie had placed near the kitchen sink.
When Maggie turned back, J.T. was standing with his arms folded, a crooked grin tilting his mouth. “Shall we?” he asked, and drew back her chair. The motion stirred the carpet of grass beneath
their feet, and the scent was as delicious to Maggie as that wafting up from the food.
She sat, flustered. As a younger man, J.T. had been a rascal and a rogue, and he still was, she didn’t doubt that, but somewhere along the line he’d acquired some halfway decent manners. Or maybe he’d just gotten better at seduction. Scary thought, given that he had considerable natural talent in that area as it was.
Not for the first time, Maggie wondered about his ex-wife, Annie. Maybe she’d been the one to smooth away some of J.T.’s rough edges.
He took a chair across from her, ducked his head a little, his expression questioning and still luminous with some private and barely contained amusement. “What are you thinking? I can see the gears moving.” He placed his linen napkin in his lap, his eyes never leaving hers. Crickets chirped around them, in chorus, and a few birds, not yet bedded down in their nests for the night, chimed in.
“That you’ve changed.”
“Haven’t you?”
She considered the question. “Not really,” she said thoughtfully. “Most people don’t, you know.”
He lifted his glass, waiting for her to do the same, and when she did, the edges clinked musically. “To things that never change,” he said.
Maggie smiled. “Such as?”
“Such as the Big Sky, the timber on the mountainsides, the best things about Springwater.” He settled back in his chair. “God, I missed this place. I should never have left.”
Maggie opened the little door in the copper lantern, picked up the butane fire-lighter, set the wick aflame. The romantic glow added to the ambience. “Did you like living in New York?”
J.T. considered the question as Maggie indicated the salmon pastries on the platter between them with a nod. “There’s no place quite like it,” he said, with typical ambiguity, serving himself and extending the platter to Maggie.
“Which means—?”
He smiled. “The city’s great, in terms of food and culture and all that. On the other hand, a homicide detective sees any place from a different perspective. The truth is, I got so caught up in my job that just about everything else in my life went by the wayside.”
Springwater Wedding Page 10
