When their dinner guests drifted back into the living room and Rob began pouring brandy, she caught Tyler’s gaze across the table.
“Would you mind giving me a hand in the kitchen?”
She’d never seen anyone move so fast at the prospect of washing dishes. She was equally, bizarrely excited to see the mountain of plates in the sink, each one promising a few minutes of having Tyler to herself.
Without a word he rolled up his sleeves and got to work rinsing a pot. She put a hand on his forearm to stop him and the heat of his skin sizzled straight up her wrist in the second before he shifted out of reach.
“I didn’t mean for you to actually do any work. You’re my guest, you don’t have to–”
“I’ll wash, you dry. Least I can do to say thanks for inviting me. And for the grub.”
She tossed him a chiding look but picked up a dishcloth. “You didn’t eat much. Can I make you a sandwich?”
“I’d take another piece of pie when we’re done here.”
“Of course. I’ll send you home with whatever’s left.”
He handed her another clean pot, pausing before he turned back to the sink. “Is Rob your ex?”
She nodded, hastily replaying Rob’s behavior that evening. Nothing stood out as particularly appalling, but then again, these days almost everything about Rob had the potential to give Tyler serious concerns about her romantic judgment.
“Smart guy.”
“He can be really funny and nice too.”
“Why’d y’all break up?”
“We started as friends, and after a while we realized we were better off staying that way. Now we want such different things, I’m not sure we can be friends much longer. He wants to change the whole world and I’m just trying to change my little corner. He wants a life lived on a grand scale, and I…” She sighed. She had so much of what she wanted—good education, good career, good community—yet it wasn’t enough.
“I want to be in love,” she admitted a little sheepishly. “Find someone who makes me happy, and make him happy too. I know, it’s cheesy,” she added, suddenly embarrassed. She barely knew the man beside her and she was gushing like an idiot.
For a few moments he said nothing, big hands making quick work of the dozen dirty plates. He passed one to her with a sidelong glance as he said, “I got my GED a few years back.”
He watched for her reaction, so she nodded with wide-eyed interest. “It must’ve been hard to fit that in around work.”
“It was my boss’s idea, so he was real good about it. That was my previous boss. Old guy. He died, and his sons sold the farm, so I came on out to the Morse place.”
“Do you like working for them?”
He nodded. “Mrs. Morse talked me into taking some night classes at K-State. We even looked at dropping my hours on the ranch so I could start working on an agriculture degree, but Mr. Morse was diagnosed with cancer at Thanksgiving so now’s not really a good time.” That shy smile again as he glanced her way. “I bet you got lots of degrees.”
So that’s where he was going with this. “I was really lucky—my parents paid for college. I took out a loan to cover graduate school, so I never had to balance work and studying. What you’re doing is much more difficult, Tyler.”
“I like the way you say my name,” he murmured, so quietly she almost didn’t hear him.
She clenched a plate more tightly in her suddenly unsteady fingers. “You do?”
“My friends call me Ty.”
“Am I your friend?”
“No. You’re something else.”
She stared intently at the plate in her hand, barely daring to breathe for fear of disrupting the array of molecules assembled in exactly the perfect position to create the hesitant, hopeful tension between them. She felt like every last drop of her blood had careened straight up to her head, making her dizzy and shaky and so exhilarated she thought she might pass out.
He picked up a bowl, then put it down. “Margot?”
He drawled the two syllables with such tenderness she found herself on the verge of tears. “Yes?”
“Can I hold your hand for a spell?”
She put the plate in the drying rack. Hung the dishcloth on the handle of the microwave. Then she reached across the short space between them and took his left hand in her right.
Time stopped. Not dramatically—not squealing or crashing or juddering as it halted—but gently. Reverently. The minutes stilled, the seconds swept to a gentle stop.
And she held Tyler’s hand.
They didn’t speak. Didn’t look at each other. Didn’t even move their fingers after the initial settling of palms and knuckles and smooth, warm flesh. His much larger hand gripped hers with calm certainty, and she returned the pressure in equal measure.
She didn’t know how much time had passed when Tyler drew a breath because there was no more time—not in any way that mattered. He inhaled, she turned, his gaze lifted–
“Hey, Margot, do you—oh.”
Time lurched back into unwelcome existence as she and Tyler snatched their hands apart. Rob stood in the kitchen doorway, his posture palpably awkward, his forced-casual expression undermined by… sadness?
She shook her head to dispel that uncomfortable truth. “What’s up?”
“Nothing. I was just looking for the corkscrew.”
“It’s on the table.”
“Okay. Cool. Do you need any help in here?”
“We’re almost done.”
“I’m heading out. Thanks for having me.” Tyler crossed the room in two easy strides to shake Rob’s hand.
“Thanks for coming. I’m sure we’ll see you again.” Rob’s eyes flicked almost imperceptibly in her direction before he left to rejoin his guests.
Tyler’s imminent departure filled her with dragging, heavy discontent, but she knew there was no point arguing. “I’ll walk you out.”
He got his coat while she wrapped up what was left of the apple pie and nestled it into Mrs. Morse’s floral-patterned casserole dish. Then she followed him out to his truck and instantly regretted not bringing her coat, especially since she was in no hurry to rush back inside.
He put the dish on the passenger seat, then shut the door and faced her. “Thanks for inviting me tonight.”
“Thanks for coming. I hope it was okay.”
“It was. I hope I was okay.”
She clucked her tongue. “What are you talking about? You’re great, Tyler.”
“Don’t go gettin’ no romantic ideas about me. I never been with a woman like you. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Start here.” She slipped her hands into his unzipped coat, wrapped her arms around his trim waist, pressed into his broad chest. He made a tentative, almost fearful sound, and then he embraced her, pulling her tighter, one hand rising to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair.
She closed her eyes. Gave herself over to his heat. His hardness. His consuming, whispering scent.
Slowly, slowly, he lowered his face to hers. Tilted up her chin with his forefinger. Studied her, blue eyes searching and unreadable.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked finally.
“Please.”
Everything changed when their lips met. Hunger replaced hesitation. Intent overwhelmed reason. Tyler tasted like coffee and apples and cinnamon and when his palm found her cheek she thought she might never breathe again.
Too quickly he withdrew, briefly resting his forehead against hers before straightening. She tipped her head back to look up at him, unable to stop her grin, her heartbeat gradually returning to normal.
“I’ll see you next Saturday,” he murmured.
She nodded, trying to smile past a pang of disappointment. Of course she’d have to wait. The man probably worked twelve-hour days. What did she expect him to do, drive forty minutes each way to take her to dinner?
“Maybe we can get lunch after the clinic closes.”
“I’d like that.”
>
“I like you, Tyler Olsen.”
He smiled. “I like you too, Margot Dunn.”
He released her. She backed up to the front walkway of her house, wrapping her arms around herself to fight the piercing cold. He climbed into the truck and lifted his hand in a wave as he pulled away from the curb.
She watched until he got all the way to the end of the road. Until he turned and disappeared out of sight. Until her hands went numb and her nose ran and she couldn’t stop shivering.
Finally she turned and walked inside, her steps buoyant, her heart as light as air.
4
Tyler eased off the accelerator as he passed the intersection where the state trooper liked to hide on Saturday mornings, then sped up again, stomping the clutch as he pushed the truck into a higher gear.
He was late, and he was pissed.
He’d been looking forward to today all week. From the moment he’d left Margot in front of her house he’d felt like a different man. A man noticed by a smart, beautiful woman like her. A man she wasn’t embarrassed to introduce to her friends—a man she couldn’t wait to see again, according to her texts.
He’d spent most of his life avoiding attention. Staying out of his dad’s way when he was on a bender. Hoping his first boss didn’t double-check his ID and realize he should still be in high school. Keeping his head down and his mouth shut so he was never at risk of losing the income that was the only thing keeping him out of that dark, airless house back in Park.
He took the same approach when it came to women. He was no virgin, but he’d never had anyone he’d call a girlfriend, either. The older he got, the less those anonymous fumbles in backseats appealed, and for the last few years he preferred to skip Friday nights in farmhands’ watering holes rather than navigate the interest he always seemed to garner. He’d long given up on the happy-family fantasy. It wasn’t for him. He’d accepted that.
Until now.
He exhaled in disgust as he exited the highway and wound into the city. One kiss and he’d thrown out years of good sense to fall back into a teenage fantasy. His own piece of land, a few head of cattle, a smallholding he could cultivate and grow to the point he could quit working for other people. A good woman who loved him for all he was and all he wasn’t. Maybe even a couple of kids. Children he could raise up right, work his ass off to send to college, go visit in their big houses in shining cities, then bring the grandkids back to the farm for the summer so they always knew where they came from.
He was a fool.
Thursday night Mr. Morse was admitted to the hospital. Friday morning his son showed up, and within hours the twenty-three-year-old was trailing him around the ranch, asking questions, scribbling notes, all but announcing that he’d be taking over while his dad recovered. When Tyler finally got home that evening he’d kicked his boots across the trailer. Only a few days earlier had he allowed himself to imagine he might be able to step up and run the ranch while Mr. Morse was sick. Now he remembered why he never got his hopes up, and regretted even contemplating whether he might have a future with Margot. He’d never be enough for her to choose him forever. He’d be an idiot to think otherwise.
He pulled into the space beside her hatchback and braced his hands on the steering wheel, trying to get his temper in check. This was his mess, not hers. She didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of his shitty mood.
She beamed as he approached, gleefully hoisting two coffees in a cup holder and another bag from that French bakery.
“Hi.” She pushed up on her tiptoes to brush a quick kiss over his cheek. It heated his face nonetheless, and he studied the toes of his boots as he nodded to indicate he had to go inside and get his pinny.
Ayana had it ready for him on the reception desk. “Good morning, handsome man. Everything okay? You look a little down in the dumps.”
Damn, she was good.
“Fine,” he muttered, pulling the escort pinny over his coat.
Margot greeted him with a tumbling spill of words as he got into position beside her. “The coffee is definitely black this week. I triple-checked to make sure. I think the roast was a little different—Kenyan instead of Ethiopian, maybe? Anyway it tastes good, just a little more fragrant than last time. I got pain au chocolat, and they were the last two, but still so fresh the chocolate kind of melted all over the bag. It’s hardened again out here in the cold so it looks sort of weird, but that’s an indication of its freshness, believe it or not.”
He took a big bite of pastry, looking for an excuse to not respond. She looked so freakin’ beautiful this morning, a perfect spring flower brightening up this winter day. He might up and propose if he dared to open his mouth.
“I’m happy to see you again,” she said softly, and a sucking wound seemed to open up just above his stomach. On the drive over he thought he might just be able to keep seeing her without getting in too deep, enjoy this while it lasted in the full knowledge it would end, but now he wasn’t so sure.
A new, louder chant grabbed his attention, and as he focused on the protestors for the first time since he pulled up he realized a different group had assembled a few feet away from the usual one. They were lesser in number but a lot noisier, and even some of the most familiar stalwarts glanced over at them warily.
“Their license plates are from Missouri,” Margot said, following his gaze. “I did some Googling. I think they’re a group from St. Joseph. Nasty pieces of work from what I can tell. They picket funerals.”
As if they could sense they were being discussed, several members of the group pulled out megaphones, making conversation nearly impossible and prompting the children in the other group to cover their ears.
“This should be fun,” Margot called over the din.
The clinic was busier than usual that morning—bad luck considering the out-of-state protestors managed to be more offensive than the worst of the local groups. At one point Margot stepped out into the parking lot to direct cars to spots nearest the door, where Tyler did his best to get visitors inside as quickly as possible. That worked until those rows filled up and the Missouri group split into two, half of them moving to the strip of sidewalk right by the entrance that was technically city property.
The local protestors had the decency to look appalled as the newcomers leaned over the chain link fence so their megaphones were inches from cars pulling into the lot. Apparently even shouting at young women seeking health services had its etiquette.
His pulse quickened in time with the headache throbbing in his temple as the leader of the Missouri group droned a load of Biblical crap into his megaphone. What the hell was with these people? They must have a pretty high opinion of themselves if they thought it was worth driving all those miles and burning all that gas just to tell a bunch of frightened women they were doing wrong.
That kind of righteousness really pissed him off. He’d seen it more times than he could count. The teacher who gave him detention every day he didn’t bring his gym shoes, not knowing his dad sold them to a thrift store for two dollars and those detentions cost him the work hours he needed to buy a new pair. The loan officer at the bank who took one look at his messy pile of handwritten paperwork and told him he wouldn’t qualify for a farm mortgage, even though all of his own painstaking calculations showed him he should. The way Mr. Morse’s son told him he’d be taking his name off all the accounts and checkbooks, and that if his dad had been in his right mind he never would’ve given so much financial and operational authority to a ranch hand.
He ground his back teeth together, reliving that moment in Mr. Morse’s office, having to root through his wallet and pass all his cards linked to ranch accounts over the wide desk to the young man sitting behind it.
Well, good luck to that kid when he tried to call the sale barn or the feed store or the vet. See how far his last name got him then.
A new car pulled into the lot and Tyler started out to meet it, knowing that out of necessity the driver would have to take the space near
est the Missouri protestors. He did his best to ignore the assurances of damnation blaring in his ears as he reached the front of the high-end SUV, quickly ascertaining it would be the stoic teenage girl in the passenger seat who’d need him, not the middle-aged woman behind the wheel.
The woman he assumed was the girl’s mother scrambled out of the car, covering her ears.
“Is this legal?” she demanded, indicating the protestors. “Are they allowed to be here, screaming like that?”
He nodded, then tugged open the passenger-side door.
He waited while the teenager stared straight ahead, her face unmoving except for a wince every time the megaphone screeched.
“Maybe they’re right,” she said eventually, the words quiet and detached. “Maybe I will go to hell.”
He remained in the open door, saying nothing.
She turned to him, and he realized she was younger than he’d first thought. “What do you believe?”
He had to think about that. Looked up over the roof of the car. Past Margot, past the chain-link fence, past the gas station across the street to the gray, cloudy sky at the horizon. Saw all the way to the half-dead tree he used to climb to hide from his dad, the sunsets he watched through sparse, dry leaves, the branch digging into his tailbone, the still-unanswered questions he’d asked aloud in the slow-moving air.
Then he looked down at the teenager in the car.
“I believe we’ve all got to do our best. For ourselves and for each other. And hope we’re doing right.”
She gazed up at him. Almost smiled. “I like that.”
She pivoted to the side and he helped her down from the SUV, immediately turning his back to shield her from the protestors’ view. The leader hollered something truly awful through the megaphone and the teenager pressed into his side. He guided her to the entrance with his hand on the small of her back, then ducked his head as she whispered, “Thank you,” before he passed her off to Ayana.
Rogue Nights Page 13
