Along Came a Cowboy (22 page)

Jack and I balance our plates on the edge of the fountain. “So when are you going to go out on a real date with me?” he asks.

I almost choke on a mint. “I haven't heard an invitation lately.”

“What time do you get off work Monday night?”

“Five.”

“So by six thirty you'd be ready? Monday night then? Chez Pierre?”

“Chez Pierre?” I say.

A male voice behind me echoes my words.

I spin around.

Ron is standing there, a puzzled look on his face. “I'm glad to see y'all firming up plans for the next committee meeting, but don't you think Chez Pierre is a little outside the city's budget?”

I start to stammer an explanation, my cheeks burning, but Jack speaks before I can. “This one's on me, Ron.”

Ron smiles. “In that case. . .bon appetit.”

I motion toward his cane, desperate to change the subject. “How are you doing?”

“Better, but I'm not up to sitting through any committee meetings yet. Besides, French food gives me heartburn.”

Jack winks at me. “Sorry to hear that.”

“Speaking of food, I see your mama's got me a plate fixed. I'd better get over there before she gives it away.”

“Sorry to hear that?” I say when Ron's gone. “What if he'd reconsidered and decided to go with us?”

“I'd have been more careful in scheduling our dates from now on.”

“From now on? You sound awfully sure of yourself.”

“Maybe I'm just sure of us. Speaking of that, was I right in thinking you didn't want Ron to know about us yet?”

Us? I barely know about us yet. I nod. “It's not that I'm embarrassed.”

He reaches over and takes my hand. “You set the pace, Rachel. I'm just thankful that we're finally on the same path.”

I wish I could be so sure.

B
y the time I'm dressed in my one and only little black dress Monday night, I'm wondering if I should have insisted on Pizza Den. At least then I'd have on comfortable clothes and wouldn't be trying to tame this wild curly mess I call hair. As I fight the temptation to call Jack and break our date, my phone rings and an irrational fear stabs me. Maybe Jack has the same doubts and is acting on them.

“I know you're getting ready to go, but I had to call and tell you. Sweetie and I just broke my personal best time on the barrels.” The breathless exhilaration in Jenn's voice makes me laugh as she rattles off her time. “You can do better blindfolded, I know, but I'm getting faster every day!”

I sink down on the bed and slip the strappy little black heel onto my foot. “Jenn, that's a fantastic time. . .for anybody! I bet the Grands are excited.” Although I know it doesn't compare with how excited they were that she wanted to stay out at their house tonight.

“Granddaddy went up to the house to get Grandmom. Here they come now, running across the yard.” She laughs, and she sounds so happy and carefree that I wish there were no
secrets in her life. No ticking bombs waiting to explode in her face. I slip on my other shoe and blink away the sudden tears threatening my makeup. Like Lark's granny always said, “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.”

“That's great, honey.”

“Bye, Aunt Rach. Have fun on your date.”

“I will. Y'all have fun, too.”

Just as I say good-bye, the doorbell chimes, and the dogs go wild.

I make them both sit so I can answer the door with at least a tiny bit of decorum. By the time I get the door open and Jack enters, we've about reached the limits of Labrador self-restraint. I decide to let Cocoa and Shadow beg for their good-dog pats from Jack to distract him as I scope him out. He looked really nice in his suit at the wedding, but tonight—in black dress pants and a red shirt with a black and red tie—he could easily top
People
magazine's “Most Beautiful People” list. For any year. Even his polished black cowboy boots with their silver tips are dressy. A smile flits across my face as I note that fact.

“What? You don't like boots with dress pants?” Oops—obviously not enough distraction. I should have let the dogs jump on him. He smiles and scratches Cocoa behind the ear. “This is about as gussied up as I get.”

“You look super.” Do I sound like a groupie? I tack on, “For a cowboy, I mean.”

“You just don't know when to stop, do you?” He shakes his head. “You look okay yourself.”

“Aw, c'mon, you're gonna give me the big head.”

His dimples flash again. “For an incredibly beautiful woman, I mean.”

I'm speechless. Finally I stammer out a “Thank you.”

After one more pat for the dogs, I grab my little black bag,
just big enough for a lipstick and my cell phone, and let him escort me out the door.

Jack offers his hand to help me into the truck, and I take it, trying to scramble in as elegantly as possible. Little black dresses were made for vehicles lower to the ground. But I love trucks. So I'm not complaining.

He turns on soft country music, and I stare out the window. I can't believe we're officially on a date. How did I let this happen? I didn't think it would be like this, but I have first-date jitters and everything that goes with it. And more. My heart is pounding out of my chest, of course, but I also feel like I can't breathe, like I might die at any second. At the same time, I feel more alive than I've ever felt before. How can love feel so much like a bad case of the flu?

Love. I stare at the streetlights reflecting on the fogged-up passenger glass. Uh-oh. I just thought the word
love
. What I really mean is. . .infatuation, right? Yes, that's it—a crush. I've got a crush on Jack. There. That's much more manageable. Like something I'll get over and then I'll be able to move on.

Relax, Rachel, and enjoy tonight. It's just a crush.

“I guess my red shirt was a bust, huh?”

I jerk my head around to look at him. “What?”

“I wanted to wear your favorite color to impress you, but since you didn't mention it, I figure you didn't notice.”

“Actually, I was impressed. It's perfect. And I love the tie.”

Stilted conversation, I admit, but it beats staring out the window.

He pulls into the Chez Pierre parking lot.

“Have you ever eaten here?” I ask then wish I hadn't. What if he always brings his dates here to impress them? What if he and Blair came here last week “to discuss rodeo publicity”? Wouldn't I rather not know?

“No. You?”

I shake my head. “No, but I've heard it's really nice.”

When we enter the restaurant, Jack gives the hostess his name, and she scurries off to check on our table.

Reservations. I'm impressed.

And I'm even more impressed when the hostess guides us to the best table in the house—right in front of a wide window overlooking the river. She hands us oversized menus, murmurs, “Your waitress will be with you in a moment,” and flits away.

Jack grins at me. “Hopefully she'll be able to interpret the menu. Unless you're fluent in French and you're not telling.”

“Nope. I know a little Pig Latin, but that's it for me.”

“When I take you to the Rib Crib, I'll have to remember that. Might come in handy.”

He has a habit of talking in terms of our future. Part of me loves that. The other part of me remembers that I have a secret the size of Texas, and I really shouldn't make a lot of future plans.

When the waitress comes and takes our drink orders, I order water with lemon and so does Jack. As she leaves, he raises an eyebrow. “Water? You're a cheap date.”

“Ha. Wait until I start on the food. You'll be begging me to stop.”

As we look at the menus, he leans toward me. “Apparently we're not the only ones in Shady Grove who don't read French.” He points to the English explanations of the dishes. “Subtitles.”

I read over the main courses then lower my menu. Jack is watching me. I smile. “So, what looks good to you?”

His brows draw together, and he shakes his head. “Talk about fishing for compliments! I already told you how beautiful you look.”

I immediately feel my face grow hot. “I'm pretty sure you
know I was talking about dinner.”

He laughs. “Yeah, I know what you meant. I usually understand you pretty well. But I never was able to resist teasing you.” His words turn back the clock, and I feel on firmer footing. This is my old friend Jack, not the handsome cowboy Jack.

The waitress smiles pleasantly as she sets our drinks and a basket of crusty French bread on the table. “Are you folks ready to order? The soup du jour is French onion. As for hors d'oeuvres, the chef recommends our sautéed foie gras.”

“I'd love the soup, but I think I'll pass on the hors d'oeuvres,” I say quietly to Jack.

“Duck liver doesn't sound too appealing to me either,” he confesses. He smiles at the waitress. “We'll both just have the soup.”

We finally settle on our main courses—Chicken Wellington for me and Filet Mignon for him.

When I hand my menu back to the waitress, my gaze falls on her uniform top. Suddenly I realize where I've seen that elegant gold monogram on black before. “Isn't this where Sheila Mason works?”

“You know Sheila?” She tucks the menus under her arm. “She sure is lucky, isn't she?”

“Lucky?” I must sound a little confused, because she frowns.

“You didn't hear about it?” She's eager to impart glad tidings. “She quit without notice a week or so ago.” She grins. “You should have heard Pierre.” She lowers her voice and leans toward me. “I don't speak French, but I'm pretty sure he wasn't wishing her good luck.” She chuckles then muses for a minute. “Wish I could be so lucky.”

“What do you mean by ‘lucky'? Did she win the lottery or something?” I ask, an uneasy feeling working its way through my stomach.

She shakes her head. “Tanya said she saw her at Wal-Mart, and she said she'd found a cushy setup for a while. Something about a new family to take care of her.” She shrugs. “Who knows what she meant? Maybe a long-lost rich uncle.”

Yeah. Uncle Craig and Aunt Lark.

Our informative friend leaves to place our order. Jack scrutinizes my face. “You look a little like I felt when I got kicked in the stomach by a bull one time.”

“Sheila quit her job to move in with Lark and Craig.” I know I sound dazed. “She's pregnant, and they're going to adopt her baby.”

“Do you need to go call Lark?”

“No. Let's just don't think about it tonight. I'll sleep on it and decide what to do about it tomorrow.”

Jack leans closer to me and covers my hand with his. “Good. I was hoping maybe we could forget everything tonight and just get to know each other again.”

I open my mouth to reply but stop short when a bright light illuminates our table.

“Is this how the centennial committee does business?” Blair drawls, motioning her cameraman in closer. “Candlelit dinners at Chez Pierre?”

J
ack scrambles to his feet, but Blair ignores him, speaking into the microphone. “Shady Grove citizens might be appalled to know that their centennial dollars are paying for extras like. . .” She turns and touches my goblet, and the cameraman zooms in on it.

“Water with lemon,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Well, I'm sure there are more expensive items to come.”

“May I speak to you off camera, Ms. Winchester?” Jack asks. Even in the dim light, I can see the jumping muscle in his jaw.

“Whatever you have to say to me, you can say to our viewers, Mr. Westwood.”

“I have no idea where you got the idea this was a committee meeting.”

“But”—she looks at me, taking in my little black dress, no doubt, then at him—“this isn't a committee meeting?”

He shakes his head.

For a second I see real chagrin flash across her face. I'm almost positive. Then it's gone.