She’s Gone Country (21 page)

His eyes blaze furiously. “What do you mean? We moved here. I like it here. I’m not going back to New York. Ever.”

I shift self-consciously. “It’s not that easy, baby. I can’t just move you away from your dad without a formal custody agreement, and right now we don’t have one in place. That’s something we’re working on, and then we have to get a judge to sign off on it. But hopefully it’ll happen and we’ll stay and—”

Cooper jumps to his feet and walks out.

He’s never walked away from me before. I sit back in my chair and weigh whether I should go after him or just let him be for now.

After a moment, I turn to look at Dane. “Sorry.”

“He just needs some time to cool off.”

I nod, but my insides churn. “He really does like it here,” I say after a moment. “He’s happy here.”

“Is there going to be a custody battle?”

I take a deep breath. “Hope not. And this isn’t about keeping the boys from John. John’s a great dad, a very hands-on father. But I can’t be in New York. I can’t live there now. I need to be here.”

“But he’s not happy with the kids here, is he?”

I get up from the table, stack the dishes, and carry them to the sink. “No. He misses them.”

“And you wouldn’t let him have custody?”

My head jerks up. “God, no. I love them. I need them. I honestly couldn’t survive without them.” And then, realizing how that sounds, especially in light of Dane’s loss, I add, “I mean, I guess I could if I had to, but I wouldn’t want to. I love being their mom.”

“It’s obvious.”

Turning on the hot water, I start filling the kitchen sink, feeling torn. I’m here with Dane, but I’m also worried about Coop. And yet this schism is part of motherhood. Once the first baby arrives, your attention is forever split. Husband and child. Work and family. “I’m sorry. I know I talk about them too much. The little buggers have a way of taking over—”

“It’s okay.”

“No, I need to learn to juggle better.”

“You’re juggling fine. I’d be worried if the kids didn’t come first. And I like it that you’re devoted to the boys. I find it sexy.”

I nearly drop the bottle of dishwashing soap into the sink. “Sexy?” I croak.

“You’ve always been pretty, Shey, and I knew you were strong. But I don’t think I realized just how beautiful you were until I saw you with your boys. When you’re around your kids, you have this glow, this vitality, and it’s a huge turn-on.”

Did he just say “sexy” and “turn-on” in the space of thirty seconds?

“I wish Shellie Ann had been more like you,” he adds flatly. “She always seemed annoyed by the demands of motherhood. Yes, Matthew needed a lot of care, but he was our son. I would have done anything for him, and yet I used to think that all Shellie Ann wanted was to get away from him.”

“I’m sure she didn’t mean it—”

“He had problems. He wasn’t perfect. She hated it, you know. She couldn’t get over the fact that he wasn’t a pretty baby. She couldn’t enter him in pageants and cute baby photo contests.” Bitterness makes every word sharp. “I had no idea how shallow she was until it was too late. But what do you do? You make the best of it, right?”

“Right.”

He stares past me, across the kitchen and out the window to the dark night. “I’m still angry with her. It’s been years, but I can’t forget the things she said, the things she did. Matthew deserved better.”

I say nothing, and he turns to look at me, features hard, expression intense. “Do you know what Shellie Ann told Charlotte? She said she wished she’d aborted Matthew when she had the chance.” His voice drops, deepens, and he grinds his jaw as he struggles to regain control. “The day she told Charlotte that, it was Mattie’s second birthday. His
second
birthday. Lord.” He draws a quick, shallow breath. “I would have died for that boy, and my wife, my
wife
, wished she’d killed him.”

“I’m sure she didn’t mean it. She was probably having a bad day. That happens when you’re a mom. You say things you don’t mean. You lose your temper.”

He fixes his fierce gaze on me. “Have you ever said you wished your child was dead?”

“No, but exhaustion and depression can make women say things they really don’t mean.”

“Charlotte said the same thing. Shellie Ann was just depressed. She needed more time for herself. So I hired a nanny and Charlotte came over every night after work and my mother was here weekends. But it didn’t help. Shellie Ann wouldn’t be—couldn’t be—happy, and we were this crazy miserable dysfunctional family.”

“It had to hurt. You’ve always been such a family man.”

He runs a hand across his face. “I wanted it to work. But, God, we weren’t compatible. She loved the social scene and nightlife while I just wanted to hole up at home and chill out. Shellie Ann used to complain that I deliberately trapped her on the ranch. But I wasn’t trying to trap her. I like living there. I enjoy the solitude. It’s where I’m happy.”

“That’s why you built that big stone mansion.”

“I didn’t understand it was the ranch she hated. I thought it was the old farmhouse.” Abruptly he rises, his forehead furrowed. “Let’s not talk about this anymore. It’s just getting me upset, and it all happened so long ago.”

“Of course. Can I offer you coffee, dessert?”

He shakes his head. “No, I should go.” But he says it reluctantly. “I have some calls I need to make tonight.”

“I can make you a cup of decaf for the road.”

Dane’s expression suddenly eases, and he gives me a crooked smile. “You’re good company, Shey Callen.”

“Shey Darcy.”

“You’ll never be Darcy to me,” he says, crossing the kitchen to join me at the sink. “You’re a Callen. My favorite Callen.”

I can feel his warmth and smell that clean scent he wears, and it makes my insides turn to mush. “In that case, I don’t suppose you’d want to do something this weekend?”

The corner of his mouth lifts and he reaches out, brushes hair from my eyes. “Is this a date?”

I shiver as his fingertips brush my skin. “It doesn’t have to be.”

His lashes drop, concealing his eyes, but I get the distinct feeling he’s looking at my mouth. “But you’d like it to be?”

I squirm on the inside. “Not if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“I see. You want me to be comfortable.”

There goes my stomach again. I’m suddenly all pins and needles. “Of course.”

“Of course.” His mouth curves again in that faint, crooked smile.

“Or we don’t have to have dinner. I’d be happy just going for a walk. Getting a coffee. Having a drink. I just want to see you.”

He’s still staring at my mouth, and the skin heats across my cheekbones. I wish he’d kiss me. I’d love for him to kiss me.

“Friday night, then?”

I exhale. “Yeah.”

“I’ll pick you up,” he adds. “Six-thirty.”

I don’t know if it’s his eyes or the pitch of his voice or just knowing we’re going out this weekend, but I’m warm, overly warm, and overly turned on. I touch my tongue to my upper lip to wet it ever so slightly. “Great. I’ll be ready.”

He smiles at me. “See you then, darlin’.”

He leaves just as Bo comes in, which means Brick and Dane must have seen each other’s truck in the drive. I’m sure that didn’t go over big with either one, but I put it out of my mind to reheat Bo’s dinner plate and ask him about practice.

“Okay,” he answers, taking a seat at the table.

I set his plate in front of him. “Still mad at me?”

“No. Well, a little.”

I ruffle his hair. I guess I can live with that.

While he eats I tackle the dishes, energetically scrubbing the skillet clean as I think about Friday night’s date with Dane. Our first date in twenty-three years.

I can’t believe we’re actually going to go out. Not for lunch. Not during the day. But on a weekend night.

I feel like a kid who’s never been kissed, although I have been kissed, and kissed by Dane. And God, he was a great kisser. The best. Hands down. No one ever came close.

I wonder if he’ll kiss me Friday night. He nearly did Thanksgiving weekend, and this time I don’t want him to stop.

This time I won’t let him stop.

Glancing at Bo still eating his dinner at the table, I feel guilty for even thinking these thoughts. It feels completely wrong to fantasize when I’m near my kids, but I suddenly have a one-track mind.

What would Dane be like in bed?

I haven’t slept with anyone but John in eighteen years, and I haven’t made love with John in over two years. I can’t even imagine making love to anyone else. I’m not sure my body would even know what to do.

And then I picture Dane and feel a frisson of excitement and pleasure. He’s so hot, and just thinking about how he fills out a pair of Wranglers makes my breath catch in my throat.

I’m such a liar. I know exactly what to do with him. I also know that I’d enjoy it.

I’m out with the boys doing some Christmas shopping Thursday night when I get a call from a number I don’t recognize. I let it go into voice mail since my arms are full of bags and forget about the call until Charlotte calls two hours later to ask a question about this year’s Christmas gift exchange. It’s then I remember I have a message waiting. We’ve only just got home from town, and I check the message as the kids carry all the shopping bags into the house.

It’s Delilah, the blond girl from Bo’s school.

It’s hard to understand her through her tears, but from what I can gather, her mom’s boyfriend kicked her out of the house and she’s walking somewhere and she needs a ride. Can I come get her?

I wish I’d checked messages sooner. I was just in town. I was just there. It would have been so easy to go get her.

I quickly call her. She doesn’t answer. I leave a voice mail and hang up. For a long moment I stare at my phone, telling myself that it’s been two hours and she’s probably fine now. But what if she isn’t?

What if she’s still walking? What if she has no coat? What if she has nowhere to go?

My stomach hurts, and I’m sick with worry. With a shout to the boys that I’ve got to run back into town, I grab my keys and dash to the truck. As I drive, I call Delilah’s number again and again, only to get her voice mail every time. I’m eight miles from Mineral Wells when I call once more, and this time Delilah picks up. “Are you okay, Delilah?” I ask, so damn relieved to hear her voice.

“I’m scared,” she says in a small voice.

“Where are you?”

“Behind the train station next to the old meatpacking plant.”

I know the area. We used to mess around the empty plant when we were kids. “I’m on my way.”

Delilah’s standing near the curb beneath a yellow streetlight. She’s wearing a short skirt and a T-shirt and sneakers without socks, and her eyes are humongous in her white face. I pull up next to her, lean over, and open the door. She climbs in, teeth chattering. “Thank you,” she whispers, closing the door behind her.

I pull off my coat and drape it around her shoulders. She’s so cold that she doesn’t protest but draws the lapels close to her thin chest. “How long have you been walking around?”

“Since before I called you.”

Two and a half hours in a frigid, forty-degree temperature without a sweatshirt or coat. “What happened?” I ask, pulling away from the curb, anxious to be out of the warehouse district at night.

“My mom’s boyfriend freaked out.” She sags into the coat. “When he drinks they fight, and then…” Her voice drifts off and her eyes close, her eyelashes inky against her pale cheeks.

“Does he hit you?” I ask, having seen this before when I lived in New York and worked with the girls at the YWCA. So many girls grow up with abuse. So many girls see things they should never have to see.

“Mostly my mom.”

Mostly.

I hate alcohol. I do. I don’t know why people need to drink. Don’t like what drinking does to some people. Makes them mean. Makes them ugly. Makes them hate.

“Did you have any dinner?”

She shakes her head.

“Let’s go get you something to eat.”

She nods gratefully.

We end up at the Kountry Kitchen Café, and the place is deserted except for one old man eating lemon meringue pie at a booth in the corner. Traci was sitting at the counter studying when we walked in, but she jumps up to greet us.

“Are you still serving, Traci?” I ask, hearing no activity in the kitchen.

“Yes, ma’am. Just a quiet night.” She grabs two menus. “Sit wherever you like.”

I let Delilah pick the table—it’s one of the small booths beneath the front window, where the glass has been frosted and painted with holly and wreaths. The inside of the restaurant has been decorated, too, with a miniature Christmas tree on the counter and a plastic Santa with a light shining through it.

“Order whatever you want,” I tell Delilah. “Three cheeseburgers, two French dips, four pieces of apple pie. My boys do it all the time.”

Tucking lank hair behind an ear, she smiles shyly and orders just one cheeseburger, with a side of fries and a hot chocolate with whipped cream. I order a cup of herbal tea.

Delilah downs her cocoa before the burger even arrives. “Want another one?” Traci asks her.

Delilah looks at me hesitantly.

“Sure,” I answer.

As Traci walks away, Delilah reaches for her water glass and gives it a little spin on the table. “Thank you for coming to get me.”

“I’m just sorry I didn’t get your call earlier.”

“It’s okay.”

“So what happens now?” I ask her.

“I’ll go home. Howie’s probably passed out. And Mama’s probably got a black eye, but that’s how it is at my house.”

I remember her grandfather sitting on the porch that day I drove her home earlier in the fall. “What about your grandpa? Where is he?”

“Sleeping. Watching TV. Staying out of the way.” She looks at me, expression hopeless. “Because if he doesn’t, Howie will whip his ass.”

A half hour later, I’m dropping Delilah off at her house and feeling like a traitor.

Children shouldn’t have to grow up like this.

Children should be protected.

I spend a sleepless night thinking about Delilah and all the other girls like her. Girls who don’t get enough love. Girls who don’t get enough support.