Texas Redeemed (11 page)

“So you live in
Maryland?”

He wouldn’t say he
lived
anywhere. His address was always changing, his assignments leading him all over
the globe. “Not exactly. For now I live in Night Sky, Texas.”

“I’m not looking to
pry, but … Does this ‘family stuff’ have anything to do with your grandfather’s
will?”

“What do you know
about it?”

“Only what
Nathaniel thinks I should know. He wants a place for Lucy in his company. He’s
bulldozing me into letting her jump into this drawing and fashion thing with
both feet—says stability’s the best thing he can leave behind for his family.”

“What does Lucy
want?”

“She doesn’t know about
Nathaniel’s plans. I say she’s too young to get caught up in that world. He
says I’m holding her back, smothering her talent.” Valerie sighed. “This ranch
was my dream for myself
and
the girls. Now Anna’s gone and Lucy … well,
if given the choice between couture and glitz or flannel and cattle, there’s no
question what she’d choose.”

Peyton stiffened.
His grandfather had attempted to browbeat him into taking an interest in his
business, but it hadn’t worked. So he’d moved on to the next generation. Now
that he had his sights set on a blood relative who was both talented and
enamored with fashion, Nathaniel was probably after Valerie with his guns of
manipulation and persuasion blazing.

And Peyton didn’t
like that. Nor did he like the suspicion that at the heart of his grandfather’s
reason for calling him home was his cool, black determination to put Peyton to
use as someone to sway Valerie.

“I’m not here to do
his bidding,” Peyton told her, and she nodded though she didn’t look completely
convinced.

A gust of wind
ruffled their hair and caressed the fuzzy fabric of Valerie’s sweater. An
impulse shot through his blood and had him laying a hand on her back. His
fingers splayed against the sweater as his hand dropped lower. And he felt
Valerie just below all that cotton-candy-soft fabric.

“Peyton …”

Had she whispered
his name, or had it just been the whistle of wind? Unsure, he slowly drew the
bottom of the sweater up, his knuckles coming in contact with her exposed back.
The contrast between the cool fabric and her body heat was mesmerizing.

She arched against
his hand as it moved upward. Skin sliding over skin. No barriers. Wanting more
out of this moment, he angled toward her, shifted her so that his other hand
could snake underneath the front of her sweater. His fingers moved freely up
her abdomen to close over the soft weight of one of her breasts. A groan fell
from him but she didn’t move. Even as he worked his fingers beneath her bra,
discovering details of her body that had changed since he’d last touched them,
she stayed put with her sweater hiked up and her lips parted.

“You’ve saved
people all over the world with your hands,” she said. “And you were going to
hurt Coop with them, too.”

He didn’t have a
response to that, except that compromising the single most important
instruments to a surgeon—his hands—hadn’t occurred to him when he’d bolted out
of his chair in the dining room, ready to take the old cowboy to task for what
he’d said.

Now he felt a
shadow of regret, along with gratitude to Valerie for reminding him to think
about the bigger picture.

Valerie’s hand
covered his where it curved over her breast. Holding him to her, her eyes shut,
she sighed. “I was happy when we were friends.”

Was she not happy
now, with a successful ranch and surrounded by people she could depend on? Did
she want more of the past, more of that friendship they thought could last
forever?

He wanted the dark
heat of the here and now, of this moment with her. His hands blazed a trail
downward, then met at the front of her jeans. The button popped soundlessly
free.

But that movement
seemed to snap her out of a trance. She yanked her sweater down and leapt off
the picnic table, saying, “We should get back before the dessert’s gone.”

He started for the
pathway along the side of the house, with fallen leaves crunching under his
shoes. He’d parked at the curb, not intending to stay as long as he had.
Certainly not planning on this … whatever it was, he couldn’t name it … with
Valerie under a cloudy sky. “Actually, I’m heading back to Grandpa’s,” he said.
“Thank Dinah for me.”

“What about
dessert?”

Peyton detoured,
striding to her and murmuring close to her ear, “After what just happened out
here, you want me to stay? Want to play with that kind of fire, Valerie?”

She started to
shake her head no, but then her gaze fastened on his mouth and she hesitated.
“Um …” her brows drew together in a frown, as if she was struggling to make a
decision “… we don’t need that kind of fire.” She hadn’t answered his question,
but she retreated a few steps.

Then Peyton walked
away, and the dogs, apparently judging him to be a minimal threat, didn’t
follow. Her words chased him, taunted him.
We don’t need that kind of fire.
Valerie perched on that picnic table, so open, letting him touch her … telling
him that he’d made her happy once … It was enough to undo a man. And the only
thing more destructive than that was the dangerous urge to make her that happy
again.

“P
RAY
TELL
,” J
UNIE
Peera said, twirling a gnawed pencil
with her large-knuckled fingers and wiggling her head in such a way that her
penny-red hair and silver hoop earrings shined under Fork Diner’s lights, “what
gives a man the idea to get up with the rooster, get himself all dressed and
come here to order a bowl of Wheaties? Wheaties!”

With a pointed look
that said “Good luck with that,” Lucy sauntered ahead of Valerie into the
diner, past the counter and stools to an unoccupied table at the rear. The
place, located off the downtown fork in the road and decorated with what could
be found in a 1970s time capsule, was packed with the usual breakfast crowd—men
in tee shirts and worn jeans, hunched over coffee cups and plates of greasy
meat and short stacks; the elderly churchgoing ladies who were called “the Old
Faithfuls” and gathered here every morning for high-fiber breakfasts;
high-schoolers engrossed in conversation and French toast—but no one seemed
interested in indulging Junie’s complaints. And when the woman blinked
expectantly at Valerie, who’d been like a sitting duck still lingering in the
open doorway, letting the heady aroma of fried food waft into the street, it
was clear she wanted an answer.

“Which man are we
talking about, Junie?” Valerie took off her hat and nodded a greeting at Les
from the hardware store. He removed a folded newspaper from the stool beside
him and offered her a place to sit at the full counter. “Looks like most of the
room ordered your morning coronary special.”

“Wayne Beaudine.
Alone at a table, two o’clock.”

Valerie discreetly
scanned the area over her shoulder. Sure enough, he sat dressed in Beaudine
Body Shop coveralls, with his dirt-smeared Mets cap turned backward, eating his
“breakfast of champions” methodically and nursing a glass of grapefruit juice.

“Doesn’t he tip you
well enough, no matter what he orders?” she asked Junie, who, for such a gifted
gossip, failed to see that Wayne’s visits to the diner had less to do with
cereal and more to do with keeping a very male eye on the head waitress.

“It just doesn’t
make sense to come here for something you can shake into a bowl in your own
kitchen.” Deciding that she was correct, no matter how much sense Valerie made,
Junie whipped out her order pad. “What’ll it be?”

“Two fruit salads.
Add on a glass of water with lemon for Lucy and a—”

“Cola with extra
lime for you,” Junie interrupted with an almost pitying sigh. “You’re too young
to be so predictable, Valerie.”

“How about that?
Now
you’re
giving
me
tips.” Valerie craned her neck to get a
better look at the announcements board on the wall at the end of the counter.
This weekend a country-and-western band from the high school would be
performing. It was heartening to see the diner supporting the garage performers,
who were still bright-eyed and optimistic that someone with clout might stroll
into the place and put them on the path to fame. On the other hand, she
couldn’t help but suspect that the diner’s owner, Bud Frowler, had used his
autographed photos of Kenny Loggins and Willie Nelson as part of an ulterior
motive to reel in high-hoping local entertainers and bigger weekend crowds.

“Got another tip
for you, then,” Junie said, tearing off the slip of paper covered with her
shorthand scribble. She stopped to flash her pearly whites at the two Bishop
men trooping in—the detective in a tee shirt, tight jeans and boots with his
badge clipped to his belt, and his brother the patrolman in full uniform.
“Christ,” she murmured softly, “that Jeremiah Bishop was doing something right
when he made those boys. Fine from top to bottom, the whole lot of ’em.”

Valerie edged back
on her stool a millimeter. The Bishops—four sons and a daughter, and a father
who was the very definition of a by-the-book lawman—reminded Valerie of a wolf
pack. They were loyal and fearless, but you had to be careful not to get too
close because for them work mattered above all else. She’d dated one of the
sons—a firefighter—eons ago, and their relationship had been whiplash-short. An
itch scratched, really, and neither of them had wanted more than that.

If Junie was a
cougar on the prowl and ogling the offerings from the Bishop gene pool, then
she figured Wayne, who was a nice enough guy but had lost some teeth back in
his days of bare-knuckle boxing, had only a prayer. Which was too bad, really,
since just because a man looked good didn’t mean he was good for you.

A momentary hush
swept the room and the cops drew a few curious glances, but once it was
apparent they weren’t here on business, everyone returned to their
conversations, including Junie. “Be open-minded, Valerie.”

“About what?” Then
she remembered she was talking to a woman who could’ve put Hedda Hopper to
shame. “Oh. Peyton.”

Junie paused with
uncertainty, then tossed her head. “Right. Of course. A couple of nurses from
the hospital came in last night, and I heard his name come up once or twice—”
she leaned, lowered her voice “—along with words like ‘hard body’ and ‘muscular
ass.’”

“Well, people sure
can talk around here. A lot. Must be something in the water,” Valerie said
breezily, quietly congratulating herself for withholding her slight irritation
at the prospect of Peyton being appraised by women who couldn’t even begin to
understand him.

“How’s that working
out for you? Him being back?”

“America’s a free
country.” She gestured to the miniature United States flag taped to the tip jar
beside the diner’s cash register. “I’ve got no right to tell him where to
live.”

“Precisely,” the
waitress said, as if in confirmation. She reached for the pot of decaf,
suddenly in a hurry to get back to work. “I’ll have this order out to you and
Lucy straightaway.”

Valerie left the
counter with a gush of relief and sat down opposite Lucy at the table tucked
away in the corner of the diner, setting her hat on the seat beside her.

“What was Junie
talking your ear off about?” her daughter inquired hesitantly, as if she didn’t
really want to know and would rather shrink inside the ancient Spurs hoodie
she’d indefinitely borrowed from her mother.

“Wayne Beaudine.”
At Lucy’s unconvinced stare, she added, “And then the subject moved on to your
father.”

“
Everyone’s
talking about him, which means they’re talking about me, too.” The girl darted
her gaze around the room, still not satisfied though no one had been watching
them with gossip-hungry interest. “So how come you brought me here for
breakfast? I could’ve eaten at home and taken the bus to school. Oh, no. Are
you gonna ground me in front of an audience for ditching class?”

Valerie had dragged
herself out of bed at five-thirty to feed flakes to the horses and muck out
stalls. Already she was tired, and Fork’s cola with extra lime was her
never-fail wakeup tonic. “I’m not grounding you, as long as there’s the
understanding that you’re not to do something like that again.”

“Sorry.” But the
apology sounded manufactured … false.

After Junie
delivered their food, uncharacteristically without waiting longer than
necessary in order to overhear any useful tidbits, Valerie and Lucy ate in
tense silence—minus the chitchat around them and Dolly Parton’s soul-tugging
“Jolene” coming from the radio behind the counter.

Finally, worry
etched Lucy’s face as she said, “Pisces was acting weird when I fed her and
she’s slow and won’t let me pick her up. I think she’s sick.” She polished off
her fruit salad and guzzled down the water, following up with a belch. “Oops.”

“C’mon, we’re
late,” Valerie said with a glance at the loudly ticking wall clock and a signal
to Junie for the bill. “I’ll check on Pisces when I get back to the ranch.”

“We’re always late,
Mom,” Lucy retorted, running past her and out of the diner, sending the little
bell above the door into a ringing fit.

Only at the very
tail end of the day did it ever feel like Valerie had time to slow down—to
read, think, listen to music, scope out the stars, daydream ... anything. And
by then it was time to look ahead to the next day’s obligations.

Last night had been
different, a little out of her ordinary, because of those stolen minutes she’d
spent in her backyard with Peyton.

How bizarre had
that been? And why had his touch felt so natural, as if his hands belonged on
her body?

Probably because
they’d been so close before. Even when they were friends there was no such
thing as personal space, and hugging and hand-holding and sharing a soda were
as normal as anything. Traces of that friendship were still there, buried deep
below the surface but there nonetheless.

But even wanting to
unearth it was a risk she couldn’t take. The closer she allowed him, the closer
he would come to finding out what she’d done. This, an old betrayal, would hurt
him the most. And after what had gone down thirteen years ago, she didn’t want
to imagine how he might turn against her. So she couldn’t let that happen—not
to spare just him, but their daughter as well.

At the middle
school, Lucy lingered inside the car. “Mom, when are you going to the feed
store again? I can go with you.”

“Cordelia’s got it
covered.”

“No! I mean …
um … can we go on Saturday maybe? We never get to do stuff together.”

Nodding slowly,
Valerie said, “I’ll let Cordelia know. Get going now.”

“Oh, and can I
trade our goat for Sarah’s llama? Think about it, thanks, love you, ’bye!”

Then Lucy was gone,
joining a handful of other late students in a race for the school entrance.
What had just happened? Interest in the feed store all of a sudden? A scheme to
swap their goat for the Carews’ llama?

Oh, yes, they were
overdue for a serious talk—and not just about animal trading, but also about
what Lucy had done yesterday. Valerie knew now that her daughter was capable of
secrets and carelessness and lies.

When Valerie
returned to the ranch, she found Jack and Cordelia in the kitchen having coffee
with Dinah.

“Morning, guys,”
Valerie greeted. “On my way to find a barn cat. Pisces may be sick.”

“I’ll help you
look,” Cordelia said. “Come with us, Jack.”

Curious, Valerie
frowned at her cousin’s eagerness to join in the search for a cat. But she said
nothing as they trooped out to the barn. Already the day was busy with chores.
Fresh bales of hay had been neatly stacked. Someone had delivered a boxful of
pie pumpkins Dinah must’ve purchased from the farmers’ market before her trip
last week. From what she could see, they were beauties. No doubt they’d make
some delicious pies.

“Bake sale?” she
inquired, locating the jar of organic cat treats Lucy kept stored on a shelf.

Jack shook his
head. “Di’s donating about twenty pies—half to Meridian’s food bank and half to
the Night Sky Church of Christ Thanksgiving dinner.” This year would be the
fourth that the Jordans and Merrimans would volunteer before sitting down to
their own meal.

“Found Pisces,”
Cordelia said, wagging a finger as the cat appeared from behind a stack of hay.
“What’re her symptoms?”

The three of them
closed in on the cat and Valerie knelt to offer a treat. “Irritable, slow,
might have a poor appetite.”

Jack muttered,
“Hmm, let me see something. Hold her, Valerie.”
    Valerie carefully gripped Pisces by the scruff of her neck, holding
her in place while Jack placed his hand on the cat’s low-hanging belly. Though
immobilized, Pisces made a gravelly growling sound.

“Let her go.” Jack
leaned back on his haunches and looked from Cordelia to Valerie. “Pisces isn’t
actually sick. She’s pregnant.”

“Pregnant!” Valerie
and Cordelia exclaimed in unison.

“Luce’s gonna flip
when she finds out,” Cordelia went on.

“And she’ll want to
keep the whole litter,” Jack added with a wink.

Valerie led them
outside. “Speaking of Lucy, she and I will be going to the feed store, so
scratch that off your errand list, Cordelia. And this afternoon I’ll take Brute
out again. Did anyone let the Grangers know we’ll be going to the barn
raising?” She finally stopped talking when she noticed the two were shuffling
their feet. “What’s up?”

“Valerie …”
Cordelia took her by the shoulders “… Pisces isn’t the only pregnant gal on the
ranch.”

“You?”

“Yes! Just found
out this morning. I wasn’t feeling well and had the crazy idea to try a
pregnancy test. So Jack went out and bought one of each brand of tests the
all-night pharmacy in Meridien had. All positives! We’ve been up since four,
but we’re so excited neither of us can even think about sleep.”

“Congratulations!”
Valerie hugged them both and couldn’t stop the squeal that escaped her. “This
is—it’s incredible. But I thought you’d be ovulating …”

“Nope, guess I was
pregnant, huh? See, that date wasn’t even necessary, Jackie.”

“It would’ve been
fun to try though,” Jack said, and Cordelia playfully socked him on the arm
then kissed him.

“Now we have to
tell Mama,” Cordelia said with a sigh. “She’s going to go into
super-protective-mother mode.”

“Because she
cares.” Valerie knew that Cordelia had endured a series of miscarriages and her
recent struggles to even become pregnant were a warning sign that she might not
be capable of carrying a fetus to full term. Each failed pregnancy hit Cordelia
hard mentally and emotionally, so it only made sense that Dinah would want to
hover over her daughter.

Valerie squeezed
her cousin’s shoulder. Giving Dinah the news likely wouldn’t be as eventful as
the day Uncle Rhys had found a pregnancy test in Valerie’s trash, taken a belt
to her and ordered her to pack her things and get out, all the while calling
her a slut. “I’m heading out in a few, so you’ll have privacy to talk things
over with Di.”