Texas Redeemed (29 page)

“A
RE YOU SURE
this isn’t a date?”

Valerie considered the question as she sat on the dresser
in Cordelia and Jack’s bedroom and watched her cousin
thumb through a copy of
Elle.
When Cordelia had been prescribed bed rest, and became
stir-crazy the first day, Lucy had donated magazines, books and video games to
the carriage house.

“Uh …” she said, recalling the phone conversation with
Peyton the day before. He’d mentioned watching a Food Network program that
reminded him of her, because the dive featured was a Midwestern trailer
restaurant that specialized in chicken wings, which was still her favorite
food. Somehow they ended up debating Buffalo wings versus hot wings, bleu
cheese versus hot sauce, and then before she realized it they were agreeing to
go out for dinner—together.

“New question. Did you wax?” Cordelia wiggled her brows.

“Of course.”

“It’s a date. So about your outfit.
Wear jeans. Dress ’em up, dress ’em
down. Doesn’t matter as long as they flatter your ass.”

Valerie hopped off the dresser. “You’ve been reading too
many of these magazines, cuz.”

“God, you’re right.” Cordelia
set the magazine aside. “Distracting myself with all
this reading is having an adverse effect. I even sent
Jack to Nottering’s Drugs to buy me a tube of
Wonderland Red lipstick. It’s supposed to be the best wintertime shade for my
complexion.”

“Why so desperate for a distraction?” Valerie paused. It
wasn’t her business, but … “Are things okay with you and Jack?”

“Why wouldn’t they be?”

“Because you’re both under a lot of stress with the baby
and … well, ever since the incident with Brute—”

“How long does everyone intend to hold that over my
head?”

“And all the arguing, Delia.
Even people in town are talking about it.”

Cordelia’s smile was quick, but
her nostrils flared. “Our arguments never last long. Come on—the guy went to Nottering’s Drugs to buy me lipstick! We’re fine.” She
rubbed her tummy. “I’m not worried about Jack and me, or this little peanut.
It’s Chase.”

Though he had accepted the job and moved into the desperately-in-need-of-renovating
bunkhouse, Chase remained a recluse, spending his downtime either shut up
indoors or hanging around the warehouse district.

“Val, he’s so quiet and distant, and hasn’t even once
teased me about weight gain.”

“Is he talking about Afghanistan yet?”

“No,” Cordelia said, “and it’s
irking the hell out of me. What
happened
over
there?”

They sighed in unison, then Cordelia lightly slugged her shoulder. “Go with jeans. And
get a move on. Just this once, don’t be late.”

Valerie ended up taking Cordelia’s
advice, choosing low-slung boot cuts and pairing them with a charcoal-colored
sweater and her burgundy-red high-heeled boots that were old, but familiar and
comfortable.

What would happen tonight? Peyton wasn’t the man he’d
been before. Even then, when he’d been reckless with no direction and a chip
bigger than Texas on his shoulder, she’d loved him. Now that she’d had a
tantalizing taste of who he was now—the loyal protector who was capable of
giving her the passion she’d given up on hoping for long ago—she wanted more.

She wanted a guarantee that putting everything she cared
about on the line for a do-over with him wouldn’t blow up in her face. She
wanted to know that he really had grown up, and that she and their daughter
wouldn’t be collateral damage. She wanted the love brewing between them to come
with an unbreakable bond.

But she didn’t have any of those reassurances. All she
had was an instinct to be cautious, and a heart urging her to take the risk.

Valerie found Lucy stretched out on the living-room floor
browsing a textbook, with Bowie lazing in the subtle dip of the small of her
back. “Smokin’ outfit, Mom.”

“Thanks.” Valerie debated whether or not to even broach
the subject, but ultimately stretched out on the floor beside her and tapped
the world history textbook. “Studying?”

“Nope. Just
reading. And drawing—sort of.” She revealed two
sheets of folded sketch paper that were hidden under the book.

Valerie unfolded the paper, impressed with the drawings.
“Incredible. Sign one for me? I’d love to add to my collection of L. Jordan
originals. Unless Nathaniel’s already called dibs on these.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I am.” Valerie refolded the drawings. “So, want to visit
him soon, let him have a look at these ideas?”

Lucy stuck the drawings in the book and faced her. “What
the hell? When I wanted to visit Gramps, you ragged on me to pretty much forget
about fashion and focus on the ranch. Now I’m doing that stuff, and you’re
still
freaking out. Back off, okay?”

“First things first,” Valerie said as Bowie raised up and stretched and found a more comfy spot
underneath the coffee table. “Lose the attitude, fix your tone.”

“Sorry.”

“‘Sorry’ is no good here. Just listen.” She smoothed an
errant tendril of the girl’s toffee-brown hair from her face. “I’m your mom,
and I’ll never back off. You’re gonna want to get
used to that.”

“I just don’t understand what I’m doing wrong now.”

“You’re suffering, and you’re hiding it from me.” When
Lucy’s eyes flickered to her, Valerie knew she had stumbled onto something
massive. “Talk.”

The girl slowly sat up. “It’s nothing.”

“Bull.” She had to push, had to dig for the truth. “Is
this about Peyton?”

“No.”

“So, what, you miss hanging out at Fork with your
friends? I thought we had an understanding that as long as Marin—”

“I don’t care about Marin Beck. And I don’t care about
hanging out, either.” She shifted her gaze to the side. “Owen McNamara just
wants to be friends.”

“The little boy from the feed store?”
To be fair, Owen was getting taller by the day and wasn’t so much a “little
boy” anymore. Apparently, her daughter had already noticed that. “Since when
did you
want
to be more than friends
with him?”

“God … here we go.”

“You usually talk to me about this kind of stuff …”
Valerie felt her daughter’s nervousness and could practically see her thoughts.
Drop it! Let it go already!
“And
that’s part of the reason I don’t believe you. Doesn’t Owen deserve better than
to be a convenient fall guy to blame for what’s
really
bothering you?”

As Dinah’s footfall sounded on the
front stairs, Lucy scrambled up. “Unless you want me laughed out of
school, please don’t blab about this.”

Confusion built as Valerie noticed that Dinah carried two
suitcases. “Whoa. What’s going on?”

“Cordelia’s lonesome for
company, and Jack invited us to spend the night at the carriage house. He’s
whipping up pasta and hot buttered rum. Oh, cocoa for Luce
and Dee.” Dinah smiled innocently as Lucy scurried over to claim her
suitcase, but the mischief in her eyes couldn’t be hidden. “Don’t worry, Val.
He promised to send over the rum recipe for you to try out.” When Lucy
thundered up the stairs to get something that needed to be packed, Dinah added
in a whisper to Valerie, “But it’s no fun drinkin’ it
alone.”

“Ah.” This feeling that everyone on Battle Creek knew
what should’ve been private was what Lucy would call cringeworthy.
“Cupid Dinah, you’ve got the night off. I don’t need you shooting arrows my
way.”

“So you say.”

When the headlights of Peyton’s SUV flashed across the
front of the house, Valerie was hit with apprehension and met him in the
driveway, going straight to his window before he had a chance to open the door.
He lowered the window. “Val, what’re—”

“This chicken dinner thing. Good
or bad idea? What’s your gut telling you?”

Peyton waited a beat before leaning out the window until
their noses almost touched. “Hot wings are always a good idea.”

“Buffalo
wings,” she said with a smile, feeling the wave of nervousness ebb.

“Suit yourself.” He reached across the vehicle’s console
to push open the passenger door, and she got in.

In jeans and an umber-brown
chambray shirt, he looked casual … and sexy. At twenty-one he’d been handsome
with potential to be as notoriously good-looking and charming as his father was
said to have been. Over time age and life had chipped away at that
handsomeness, leaving him with an appeal that struck her as too intriguing to
resist.

Even though they both knew
what
they wanted to eat, neither had thought ahead to come up with
suggestions of
where
to eat. So he
parked midway down Old Towne and they walked the entire length of the
seven-block main street, passing the bank and historic row houses, well-lit
shops under colored awnings and darkened nine-to-five businesses, the general
store, a coffeehouse and an ice cream parlor with a sandwich board out front
offering free samples of its flavor of the month—Stargazin’
Sherbert.

On a whim she turned the corner. “Perfect!” Tex’s Bucking
Bronco, infamous for the garish Ride Hard sign that probably threw the Old Faithfuls into a tizzy if they ever dared to venture past,
was an out-of-the-way honky-tonk with lawn gnomes wearing cowboy hats flanking
the door and blinking neon lights advertising half-price margaritas for ladies
only.

“Been here before?” she inquired as they rushed across
the road with a scatter of passersby who were itching for an earful of J.D.
Tripp, a soulful country crooner who’d been chewed up and spit out in Music
City at the turn of the millennium.

“Mom was a barfly here, sometimes drank more than what
she could pay for. Gossip went around about what she’d do to settle her tab.”

Valerie stopped him with a gentle hand on his chest. “We
can go someplace else.”

“I’ve got a shitty memory of this place,” he said, removing
her hand from where she could feel his steady heartbeat. But instead of
releasing her, he interlocked his fingers with hers and continued to the
entrance.

She glanced at their joined hands, fed off the strength
of that connection. “Easy fix. Let’s replace that with a good memory.”

Inside, the bar was decorated with a scratched wooden
floor, faux wood walls, a stage set up with mics and
drums where Tripp and his band were finishing a song. A red-and-black
motorcycle was mounted in the middle of the high ceiling. The mirrored wall
behind the bar featured shelves crammed with liquor bottles. There were cracked
vinyl stools and pictures of motorcycles and vintage cars. Lined up along the
left and right walls were red booths that looked decades past their heyday.
There was a jukebox tucked into the corner, and the floor was crowded with
couples dancing, while waitresses buzzed past taking orders, delivering food
and collecting tips.

A waitress carrying a rag and cleaning supplies waved
them over to a freshly bussed table in the corner opposite the jukebox. “This
one’s free.”

Valerie took the bench across from him, breathing in the
heady aroma of fried food, as well as undercurrents of booze, cigarette smoke,
sweat and cologne. Laughter and conversation hummed around them, and though
this was a place to let your hair down, the fact that they’d come in together
was ample grease for the rumor mill. “To get down to business,” she said,
plucking the two menus between the salt and pepper shakers, “what’s this place’s
chicken situation?”

They decided on margaritas—hers was half-price, after
all—a wing sampler and a variety of dipping sauces. When the food arrived, they
tasted each wing-and-dip combo to find out which really was the tastiest.

“Okay,” Valerie said, wiping her mouth with a napkin,
“count of three, say the chicken and dipping sauce that you think is the best.
Ready?”

Peyton counted and they blurted their responses loudly,
drawing a few puzzled glances.

“You said Buffalo wings,” she pointed out. “I win.”

“Well, you said bleu cheese, so I win.”

“Not exactly. What good’s a
dipping sauce without the wings?” She patted her belly. “But that’s a debate
for next time.”

“Next time?” Peyton moved his
margarita glass aside and hooked his index finger in her sleeve. “So we went
out and shared an entire meal together—and I’m assuming you’re
liking this as much as I am if you’re proposing a next time.”

“This
is
a
date.” Cordelia was right after all. “We’re dating. Going steady.”

“Then I owe you a ring.” Peyton pulled her sleeve and she
leaned forward to let him kiss her cheek.

“We’re being watched,” she whispered.

“Care about that?”

“No.” And she went in for another kiss—this one on the
mouth.

They were interrupted when her cell phone beeped and
vibrated from within her purse. “It’s Lucy,” she said, panic surging as she
fumbled with the phone to open the message. “Something’s wrong.”

Peyton pushed his plate to the side and abandoned his
bench to sit beside her. “What is it? I can get us to the ranch in—”

Valerie read the message aloud. “‘Going
to the hobby shop with D in the morning. Will be home
before lunch. Cool?’” Relief left her feeling weak-kneed and she was
glad to be already sitting. She typed a quick response: “Cool. Good night.”
When she dropped the phone into her purse she found Peyton watching her.

“Did you ask Lucy to contact you tonight only if there
was a problem?”

“No,” she said, not following where he was going with
this.

“Then why’d you automatically assume something was wrong
when you got that text?”

Valerie sighed, and the concern in his eyes had her
admitting, “It’s just like when the girls got sick—the situation. Lucy’s away
from home overnight and I’m out having fun.”

“Val, they didn’t get meningitis because you were out
with friends. But why didn’t Dinah or Cordelia watch
after the girls, if you didn’t feel comfortable with the field trip?”