Unforgettable (The Dalton Gang #3) (30 page)

THIRTY-TWO

B
OONE PULLED TO
a stop at the edge of the grassy ditch in front of the frame house belonging to Dean Blaylock, hoping the other man wasn’t home. It was hard to tell from the number of cars parked in the driveway and yard who was. For all he knew, the entire Blaylock clan might be inside with shotguns. There had to be at least a half-dozen vehicles, and none on blocks or with their hoods popped for repairs.

That left Boone wondering, as he walked by, if he was walking into a Blaylock ambush, or if they all belonged to Dean. And that took his wondering all the way to what kind of salary Len Tunstall paid. The slaughterhouse might be a good place to apply if the ranch went belly-up, because if that happened, Boone would need work.

As he headed up the driveway, winding his way through the cars, two boys, blond-haired and both under ten, came running from the back of the house, shooting at each other with big colorful water cannons. Not quite the ambush he’d been imagining, but close enough.

They dodged this way and that, one turning down the path where Boone stood, the other coming after the first—and shooting. Since the smaller boy had ducked, Boone took the hit from the taller, a splatter of cold water soaking his midsection and spreading out across the lower front of his shirt.

The boy who’d pulled the trigger stopped, his big blue eyes going calf wide. “Sorry, sir. I’m really sorry. I didn’t see you there. Joel, go get Mom.” The younger boy scampered off toward the back of the house, yelling, “Mom! Mom!” while Boone pulled the tails of his shirt from his belt and tried to wring out some of the moisture.

“Don’t worry about it. A little water never killed a man.”

The boy’s cheeks were bright pink, and Boone was pretty sure it wasn’t from the sun or the exertion. “I was looking at Joel, and he ducked right when I was shooting, and there you were. I’m really sorry.”

“You and your brother out of school for some reason?” Seemed strange to find kids running around in the middle of the day.

“Mom homeschools us. We’re on our recess break,” he said, just as the other boy came running back to say, “She’s coming,” then, “Here,” as he handed Boone a clean hand towel.

Penny Upton having kids was one thing; why shouldn’t she have moved on and done just that? But homeschooling them? Hard to believe the girl he’d known would’ve had the initiative, not to mention the smarts to educate these two boys.

“Thanks, kid,” he said to the little one who looked just as guilty as the older. Boone started to say more, but just then the front door opened, and Penny stepped out on the porch.

She looked good. That was the first thing that came to mind. A strange thing to come to mind, but she did. With the part of town she lived in, and the front yard used for auto storage, and Dean working at the slaughterhouse . . . He hadn’t expected her to look good. He’d expected worn and haggard and down on her luck. But those were the things he associated with her father, and she was none of them.

“Why, Boone Mitchell,” she said, one hand going to her cocked hip, a smile lighting up her face as he walked closer, drying his stomach with her towel. “As I live and breathe. And don’t you look like a walking advertisement for Wrangler jeans.”

“Penny,” he said, pulling off his hat when he reached her, not quite sure what to do with her comment. “Good to see you, too.”

“Is it? Because you’re the last person I’d have ever thought would think seeing me was a good thing,” she said, her laugh unexpectedly nervous. “Jacob. Joel. Did you apologize to Mr. Mitchell for getting him all wet?”

The boys nodded, their mother’s arched brow getting both to mumble another, “Sorry, sir.”

“Okay then,” she said. “Recess is over. Go put on dry shirts, then it’s thirty minutes of Harry Potter. I’ll be in to talk about what you’ve read when you’re done.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they said in unison before running back into the house. Tickled, Boone found himself unable to stop the pull of a smile at their obvious love and respect for their mother.

This woman, as much if not more than Tess and Dave Dalton, had determined what he’d done with and how he’d lived his life. And here he was, caught off guard by what she’d done with hers. He hadn’t expected any of this. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel.

Penny let the screen door slam shut behind her sons, and stayed on the porch with him. “I do apologize. I have to let them run off some of the wild several times during the day, or Dean comes home and all three of us are ready to pull out our hair from being cooped up.”

He didn’t want to hear about her life with Dean Blaylock. He’d already seen and learned too much, and he wasn’t sure what he thought about how happily settled the other man was. “Could we talk?”

“Well, now, I don’t know,” she said, nervous again, pushing at the bangs falling into her eyes. “Dean’s due home and I need to get supper started. Not sure he’d be happy to find me having a little tête-à-tête on his front porch with another man who used to share my bed. Except
sharing
may not be the best word since you were only there that once, and not for long.”

He stepped off the porch and down the cement steps that wobbled to the sidewalk, which was cracked and held together by weeds. “This won’t take but a minute. Or I can come back when it’s more convenient for you.”

He didn’t want to come back. He wanted to get this over with. Coming here today had taken more guts than he could ever have imagined it would, with what they had between them. But he didn’t want to crowd her, or make her uncomfortable, or cause her trouble when her life looked to be pretty damn good.

“Okay then,” she said, stepping inside the house for a box of cigarettes and a lighter, then coming back out and pulling the door all the way shut. She moved to sit on the top step, tapping the box against her palm as she did, then lighting up. “What’s on your mind?” she finally asked after inhaling, then blowing a stream of smoke off to the side.

He jammed his hat back to his head. “I know our history’s pretty fucked-up, but I wondered if you might call off your old man. He’s . . . bothering a friend of mine.”

“Bothering? A friend?” she asked, taking another drag, then chuckling. “Does your
friend
happen to work for the
Reporter
?”

“She does.”

“She the one doing a story on the Dalton Gang? The one who came by because she wanted to know some of our history?”

“I told her our history. He told her I sold drugs.”

“Yeah. She mentioned that.”

“He also told her I got you pregnant,” he said, and jammed his hands to his hips.

“He would’ve liked that,” she said, shaking her head. “Me being pregnant by you instead of . . . Crap.” She bit off the word, cringing.

Frowning, he took a step closer, but then he had to stop so he could breathe. “You were pregnant?”

She nodded. “I’d found out that day, actually. It’s kinda why I brought you home with me,” she said, punctuating the admission with a shrug.

“What?” This wasn’t making any sense at all.

“Oh, Boone.” She pushed her bangs off her forehead and held them there, sadness creeping into the spot where cockiness had been. “You had the best family in the world. Mine had gone to shit. I wasn’t about to bring a baby into that. I thought if I told you it was yours, maybe your family would take me in.” She laughed a laugh with no humor, picked a speck of tobacco from the end of her tongue. “Nice of me, wasn’t it? Trying to use you to get me a better life.”

Whoa. Talk about out of the blue
. “What changed your mind?”

“You did,” she said, her bottom lip quivering with the break in her voice. “Saving my life and my mother’s. I couldn’t ruin your life, when you’d saved mine.”

His heart was pounding. His heart was aching. “Did you have the baby?”

“I did.” She wrapped her arms around herself, her eyes going bright red and damp. “When I was in Corpus with my mom. I stayed there eight months, had the baby, gave her up for adoption.”

Criminy
. “But it wasn’t mine.”

“
She
wasn’t yours,” she said, finally looking up, tears spilling over, dripping from the tips of her long lower lashes to wash down her cheeks. “But she was mine. My daughter. Until she wasn’t anymore.”

“Penny . . .” His gut was in knots, good ones, bad ones, all the hateful thoughts he’d had of her tossing themselves into the fire of his rage. It burned fiercely, consuming itself, leaving almost no ash as a memory, leaving him free. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything, Boone.” She brought up her hand, pressed her fingers to her mouth, looked off over the yard of cars, blinking hard. “Don’t say anything.”

He waited a long moment, pulling off his hat to worry the brim, giving her time to settle. Giving himself the same. “I didn’t come here to hurt you, or make you feel bad. I just thought you could help me with Les.”

“If I could, I would, but I don’t talk to my father, Boone. I can’t help you,” she said. “My best advice would be not to engage him. It’s worked for me.”

“Okay,” he said, and it was all he had. His problems with Les seemed like nothing in light of what this woman had gone through. “Thank you. For telling me the truth.”

“I should’ve done it sooner. When I came back. I should’ve looked you up and told you then. I don’t know why I didn’t, except I was embarrassed. And I was sad. I thought letting you off the hook for your grief, even though you had nothing to grieve, would buy me some good karma.” She waited a moment, added, “I think it worked.”

“It’s okay, Penny. Really—”

“No, Boone. It’s not. I’ve lived with this for so long. This one thing has been the reason I’ve made so many of the choices I have. Don’t get me wrong. I love my life. I love Dean and the boys. I wouldn’t trade what I have for anything. But if I’d told you sooner, I might’ve been just a little bit happier all this time, you know?”

He didn’t know if she would have, but the ways
his
life would’ve been different . . . “You had your reasons, and yeah. I wish you would’ve come clean a long time ago. But you doing so now means a lot to me.”

“You going to marry that girl?” she finally asked when he’d run out of things to say.

“I don’t know.”

“She loves you.”

“I don’t know that either,” he said, Everly’s voice saying those very words filling him with hope.

“She does. I could tell. Give her some time to realize it. Or, you know, tell her first. That you love her. She might need to hear it. And it might do you a whole lot of good to say it.”

As he drove away, he decided Penny Upton Blaylock was a whole lot smarter than he’d ever given her credit for.

THIRTY-THREE

U
NTIL
B
OONE HAD
walked out of her bedroom three mornings ago, Everly had been thrilled about participating in the holiday carnival. Now that the evening was here, she and Kendall Sheppard manning the kissing booth as promised, she was having to feign excitement.

She did not want to be here. She did not want to kiss dozens of strangers. She did not want to help out friends who were as close as family.

And she certainly didn’t want to do so under the watchful gaze of Boone Mitchell.

That was the worst part of the night. The proximity of his booth to hers. She wouldn’t have been as out of sorts if he’d been farther down the midway, but no. Directly across from where she stood beneath a banner painted with dozens of kissing lips, Boone sat on the seat in the dunking booth, completely dry, glaring at everyone who dared take a shot.

Between shots, he glared at everyone who leaned across the stand to buss her on the cheek. She wanted to glare at them, too, but mostly in warning. Like they didn’t know who they were messing with, getting on Boone Mitchell’s bad side. Then again, they weren’t a couple, were they? He’d said they would talk. They hadn’t. Exactly as she’d predicted three mornings ago when he’d walked out of her room.

Yet none of this would be happening if she’d been brave enough to tell him she wanted the very things he did: a relationship that was more than sex, a life lived on the land, a family. And all of it with him. She needed to tell him she wanted all of it with him. Her telling him that was the only thing keeping them apart.

Well, that and him telling her he loved her, too.

“Hey, Ms. Grant. Kendall.”

“Clay Whitman,” Kendall said, giving the teen a playful glare when she saw the strip of tickets he held. “Does your father-to-be know you’re here?”

Clay gestured over his shoulder to where Casper waited his turn in the dunking booth. “He dared me to come. He gave me the tickets.”

“Sounds just like Casper Jayne to me,” Everly said, taking Clay’s tickets. The Dalton Gang weren’t called boys for nothin’.

Kendall crooked a finger. “Bring your cute self closer.” Clay’s whole face went red as she reached for his chin, giving Everly a wink and a nod. Both women leaned toward him at the same time, planting their lips on his cheeks. The photographer behind them snapped the shot with a huge flash that lit up their booth brighter than the midway’s rides.

Clay was still grinning when he pulled away, matching lipstick prints on his cheeks. “That was pretty cool,” he said, then ran off to a group of similarly gawky boys to brag and stroll down the midway like God’s gift.

Definitely a Dalton Gang member in the making.

“Sometimes I wonder if that kid is the real deal,” Kendall said, “or if Casper conjured him up somehow, because he’s going to break some hearts.”

“Time will tell.” Though Everly agreed. “In another year, he could be a regular hell-raiser.”

“And that would serve Casper right,” Kendall said, adding a sharp, “Oh, my,” under her breath that had Everly glancing over—just in time to see Greg Barrett approaching their booth. He looked like he’d just come from the office, dressed in black pants and Italian loafers, and a crisp white shirt with a sharp designer tie.

Tucking his glasses in the pocket of his shirt, he nodded toward Everly, but handed his ticket to Kendall. She took it, stared at it, rubbed it between her forefinger and thumb, her gaze finally coming up to meet Greg’s bright blue one, her cheeks going hot pink beneath the booth’s strings of twinkling lights.

The rules for the kissing booth included no touching, but Greg broke them, sliding his hand into Kendall’s hair to cup the back of her head. She kept her hands flat on the stand, a divider between her and Greg’s bodies, but as Everly watched she curled her fingers, making fists, slanting her head beneath Greg’s kiss.

It was beautiful, the want in both of them, the kiss simple and nearly chaste, but only on the surface. Everly knew that because of her own reaction, her gaze searching out Boone across the midway, her heart turning flips in her chest, her stomach tied in knots of longing.

Greg was the one to finally break the contact, but only that of his mouth. His hand lingered, stroking through Kendall’s hair until neither she nor Everly could breathe. Then he let her go and stepped back, hesitating briefly as if he had something to say before turning and walking away.

The tension in the booth as thick as fresh cream, Everly sidled up to the other woman and grabbed her arm. “What was
that
?”

“I don’t know,” she said, an anxious squeak of a laugh escaping with the words, “but God, my knees are knocking, and can I please have another?”

No kidding. “Have you and Greg—”

“No,” Kendall said, shaking her head. “Never. We’ve hardly even had occasion to talk. At least not about anything that wasn’t business.”

“I’m pretty sure that wasn’t business,” Everly said, her gaze still on Greg, the sound of a loud splash and even louder cheer rising to snag her attention.

She looked toward the dunking booth in time to see Boone grab for his hat and go under, a group of teens high-fiving their member who’d sent him down. He came up sputtering, slamming a battered mess of wet straw on his head as he climbed from the tank.

But rather than taking his seat, he kept climbing, jumping from the platform to the ground, ignoring Dax and Casper as they motioned him back. The group of teens skedaddled, boots scooting in the midway dirt as they got out of the way of what looked like an imminent explosion.

It was when Everly realized he only had eyes for her that her own heart began to race, her breathing going shallow and short, her feet telling her to run. But she couldn’t move. She was rooted to the ground. Stuck there by the fire burning in his eyes, his nostrils flaring like a big bad bull’s.

He was soaked to the skin, his clothes plastered to his body, his boots turning the dirt of the midway to mud behind him, but still he came, the crowd parting like the Red Sea to make way.

“Ev?” Kendall asked beside her, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “Are you okay? You’re shaking like a leaf.”

She nodded, squeezing back before Kendall let her go. “I think so,” she said, then gave a desperate laugh. “I hope so,” she added, because she couldn’t be sure. “I guess I’d better be,” she finished with, because the time had come. Boone was there, rounding the booth as he came for her.

Without saying a word, he grabbed her wrist, spun her into his body, bent her backwards, and leaned over her. She held tight to his shoulders, her eyes wide as she looked into his, his stern mouth breaking into a smile just before it covered hers.

He kissed her like no one was watching, like she was the only woman in the world, like he’d die if he didn’t, like he loved her. She clenched her fingers, digging into the balls of his muscles, arching her body into his and kissing him back the same. Because she loved him. More than she’d thought possible. And she couldn’t imagine living her life without him there every day.

When he began to ease away, the crowd who’d gathered erupted into whoops and hollers and applause, but Everly had eyes for no one but Boone. He was her whole world. He was her whole existence. She’d lived her whole life waiting for him, and she’d never even known.

“Can we go someplace and talk?” he asked as he set her back to rights, his arm still around her back, her hands still on his shoulders. But he didn’t wait for an answer, taking her by the hand and tugging her beside him until they reached the parking lot and his truck.

He let down the tailgate, lifted her up to sit, and frowned. “You’re wearing boots.”

She straightened her legs to show him. The vamps were brown leather, the shafts embroidered with a Southwest design in gold and purple and brick red. “I am.”

“You’re wearing them with a skirt.”

She was that, too, a flowered Laura Ashley number that matched her off-the-shoulder lavender peasant blouse. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be a jeans person. But I can do boots.”

“I like the boots. I like the skirt.” And then he started pacing, as if what he liked had no bearing on whatever it was consuming him.

“Boone? What’s going on?”

“About the other morning,” he said, and stopped. “I’m sorry. So sorry. About everything you told me. About everything I said.” He voice caught, choked back by all the things he was feeling. “I know I’m doing this all wrong, but I love you, Everly. I goddamn love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Just tell me we’ve got a chance. Down the road. When the time is right.”

“We’ve got a chance,” she said, adding because she knew in the deepest part of her heart it was true, “And the time
is
right. I love you, Boone Mitchell. I love you so very much.”

He came to her then, but instead of holding her, or kissing her, or even sitting beside her on the tailgate, he went back to pacing, making her wonder if he’d even heard what she’d said. His expression was conflicted, dark when it should’ve been bursting with light, harsh when it should’ve softened.

“I don’t have anything to offer you,” he said. “I’m so broke there’s not enough duct tape in the world to fix me.”

“Oh, Boone.” Could he be any sweeter, worrying like this? “I don’t need money—”

“It’s not just money. It’s the life. Asking you to share in all of what I go through . . . I shouldn’t ask that of you.” He stopped, dragged a hand over his jaw. “Except having you with me these last few weeks, everything has seemed so much easier.”

“I can help with the money, you know.”

“I don’t want you to help with the money.”

“But I do. Whitey doesn’t pay me much, but I can sell my shoes—”

That brought his gaze to hers. He came closer, his hands at his hips as he took in her boots. “No. You’re not selling your shoes. I like your shoes. I love your shoes.”

Oh, poor misguided man
. “Do you know my shoe collection is worth as much as a couple of Tess’s antiques?”

“Okay.” He nodded, and his head came up. “You can sell your shoes,” he said, and she laughed.

“And about those little ranchers—”

“I want you,” he said, closing in on her to stand between her legs, his hands possessively at her waist. “That’s all that matters. Well, and you wanting me.”

She did, so very much, in so very many ways. “What if the little ranchers are my idea?”

“Then I’d have to say I like the way you think.” He looked at her feet again, arched a brow. ‘You’ll need better boots though. Real boots.”

“These are real boots,” she said, straightening her legs and pointing her toes and turning her feet right and left.

“Those are city-slicker boots. First time you step in a cow pie wearing those—”

“Wait a minute.”
Eww
. “No one said anything about stepping in cow pies.”

He laughed. A deep, glorious burst of rumbling noise. “If you’re going to ranch with me, you’ll be doing more than stepping.”

“Hmm. Then I’ll have to tell Kendall I changed my mind about her renting my house. Because cow pies are a deal breaker.”

He wasn’t laughing now. “You talked to Kendall about renting your house?”

Fighting a grin, she shrugged. “Just in case.”

“Just in case what?”

“Just in case you wanted a roommate.”

He leaned in, pressed his forehead to hers, breathed deep as if he couldn’t get enough of her. “I don’t want a roommate. I want a partner.”

“You already have two,” she said, because he was so cute when teased.

“Not that kind of partner,” he said, kissing his way across her brow. “I want a partner to share my bed and my life and all my stupid dreams.”

Reaching for him, she took his face in her hands, her thumbs rubbing the dampness from the corner of his eyes. “Your dreams are not stupid, Boone. And I would love to share them with you.”

“I don’t know why.”

These were the simplest words she would ever say. “I love you.”

“Good, because I love you,” he said, grabbing her off the tailgate, swinging her around until she felt the evening breeze beneath her skirt, then holding her head as he brought his mouth to hers, kissing her as the spinning slowed.

He held her close, his wet clothes making hers damp, his tongue sliding into her mouth, one hand sliding into her hair while the other made its way down her back to her bottom. He squeezed and she wiggled and he chuckled into her mouth. She grinned against his, loving him.
Loving him
.

When he finally set her away, he yanked at the snaps of his shirt and peeled it off, tossing it into the bed of his truck before heading for the cab. There he found two T-shirts, pulling on both of them against the cold. But his hair was wet, and his pants were wet, and he was shivering when he walked back to where she waited.

She rubbed her hands over his bare arms, warming him with the friction. “Hey, buddy. You owe me a ticket for that kiss, you know. Carnival kisses are not free.”

His eyes soft, his smile equally so, he dug into his front pocket and came up with the handful of tickets Faith had given him earlier. They were wet, worthless, but he found two not quite as mushy as the rest in the center of the strip and smoothed them out on the tailgate. He folded them in half lengthwise, then again, the layers strengthening the whole.