What the Heart Wants (23 page)

He was exhausted. His brain felt like a worn-out sponge. Girl Child was aging him before his time. He'd better find a motel while he could still keep his eyes open.

Merging back into traffic, he stayed in the slow lane and turned in at the first neon blue
VACANCY
sign he saw. After a quick registration, he parked in front of his first-floor room, opened his car door, and checked out the parking lot. Mostly pickups and semis in the parking lot.

A shrill squeal of laughter cut through the dark night, and he looked around. Someone was holding a party on a balcony across the courtyard, and there was a familiar musty odor on the breeze. He grabbed his computer case and locked his car door. It had been a long time since he'd stayed in a dump like this. Definitely second-rate—not quite sleazy, but getting there. He took another look around and headed to his room, wondering if the Caddie would still be there in the morning.

With his door locked and a chair propped under the knob, he unwrapped the sandwich he'd gotten from the vending machine in the motel office and wolfed it down, hoping it wouldn't give him ptomaine poisoning. Then he stripped down to his briefs, turned on the TV, and lay back on the bedspread. The next thing he knew, the big rigs were heaving and groaning with the effort of gearing up, and a brilliant dawn was forcing its way through a broken slat of the metal blinds. Damn, he was still on top of the spread.

Not only that, but his mouth tasted like shit, and his body was slimy with sweat. Apparently the AC had conked out during the night. A quick shower would take care of the sweat, but freshening up his taste buds would have to wait till he was on the road. He wasn't going to trust his luck with one of those sandwiches again.

After drying off with one of the thinnest towels in existence, he pulled on yesterday's shirt and slacks. He hated wearing the same clothes two days in a row—it reminded him too much of when he was a kid and didn't have a choice. Fifteen minutes later he was out the door.

Whaddaya know?
The car was still there—hubcaps, tires, fucking hood ornament and all. He reached for his Ray-Bans. Early morning and the sun was already blazing bright, with not a cloud in the sky. Today would be another scorcher.

Once he hit the highway, he began feeling better. Yeah, he was Jason Redlander of Redlander Properties, and he drove a Cadillac DTS and had a five-thousand-square-foot home on eight wooded acres outside of Dallas.

He looked around at the landscape on either side of the highway as he drove. I-35 had built up a lot from when he'd first come down this way. Not many cornfields anymore. Great American enterprise had taken over. And, for good or bad, some of it had been his doing.

What was he going to do with the tracts he'd just bought in Bosque Bend? They weren't very important as far as his operations went, but their development would mean a lot to the town. And to Ray Espinoza.

Ray
—why hadn't Ray told him about Reverend Ed? Was he embarrassed that his brother had been molested? Maybe he was trying to be considerate of Laurel. Art Sawyer had delivered a message along that line, the old sermonizer.

He switched on the radio, but kept the sound down low. Carrie Underwood was singing about how life was short and love was sweet, and how time goes by really fast.

“Sorry, Carrie, you're hitting too close to home.” He changed to another station.

Life is short and love is sweet, and look what he'd done to Laurel. Used her and discarded her, deserted her because of her father, just like Dave Carson had done. Only Dave did it because having a pederast as a father-in-law hurt his chances to get ahead, while he himself couldn't deal with the fact that Edward Harlow had deceived him, had betrayed the high ideals he himself had preached.

He settled back against his seat. Lucky for him, it was a straight shot up I-35 to Bosque Bend. The way his life was going these days, he'd probably get lost with any added complications. God, he'd tried so hard, but he'd made such a mess of it all.

How was he going to deal with whatever Marguerite had told Lolly? How would it affect their relationship? How does a fifteen-year-old deal with hearing her father was her mother's boy toy? His stomach gnawed at him as he bypassed a McDonald's. Lolly might not want to see him right now, but he wanted to be in the same town with her as soon as possible.

He'd never known Marguerite's exact age, but in retrospect, he guessed she must have been about forty, more than twice his own age. She kept herself in great shape, but then she had to—she'd been on the prowl for years, and she was her own bait. No wonder she'd changed schools so often, probably just one step ahead of discovery. Either that or the schools had decided to keep mum and moved her on. Pass the trash, as he'd heard the practice called.

He remembered how angry he'd gotten the day he caught her sitting on the tufted divan in her bedroom, adding his picture to a photo album of other guys who looked to be about his own age. There must have been twenty of them in there.

“Don't be childish, darling,” she'd said, swishing her negligee to the side and looking at him slantwise. Amusement rippled in her voice. “Just think of it as my hobby, initiating promising young men into adulthood. I'm really quite good at it, you'll admit. In the future, you'll look back on me with gratitude. Now, come here and show me all you've learned.”

She'd leaned back on the divan, opened her legs like a pair of scissors, and smiled invitingly, expecting the slow, skilled lovemaking she had painstakingly taught him. Instead, he'd taken her quickly and roughly, with all the anger and pain that was in him, which ultimately pleased her even more.

“God, you have passion!” she murmured, running a sharp nail down the inside of his thigh.

Marguerite obviously felt great, but he felt like a sexbot—which didn't stop him from visiting her every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday.

His mouth tightened in anger. And now every moment of their relationship was coming back to haunt him through Lolly.

The next morning, Laurel, with Hugo right behind her, took a tray up to Lolly. After setting it on the nightstand, she drew up a chair to sit with her guest.

Lolly smiled her thanks and drank the orange juice in slow sips, but only nibbled at the toast, replacing most of it on the tray. “I'm sorry, Laurel, but I'm just not hungry.”

“I understand.” Hugo eyed the remains of Lolly's breakfast speculatively, but Laurel, who had become wise to the insatiable canine appetite, picked up the tray and placed it on top of the tallboy bureau. “You've had quite a shock. Would you like to come downstairs and watch a little television?”

“No, thanks.”

“How about fixing your hair? You can use my equipment.” The Alice band was gone, and Lolly's yellow curls were scrunched into what looked like a volcanic eruption on one side of her head.

“I don't feel like it.”

Lolly didn't want to play with her hair? Things really were bad. Laurel sat down next to the bed again. “I called Dallas last night to let your dad know where you are.”

“Oh.”

“He'll probably come for you today.”

Lolly turned her head into the pillow. “I don't want to see him.”

Laurel wasn't quite sure what to say next. Actually, she had no idea whatsoever what to say next, but she wanted to keep the conversation going.

“Uh, are you cool enough? The temperature is supposed to reach a hundred ten today. You could move downstairs to the den if it gets too warm up here.”

Lolly moved her hand on the sheet, actually pulling it up further, as if she was cold. “I'm fine.”

“How about some lemonade? I could bring up a pitcher.” Lemonade was something she could handle. Just dump the powder in water, mix it, and add ice cubes.

“No. Don't bother.”

Hugo stuck his head up over the side of the bed, and Lolly reached over to scratch his ears.

“Do you have a dog at home, Lolly?”

“Maxie's dachshund.”

“Tell me about him.”

“He's old.”

“What else?”

Lolly gave Hugo a final pat, closed her eyes, and turned over. “Too tired.”

Laurel bit her lip. It had been better when Lolly was hysterical. At least then there had been some life to her.

Hugo started pacing back and forth, looking at Laurel meaningfully, so she took him downstairs and let him into the yard. Before she went upstairs to play nurse again, she equipped herself with a couple of books and a glass of lemonade. Lolly might not need anything to drink, but she did.

But after two chapters of Jane Austen, her eyelids started drooping.

The ringing doorbell sliced through the rumble of the air conditioner. Lolly muttered in her sleep, and Laurel rose slowly, trying to clear her mind.

The bell chimed again as she shut Hugo in the room with Lolly and hurried down the stairs. Probably Jase come to fetch his daughter. He, of course, would look like a model out of
GQ
, while here she was, still in the divided skirt and sleeveless white top she'd thrown on when she got up.

She opened the door.

It was Jase all right, but he looked more like an FBI wanted poster than a
GQ
model. His shirt was stained, his slacks were rumpled, and his hair was lying flat on his head. Maybe it was the stubbly jaw, but, all and all, but he looked like one of the lowlifes who hung out around Josie's Muebleria Usada.

She managed a polite semismile. “Come in.”

He nodded and followed her into the drawing room, sitting on the sofa across from her, just as he had a month ago when he first stopped by. Laurel's mouth went dry. Right over there, by the piano, was where he had cornered her and taken her down to the floor after their naked chase through the house. She'd better get this visit over quick, while she could still breathe.

“Lolly is upstairs in the guest room,” she began. “She went to see Marguerite in San Antonio yesterday, and Marguerite told her everything.”

“That's what Maxie said.” Jase's face went dark and his hand tightened on the arm of the sofa. “The worst-case scenario.”

“Lolly can't face it. I think she views me as some sort of refuge.”

His went grim. “Don't we all.”

Was he mad at her? She edged forward and smoothed her skirt, then plunged on. “Well, anyway, Lolly's spent most of the morning sleeping and staring at the wall, and she doesn't want to come downstairs and talk to you.”

“Why not?”

Laurel looked down at her hands. “She's embarrassed. Apparently Marguerite was quite complimentary and specific in expounding on your—uh—your sexual prowess.”

Jase winced. “So now she's turned my daughter against me.”

Laurel raised her eyes in astonishment. “Lolly's not against you. After all, Lolly's
your
daughter, not Marguerite's. She's a smart girl. Just give her a little time to sort things out.”

“You sound like your father.”

Laurel felt the blood leave her face. “I'm sorry.”

“No, no—I meant it as a compliment.” He inhaled on a shudder and stood up. “Oh hell, Laurel, Lolly and I are in the same boat: I'm trying to sort everything out too. I can't figure out how to deal with—with—” He moved his hands apart, palms up, and looked around the room as if searching for the words to finish his sentence. His eyes ended up at the door to Reverend Ed's study.

She followed his gaze. “I know. Believe me, I know.”

He looked straight at her then, his eyes dark as coals. “I love you, Laurel. I always will. But we're all so much a part of everything else in our lives—Marguerite, my father, your father. Is love enough?”

“That's up to you.”

His eyes searched her face. “You're always so calm about everything, so serene.”

She gave a half laugh. “Do I seem that way to you?” Just because she wasn't screaming at him didn't mean she wasn't dying inside. Somewhere inside her, she'd hoped Jase wouldn't care about what Daddy had done.

“Have I hurt you?”

“Yes.” What did her expect her to say?

“I'm sorry.”

She affected a shrug “Like Lolly, I'll recover.” No way she'd beg him to stay if he didn't want to on his own.

He glanced toward the stairs. “How long do you think it will take for Lolly to be ready to go home?”

“Maybe a couple of days. “If you want to go back to Dallas, I'll call you when she's ready.”
That way, you don't even have to remain in the same town with me.

“I think I'll stay here—at the old house. You have my phone number.”

He stared at her. It was an awkward moment, as if he wanted to say something more but didn't have the nerve. Finally he stood up.

“I guess I'd better go make arrangements to stay in town.”

Laurel rose from the chair to walk him out. “I'll call if there are any changes.”

This whole scene was just a postscript. Lolly would leave, and Jase would too. Maybe they'd send her a Christmas card, but if so, it wouldn't reach her—she was going to be long gone. The Cokers had made an offer on the house yesterday, and her Realtor was drawing up the papers.

She gestured toward the hall closet as they proceeded down the hall. “Your suitcase and garment bag are in the closet. You probably want to pick them up.”

Jase turned and his eyes met hers.

“I'll leave them here for the time being.”

J
ase stopped by Hardy Joe's for a lunchtime SuperBurger, then opened up the old house again. Damn, at this rate, they'd never get tenants.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked around the room, which was almost as empty as his life seemed to be. He wished Laurel were with him, but that issue had to wait till he got Lolly settled.

After reporting in to Maxie, he contacted Connie to find out what dire emergencies had come up the minute he left town. Not that Connie, who'd been with him for six years now, couldn't handle most of them blindfolded. Like Maxie, she answered immediately.

“You found Lolly?”

He nodded as if she could see him. “She's in Bosque Bend again.”

“Is she all right?”

“Yeah, she's staying with a family friend for a few days, so I'll bunk down here at the old house till she's ready to leave.”

Jase heard the pause on the other end of the line and realized Connie was debating whether or not to press him for more information. She knew almost everything there was to know about his family life and wasn't shy about keeping up.

“Mmmm…uh, glad to hear Lolly's okay.”

He snorted to himself. Connie had decided to wait till he got back in the office so she could grill him in person. “Anything I need to be aware of in the office right now?”

“Just routine stuff, but there are a couple of proposals you need to look at. Where should I fax them to? Same address as before?”

He'd forgotten about the machine at Laurel's. “Uh, no. Send them to Craig Freiberg. His contact information is in my email. I'll pick them up from him.”

“Sure thing. I'll get right to it.”

Jase put his mobile on the floor beside the bed and lay back, cushioning his head on his arm.

Damn Marguerite to hell.
She'd messed him up from the start. His conscience had bothered him so much after their first encounter that he couldn't sleep that night. He'd fucked a teacher. He almost confessed to Reverend Ed the next day, but couldn't bring himself to talk about anything so vile to that good man.

Jase snorted.

Yeah.
That good man
. What a crock.

He heard a cackle outside his window and levered himself up on his elbow. An iridescent grackle was playing in the neighbor's sprinkler. Now, that was a change. When he was a kid, nobody in the neighborhood—all three houses of it—gave a shit about his lawn. Now there was a parade of houses up and down the street and their yards were regularly watered, mowed, and edged. The area had become respectable—just like he had, judging by the number of people in Bosque Bend who wanted to sell him land or loan him money.

He stared at the black bird preening and flapping in the water and smiled.
Strut your stuff, buddy!
He'd risen in the town's esteem while Reverend Ed had hit rock bottom. But did Laurel have to go down with him? It wasn't fair. She hadn't known what Reverend Ed was doing behind closed doors.

Relaxing his arm, he studied the shadows on the ceiling and rubbed his jaw. He'd better stop by Walmart for a razor and shaving cream. Laurel—she'd been so cold this morning, so wary, as if she was afraid of him. Of course, he'd looked like Growler on his worst day. He probably wouldn't hear from her again until Lolly decided to come home.

But within the hour, she called and asked him to pick up a list of groceries. “I would go myself, but I don't want to leave Lolly alone. She's depressed and very confused.”

He was instantly alert. “Should I come over?”

“Not yet. Give her time to think everything out. Marguerite…”

“Marguerite's a bitch.”

Laurel's voice relaxed a little. “I think Lolly was expecting a more motherly type—like June Cleaver or Carol Brady. It'll take a day or so for her to handle the situation, but she will.”

“I hope so. Listen, I've got to make a flyby to Walmart so, if it's okay with you, I'll get your stuff there too.” He'd make his own purchases, change clothes and shave in the restroom, then fill Laurel's grocery list.

An hour later he was at her door, grocery bags in hand. “I brought a few things you didn't have written down.” He hoisted the bags up for her inspection. Actually, in a frenzy of guilt, he'd doubled her order too, but he'd bet she could use the extras. At least she wouldn't starve for a while.

A large-headed mongrel poked his head out of the door to look him over. Laurel put her hand on the dog's head, which topped near her waist.

“That's okay, Hugo. This is Jase. We'll let him come in for a minute.”

Laurel had a dog now? A dog the size of a small pony?

As he entered the house, Laurel took hold of the dog's collar, stepping aside so there was no chance Jase would brush against her as he crossed the threshold. Guess he deserved that. And she'd changed clothes too, into heels and a pale blue touch-me-not dress. Was she going somewhere?

“You know where the kitchen is,” she said, walking back up the stairs. “Be sure to turn the lock when you leave.”

He unloaded the grocery bags on the kitchen table and put everything away in the cupboards, pantry, and refrigerator as best he could.

Stonewalled. She'd frozen him out.

Well, Redlander, what did you expect? And now you're going to have a boring day working on tax statements and a lonely night sleeping on the same bed in which you made rowdy love to her just a month ago.

The next morning, after checking in with Laurel, Maxie, and Connie, he called to see if Craig Freiberg was free for lunch. Might as well get a little business done while he was in town. And if nothing came up this evening, he might give Rafe McAllister a call.

Craig leapt at the invitation. “And I'll tell ya what, Jase—how's about I invite Rick Simcek to join us? He's overextended, and I bet you could get that property out to the west for a song if you worked him right.”

“Sure.” Why not? Just so Simcek kept his mouth shut about what had happened at the Bosque Club. “Where's a good place to eat?”

“How about Six-Shooter Junction? It's a new steak house that just opened up last month—Wild West theme. It's on the other side of the Shallows. Lots of branding irons, barbed wire, and old saddles. They must've emptied out every barn and tack room in the county to furnish the place.”

An hour later, Jase shrugged into a light wool jacket he always kept in the backseat of his car, which gave just the right touch of class to his Walmart jeans and cotton shirt, and drove across town toward the river.

Bosque Bend was definitely on the move. A lot of trendy restaurants had set up on the far side of the river, but Six-Shooter Junction stood head and shoulders above the rest—literally. On top of its two tall stories, a big automated marquee advertised specials of the day, and on either side of the menu was an electronic pistol with electronic smoke coming out of its barrel.

Jase snorted. The Old West never had it so good. And never had Bosque Bend. “Six-Shooter Junction,” as he remembered from Mrs. Johnson's fourth-grade Texas history unit, was what
Waco
was called, not Bosque Bend.

Passing under an archway of intertwined cattle horns, he entered the restaurant and looked around. Overdone to the hilt—huge reproductions of 1800s wanted posters on the walls intermingled with leather chaps, ten-gallon hats, canteens, spurs, holsters, collections of old guns, and even a couple of bullwhips.

He stepped up to the high desk, presided over by a pretty girl in a dance hall costume. A row of well-worn saddles hung over the half wall behind her.

“I'm supposed to be meeting someone here. Craig Freiberg.”

Miss Kitty scanned her list. “Oh yes, Mr. Freiberg is already here. He's at the Wild Bill Hickok table. It's a booth at the back.”

Jase made his way through the crowded tables, dodging servers and busboys who looked like extras for
True Grit.

Craig stood up to greet him. “We can be more private here, and it's not quite as noisy. The Navajos give us a little sound baffling.” He nodded toward the Indian-style blankets on the wall behind him.

Jase sat down. “The Wild Bill Hickok table, huh?” He glanced at the portrait above the table. “Guess that's why we have our backs to something solid.”

Craig looked at him blankly.

“Sorry. I read about it in one of Paula Marks's Western history books. Hickok was shot in the back from behind while he was sitting at an open table away from the wall.”

Craig nodded and grinned. “I'll remember that.” His eyes scanned the room. “No firearms allowed in the restaurant, but there are plenty of guys in here who are just as deadly.”

A buxom girl with a sheriff's badge pinned to her vest introduced herself incongruously as Belle Starr, outlaw queen, and asked if they were ready to order.

Jase glanced at the menu in front of him. “It will be a few minutes. We're waiting for someone.”

Belle twirled her Roy Rogers special, blew an imaginary puff of smoke off the barrel, and reholstered it. “Just fine, podnuh. I'll keep an eye on you.”

Jase looked at Craig across the table. “I don't think I can take much more of this.”

“I'll admit it's a bit over the top, but the food is good and—” His eyes lit up and he started to stand. “Hey, there's Rick!”

Simcek fit right into the setting. In fact, he looked like the Hollywood stereotype of an Old West gambler, with his three-piece suit and black boots. Jase knew vests were coming back into style, but in high summer? The guy must have ice water coursing through his veins.

He cut through a band of waitpersons gathering around a big table in the middle of the room, where a boisterous group of men wearing pastel-colored cardboard cowboy hats were launching into “Happy Birthday.” Jase stood up for the ritual handshake, remembering that the psychologist had told him it originated as a means of proving to a stranger that one was unarmed.

“Redlander. Good to see you again.”

Simcek may not have anything in his hand, but his teeth gleamed like daggers. His jacket parted as he sat down, revealing a belt chased in silver. Jase was surprised that a Colt .45 wasn't hanging from it.

Belle Starr reappeared to take their drink orders. Craig went for Bud Light, Jase asked for Shiner, and Simcek inquired about wine.

He would.

Leaning back against the booth partition, Simcek favored Jase with a smile. “Craig tells me you're interested in local real estate.”

“It's my business.” Jase handed him one of his cards, as if ol' Rick hadn't already looked him up on the Internet and checked him out with everyone he knew.

An apprentice cowgirl, Annie Oakley, delivered the drinks. Simcek took a quick swig of red wine and continued his spiel. “I've done a fair share of real estate investment myself.”

Jase knew that was supposed to elicit an inquiry from him, but he wasn't biting. Not yet. He took a long, slow swallow of beer. Let Simcek sweat a little. He'd checked Rick out too, and knew his financial affairs were even more precarious than Craig had indicated.

“Yeah. Seems that lots of people are buying land. Guess it's a national pastime.” He opened his menu. “Hey, this T-bone looks great!”

Simcek took the hint and picked up his own menu.

Jase kept the conversation light, contributing an anecdote about going hunting with his best friend, making sure to casually let it drop that Doug was a state senator. It was a funny story, mostly true, and Jase would have sworn Simcek was drooling.

This fish was hooking himself.

At last the meal was finished, and Annie Oakley had hauled away the dishes. Jase looked at his watch, making sure Rick could see it was a Rolex.

“Hey, didn't realize it was so late.” He moved as if to stand up.
That should set Rick off.

It did. In fact, Jase had the impression the man would have leapt across the table to keep him there. “Before you go, Redlander, I've got a piece of property you might want to consider. I'll give you a real good price on it.”

There it was, out in the open. Jase relaxed back into his chair. “I don't know. I've already bought the Anderson tract.”

“This is even bigger. Lots of potential.”

“Where?” As if he didn't know.

“West of town. It's an up-and-coming area.”

Yeah, it was, but Simcek didn't know quite how up-and-coming.

“Well, Craig showed it to me last month, and I suppose I could consider it…if the price is right.”

Simcek's relief was obvious. “I'll get some figures to you this afternoon.”

Jase shrugged.

Play it cool, Redlander. It's not in the bag yet.

“Just drop them off with Craig, and I'll look at them when I have time.” Actually, he wanted to ice the deal as quickly as possible, before the news got out about the retirement community Ray wanted to build in the area.

He moved the conversation onto the Baylor Bears' chances at winning the conference this year, his stock topic for Bosque Bend. Within a few minutes, Simcek announced he was late for an appointment and had to leave.

Jase watched him thread his way through the tables and gave Craig a one-sided smile. “Probably running off to get those numbers down on paper while he still has me willing to look at them.”

Jase stayed at the table for another round of drinks.

Three beers with lunch. He hadn't done that in a long time, but he was courting Craig for a job with Redlander Properties. It would mean a fair amount of travel up and down I-35, but it would also mean a lot more money than First National was paying him.

Finally he stuck a tip under the ersatz oil lamp and rose to go. The restaurant was emptying out now, but the birthday boys were still celebrating under a giant chandelier made of deer antlers. Jase thought he recognized a couple of his old high school teammates as he and Craig passed by the table.