Wild Cowboy Ways (23 page)

Allie placed a well-directed kick right on his shin and immediately apologized. “Oh, excuse me. I'm so sorry.” She flashed a sarcastic smile across the table.

“I think Lizzy and I will forgo dessert and have coffee in the living room while we set up the Monopoly game.” He glared at Allie.

“Yes, darlin'.” Lizzy pushed back her chair.

He did the same and slung an arm around Lizzy's shoulders.

Allie could see why her granny thought the man should be planted six feet under. It wasn't a loving arm around her sister, but a possessive, controlling one.

“How about you, Allie? Shall we take our coffee to the living room with them?” Grady asked.

“Hell, no! I'm having both kinds of pie with ice cream. I'll save you a chunk of apple for later, Lizzy,” she called out.

Lizzy gave her a weak grin as she poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Mitch before she followed her fiancé out of the kitchen.

“So what are you guys doing this afternoon?” Katy asked Blake. “I hear you tore out some ceiling and put up some new yesterday.”

“We are going to take advantage of the sunshine and look at the ranch.” He turned slightly and touched Allie on the arm. “Want to go with us?”

“I promised I'd watch Granny this afternoon, so I can't leave.”

Irene pointed at Allie. “It's not nice to whisper. Who is that sitting beside you anyway? Is that one of Walter's kids? When did he get married?”

“This is Blake Dawson,” Allie said. “He lives over at the Lucky Penny now.”

“I'm confused again,” Irene said.

Blake smiled at her. “It's okay. We all get things mixed up some of the time.”

“You are a good boy,” she said. “I want cherry pie with ice cream and chocolate syrup on top.”

Toby was in the truck with the motor running but Blake lingered behind to talk to Allie. “I really want to explain about yesterday. Deke took a woman home and she had the car for both of them, so she came to get her sister and thought she could seduce me…”

Allie held up a palm and said, “Enough. I told you I don't care.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means…”

“Hey, Alora, darlin'.” Grady pushed his way out the door and in between them. “We're waiting on you. We can't start the game without you.”

“I'll be there in five minutes,” she said.

“Go on now since you don't care,” Blake said bluntly.

“Care about what?” Grady asked.

“Nothing,” Allie answered quickly.

“Guess that sums it up then.” Blake settled his black cowboy hat on his head and marched off the porch, his boots making a cracking sound on the wood with each step.

“Is that over now?” Grady asked. “It needs to be. He's not the man for you, darlin', and I'm glad that you don't care about him. Now come on inside with me and I'll show you a proper good time.” He slung his arm around her.

She shrugged it off but not before Blake turned around. The expression on his face said that he was finished with her and that he didn't even care if she came back to finish remodeling his house. It was over and done with and all that was left was Grady.

Sensible.

Sad heart with no song.

“Y'all are going to have to play without me,” she said around the lump in her throat. “I promised to read to Granny while she falls asleep for her Sunday nap. If she isn't restless, I'll check in with you later.”

Grady kissed her on the cheek. “Okay, sweetheart.”

She shivered from disgust instead of desire and wiped it away with the back of her hand as she went to the kitchen. Katy was busy clearing the table. Half of Granny's pie was done and she had that blank look on her face that said she wasn't sure where she was.

“Go on, Mama. I'll do this while I wait on her to finish. You can be halfway to Wichita Falls by the time that happens and I need something to do,” Allie said.

“Have you been crying?” Katy asked.

“Not yet, but I might start when the anger dies down. Blake and I had an argument.”

Katy hung a kitchen towel on the hook. “About what? Are you going to finish the job over there?”

“I told him I didn't care and…”

“Care about what?”

Allie put a hand on her forehead but it didn't ease the pain throbbing in her temples. “I'm not sure. It's complicated.”

Katy handed her the dishtowel. “You'd best uncomplicate it before Grady pushes his way into your life. I pray every night that you don't let him talk you into a relationship.”

Allie shivered. “You'd rather have Blake than him? And yes, I am going to finish the job. Whether we are friends or not doesn't mean I can't work for him.”

“Honey, I'd rather have Lucifer than Grady. He's got shifty eyes.” Katy cut her eyes toward Irene. “You'll have to keep a close watch on her.”

“I'm going to read to her and then sit in the rocking chair in her room and reread that LaVyrle Spencer book about Abigail this afternoon,” Allie said.

Katy nodded. “And figure out what you meant by you don't care, right?”

“I hope so, Mama.”

Granny was asleep before Allie finished reading the first page of
The Velveteen Rabbit,
which was her new favorite book these days. The roles had been reversed because Allie remembered Granny reading that book to her when she was a child.

When she heard the first soft snore, she put the book aside and picked up
Hummingbird
by LaVyrle Spencer. After reading five pages and not comprehending a single word that she'd read, she laid it aside and decided to straighten Granny's closet.

But first she was going to call Blake and try to explain to him what she meant by she didn't care. It wasn't that she didn't care for him, but that she didn't care who Toby and Deke slept with and that Blake didn't owe her an explanation for their actions. There, that was easy enough to put into words, now wasn't it?

And then she was going to confront him about the way he'd introduced her to his brother. He didn't have to say they'd slept together, but he damn sure could have done better than saying she was the woman who was remodeling the house.

She hit the right number and the call went straight to voice mail. No way was she going to talk to a damn recording about something that important. She waited two minutes and called again. Same thing.

She ended the call before the message even finished and called a third time. That time Blake answered.

“This is not a good time, Allie,” he said gruffly.

“I don't care.”

“You say that often, don't you?”

“What?” she asked.

“I don't care.”

“I meant I don't care if it's not a good time. We need to talk, Blake.”

“This time I don't care to hear the explanation. We need some breathing space before we talk again. That dinner was the most awkward thing I've ever had to endure.” The line went dead and she slung the phone on the bed.

“Dammit!” She wanted to scream, but the whisper had to do. Waking Granny always made her cranky.

She slung open the closet doors, sat down on the floor, and started arranging the piles of shoes into some kind of order. She found three bars of soap tucked down in the toes of shoes that Granny hadn't worn in five years or more. A shoebox held a ziplock bag full of miniature chocolate bars that had long since gone white with age, two washcloths, and a can of root beer.

When she'd first started hoarding things, they'd asked the doctor about it and discovered it was a symptom of the disease. Folks got paranoid and thought people were stealing their possessions so they hid them.

Then she found the full bottle of Jack Daniel's in one boot and a bottle of Patrón tequila in another boot. Granny must have found them in Fiona's room because Katy didn't drink, Lizzy was too self-righteous to even have a beer these days, and Allie damn sure hadn't brought the bottles home.

She opened the bourbon first and took a long swig and then tried a taste of the tequila. She liked the bourbon better, but it might hurt Mr. Patrón's feelings if she didn't share her attention between him and Mr. Jack.

A sip of Jack for the wild cowboy.

A sip of tequila to wash the youth director out of her world.

Equal time,
she thought as she twisted the cap off the Jack for another gulp.

“Bless Granny's heart for hiding things,” she said as she leaned against the wall and got serious about the sharing process.

A
picture of Nadine with that apple pie in her hand snuck across Allie's mind. She tucked her chin to her chest and glared at the tequila bottle in her left hand. How in the hell had she drunk half a bottle of that, too? Did Nadine drop by and help her?

“Well, here's to Nadine and apple pies that Blake doesn't like. But he likes pretty girls and his mama.” She clinked the two bottles together in a toast. “Some friend I am. Nadine has been down there working on that shitty old building for days trying to turn it into a café, and I haven't even stopped by to check on her.”

“Who are you talkin' to?” Granny asked as she slung her legs over the side of the bed. “I'm going to the kitchen for more pie. Want me to bring you some?”

“No, thank you. I'll be right behind you.”

Allie frowned as she held on to the furniture and walls and made her way to the door. Lizzy could watch Granny for the rest of the afternoon. After all, she was only playing that boring as hell game of Monopoly. Now if she'd been up in her bedroom having wild, passionate, afterglow-producing sex with Mitch, Allie wouldn't expect her to watch Granny. But between boring sex and boring Monopoly, Allie would probably choose the board game, too.

She giggled at the idea of bored and board being pronounced the same way. Then the laughter died and sadness set in. Poor darling Lizzy wasn't ever going to experience the kind of sex that Allie had had with Blake. She loved her sister even if they weren't best friends. They should fix that and Allie would make the first step. She carried the two bottles out into the foyer and yelled her sister's name.

“My God, you are drunk. On a Sunday, no less,” Lizzy gasped when she saw her sister leaning against the wall.

“Shhhh, don't yell. Mitch will hear. He'll pray for me and I don't want God to know that I've been drinkin' on Sunday.” The words were slurred but at least she was standing on her own two feet.

“Mitch and Grady left a long time ago. Granny and I are about to have a slice of pie. She said you were cleaning her closet. You smell like a liquor store.” Lizzy's pert little nose curled up. “You are drunk. You were supposed to be watching Granny, not getting drunk.”

Allie giggled. “I'm not drunk and I love you, Lizzy. Don't marry Mitch. You won't ever have mind-blowing sex with him or know what an afterglow is. He's boring as a board game.” She hugged her sister. “Let's bury the hatchet and have a drink to toast being best friends.” She held up the two bottles and clinked them together. “Which one will it be? Señor Patrón or bad, bad boy Jack?”

“Neither one.” Lizzy made a grab for the liquor. “Give me those bottles and go sleep it off in your room.”

Allie hugged them to her breast like long-lost relatives. “Hell, no! I'm going to town to have a drink with Nadine. I'm dis…dis…appointed in you, Lizzy. Nadine will be my best friend if you won't and you ain't going to be happy ever, not ever.”

“You can't drive drunk,” Lizzy protested.

“I tell you, I'm not drunk, but I will be by the time I finish up my visit with these two. You take care of Granny. If she runs away, you'll answer to Mama.” Allie picked up her purse from the foyer table and staggered out the front door. She heard Lizzy talking to her mother on the phone, but her sister could talk to Jesus, God, and Moses for all she cared. She needed a best friend and Nadine would be glad to drink a toast with her.

Besides she hadn't been a good friend to the woman. No doubt, Nadine would be at the store building because she wanted to open the café in another week. It was absolutely imperative that Allie tell her that all cowboys didn't like apple pie. They liked their mamas and pretty girls but some of them liked cherry pie or maybe even lemon meringue, but not to depend on apple pies. A friend would be honest with Nadine and tell her that.

She put the bottles between her legs, backed her thirteen-year-old pickup truck out of the driveway, and widened her eyes, being careful not to blink except when totally necessary. She'd prove to Deke that she could hold her liquor, prove to Lizzy that she wasn't drunk, and Blake Dawson could go to hell for not letting her explain.

When she made it to the end of the lane, she put her foot on the brake. Left was town. Right took her to the Lucky Penny. Or was right town? She wasn't drunk. She knew that Blake didn't like apple pie. If she was drunk, she wouldn't remember that. She twisted the cap off the Jack and took a long gulp. Everything was clear as a bell and the whiskey didn't even burn. She could hold her liquor. All she needed was bad boy Jack to clear her mind.

She whipped the truck to the right and was singing with the radio when she made another right into the Lucky Penny lane. She held up the bottle of Jack when Travis Tritt sang that the whiskey wasn't workin' anymore and nodded when the song's lyrics said that he needed one more honky-tonk angel to turn his life around.

She'd be a honky-tonk angel. She could be as wild as Blake. She thought she was stomping the brakes when she realized she was in front of the house at Blake's ranch. She really did, but when she yelled “whoa,” the truck kept moving.

She hit the pedal harder, but the damn thing wouldn't listen to her. It was a hell of a time for the brakes to go out but she had to protect her two bottles because she and Nadine were going to have a drink to their friendship. Only Nadine wasn't putting in a café at the Lucky Penny. The truck busted through the wooden fence circling the yard and ground to a stop when it hit the porch, the solid foundation putting a huge dent in the front and a hole in the radiator.

“Well, shit!” she mumbled as her head hit the steering wheel. “Shhh! Shut up!” She slapped the steering wheel. “I went the wrong way. Shut up or Blake will find out.”

Blake and Shooter were alone in the house. Toby had gone home a couple of hours before and the house was too quiet. Suddenly the whole house trembled, and Blake grabbed the wall and hung on, not knowing what to expect next since he'd never experienced an earthquake before. Shooter darted into the bedroom and tried to dive under the bed, but the mattress was still on the floor. He yipped and huddled in the corner, his paws covering his eyes.

When nothing else happened, Blake let go of the wall and checked the ceiling. The roof hadn't fallen and the new ceiling didn't show signs of cracks. The floor beneath him was solid once again. Was that a horn blaring outside?

Shooter whimpered but he didn't move.

“That wasn't an earthquake. Someone rammed into our house.” Blake ran down the hall, across the living room, and out onto the porch.

“What the hell?” He didn't recognize the older model small truck. He'd never seen the baby blue vehicle with rusted-out spots along the bottom of the fenders, but there was definitely a person in there and she was not moving. He jogged to the truck, through an inch of snow in his socks, to check the body for life.

Allie raised her head enough to stop the horn when he slung open the door. “It's okay if you don't like apple pie.” She fell out into his arms. Two bottles landed on the frozen ground. The square one with a black label landed on its side, a few drops spilling out onto the ground but most of the remainder held secure by the shape of the bottle. The Patrón landed right side up, resting there as pretty as if it was sitting on the top shelf behind a fancy bar.

He reached inside and turned off the engine and then carried her into the house. She was snoring loudly and smelled like a whiskey barrel when he laid her down on the mattress. Shooter sniffed her, tucked his tail between his legs, and made a beeline for the living room.

Blake chuckled and she roused slightly.

“Blake hates apple pie, Nadine. He loves his mama, though.”

“Shhh! Shut your eyes,” he said.

She sat straight up without opening her eyes and began weaving from side to side. “Can't have sex with all these clothes on.” She slurred her words, but Blake understood most of them. “Poor Lizzy. Board games make boring sex.”

He swiftly removed her sweater and unzipped her skirt before sliding it down her legs. She opened her bloodshot eyes and cocked her head to one side. “I love you, Blake.”

He whipped his T-shirt off and pulled it over her head, pushed her back onto the pillows and covered her up. “Sleep, darlin'. Tomorrow you'll have a headache, but you won't remember much of what you said. What on earth made you hit the bottle anyway?”

“Apple pie,” she mumbled. “You don't like apple pie.”

He lined a small trash can with a plastic bag and set it beside the bed. Then he removed another T-shirt from a dresser drawer, jerked it over his head, picked up the book he'd planned on reading that evening, and settled himself on the other side of the king-size mattress. She was drunk off her ass, and she wouldn't remember saying it but that was okay. She was beside him and for right now, she did care.

The sun had sunk below the window ledge when the notion struck that he should at least let the folks over at Audrey's Place know where their prodigal daughter had landed. They probably didn't need to know the particulars, like the fact that one of them had a truck that was most likely totaled sitting in his front yard. Or that she was passed out cold and snoring like a two-ton grizzly bear.

He laid his book to the side and reached for his phone on the nightstand. It slipped out of his hands and skittered its way across the hardwood floor. Allie roused up and opened one eye. “Ouch. My head hurts. Afterglow isn't supposed to give me a headache.”

He slid off the mattress, picked up the phone, made his way around the bed to her side, and kissed her on the forehead, but she was already snoring again. He called her number but it went straight to voice mail. Then he remembered the number on the side of the van and called it.

“Hello.” Irene's thin voice filled his ear. “Who is this?”

“This is Blake Dawson from the Lucky Penny. Could I talk to Katy or to Lizzy?”

“I don't know you, and who is Katy? Are you the law? Well, we ain't run no whorehouse here in a long time, so stay the hell away from Audrey's Place.” The clink of her hanging up the phone receiver banged in his ear.

“Guess some folks still have a dial-up phone.” He called the number again.

Irene screamed into the phone. “If this is the law, you can go to hell. We ain't runnin' moonshine, either, and we done closed up the whorehouse.”

He could hear Lizzy yelling in the background. “Granny, who is that? Is it Nadine? Is Allie with her?”

“Who is Nadine and what are you talkin' about? It's the law. They're over at the Lucky Penny. I bet that damn Walter has told them that we used to run a whorehouse here,” Irene said.

Lizzy's frazzled voice finally asked, “Nadine, is Allie with you?”

“This is Blake, Lizzy. Allie is over here.”

“She's drunk, Blake. Bring her home. Don't let her drive. That old truck of hers doesn't even have air bags and the tires are bald.”

“She's out cold and moving her will probably make her start upchucking so why don't we let her sleep it off over here,” Blake said. “I promise I won't let her drive and I've got a damn fine recipe for a hangover that I'll give her when she wakes up.”

“Please don't tell anyone that she's a drunk. I'm marryin' a preacher, you know,” Lizzy said.

“Wouldn't dream of saying a word,” Blake said. “I'll drive her home when she's sobered up tomorrow morning.”

“She's trying to ruin me,” Lizzy got out before Irene wrestled the phone from her.

“Walter, is that you? I told you not to call this number. What in the hell are you thinkin'? Is the law over there?” Irene's shrill voice blasted through his ears.

“Give me that phone, Granny,” Lizzy demanded.

The loud bang in his ears said that Irene hung up a second time.

He tiptoed to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich, carried it to the living room, and turned on the television. The weatherman said that they'd have thunderstorms through the night and most of the day on Monday. He watched two episodes of
Family Feud
and a couple of reruns of
NCIS,
but his mind kept running in circles and Allie Logan was right in the middle of all of it.

Shooter went to the door and whined so he let him out for his evening run and checked the truck one more time. The front end was smashed up, but it didn't look like it would leak if it rained. Just in case there was something important in the cab, he took a look. The only thing in there was a candy wrapper on the floor, the lid to the bottle of Jack Daniel's, which was still lying on the ground with golden liquid in it, and Allie's purse.

He slung her purse over his shoulder and picked up the lid, recapped the liquor bottle, and carried both into the house. “No need to waste good Jack.”

Shooter finished his business and dashed into the house, almost tripping Blake on his way to the kitchen.

“You don't have to break my leg. I wouldn't forget your midnight snack.”

Shooter sat up on his hind legs and begged.

“Okay, you rascal.” Blake laughed. “You get two pieces of bologna for that trick. But when you're too fat to run this spring, it won't be my fault.”

Allie's eyes popped open and then snapped shut again as she grabbed her head and rolled up into a ball. Her mouth was dry and tasted like a dirty bathroom smelled. She tried to swallow but gagged instead. Clamping a hand over her mouth, she tried to get up and rush to the bathroom, but knew she wouldn't make it. She grabbed the trash can beside her bed and dry-heaved until her sides ached, but nothing came up.

She'd never had the flu like this before and she damn sure did not have time for it now. She had to paint Blake's bedroom and then texture the ceiling in the hall and living room. She set the trash can back on the floor and fell back on her bed.