The Fantasy Factor (14 page)

“It’s exciting.”

“Maybe, but it’s still crazy. But if that’s what you want, then you’re entitled to it.”

“That’s what I want,” he said, but the words didn’t hold as much conviction as they usually did.

“That’s your choice. You’re all grown up, and you just proved it.”

“How’s that?”

“You didn’t compromise your dreams for someone else. That shows that you’re not the same little boy who was always stealing cookies from my cookie jar to take home to a hateful old man who never appreciated them.”

“Maybe I ate those cookies.”

“And maybe
Playboy
is beating down my door for a centerfold shot.”

He let loose a low whistle. “I always knew you were hot to trot.”

She frowned. “You were always trying to coax a smile or a kind word out of your father. You wanted his love, and so you compromised your own time and effort to try to please him, just the way your father compromised his rodeo dreams to marry your mother. I was always afraid for you, fearful that you would do the same thing.”

“I’m not my old man.”

“No, you’re not. You’ve got your hopes and dreams and you’re not willing to compromise them for anyone. That shows maturity. I didn’t want to see that. I was so focused on you getting hurt. I wanted you here. Settled. Safe. But that’s not for you, whether I like it or not. At least you had the courage to stand up for yourself. You didn’t buckle just to please me.” She patted his arm. “And you don’t owe me for anything. You and your brothers gave me a purpose in life when I desperately needed one.” She kissed his cheek. “In truth, I’m the one who owes you, and now I’m paying up.” She handed him an envelope. “I want you to know I’m giving Austin your land because he learned how to tell the truth himself and honesty should always be rewarded. But mainly he’s getting it because I know he’ll put it to good use while you’re tending your own place.”

“Actually, I haven’t seen my apartment in a couple of months.” He turned over the envelope and opened it. “I go straight to Vegas tomorrow for a few practice rides before the preliminaries start this weekend.”

“You’ll have to get someone to feed the dog, then. And water the roses. I’ll not have them drying up while you’re gone. Why, I’ll never be able to focus on my new life and my new eyesight if I have to worry about dried-up roses.”

“I don’t have a dog.” He pulled a legal document from the envelope. “And I sure as shootin’ don’t have any roses.”

“Of course you do.” She patted his arm as he unfolded the paper. “And you’ve got azalea bushes, too. And creeping ivy. And lilies. And lots of purebred bluebonnets that somehow managed to survive a vicious lawn-mowing incident some years back.”

“What are you…” His words trailed off as he stared at the name listed on the top. “This is the deed to your house.”

“It’s the deed to
your
house,” she said, and then she turned to walk away. “You don’t have to make a living here. Just take care of it and come back every now and then.”

“But…” he started, but she simply waved and started walking, leaving him to face the enormity of what had just happened.

He stared down at the deed of trust. Joy erupted inside him for the second time that day, stirring another wave of panic that made his heart pound faster and his feet itch to move.

Shoving the deed into his back pocket, he headed for the rear exit. Home or no home, Houston Jericho wouldn’t stay in Cadillac. He couldn’t. He wasn’t going to live out his life in this desperately small town. No matter how appealing the idea, or how much he enjoyed giving pointers out at Hank’s place, or how much Sarah Buchanan loved him.

He was holding on to his goals, his dreams, his pride, and following them straight out of town. Something his father hadn’t had the courage to do.

So why did it suddenly feel as if he was leaving behind things that mattered most?

The question haunted him as he gunned the engine and headed through town. Before he knew what he was doing, he’d turned onto Sarah’s street. Her house sat to the right, the porch light blazing. He slowed and braked to a stop and simply sat there. Thinking. Looking.

The front drapes were parted, the sheers trembling with the small breeze. They did little to hinder the view, however. He could see her sitting on her sofa in her oversize pajamas, a bowl of popcorn on her lap, the television set blazing. He had half a mind to march inside, strip off the ugly old pajamas, haul her into his arms and simply hold her.

A need that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the fact that Sarah had lived and breathed in his memories for so long that he couldn’t seem to forget her. He knew that they could go through the list, repeating scenario after scenario, and it would never be enough to get her out from under his skin and out of his heart.

Because somehow, some way, despite his best efforts, she’d found her way inside for good.

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel as he forced the notion aside and stepped on the gas. A few minutes later, he walked into his room at the bed-and-breakfast and started to pack, because no way, no how was he giving up his entire life to stay in this dead-end town just because he’d fallen in love.

Because Houston Jericho wasn’t going to make the same mistake his father had made.

I
T WAS BARELY TEN O’CLOCK
the next morning when Sarah rang up an order of potted petunias and wheeled the purchase out to Mr. Montgomery’s car. She loaded the plants into the back of his station wagon and waved goodbye before walking back inside, past a six-foot-high stack of potting soil bags still sitting in the exact spot that the delivery driver had unloaded them into first thing that morning.

It had been three hours since she’d unlocked the doors and opened for business, and Houston still hadn’t shown up.

She didn’t expect him to after what she’d said yesterday. It was enough to spook any man, particularly one who’d made it perfectly clear that the last thing he wanted, the
very
last thing he wanted, was love or marriage or anything that might interfere with his life on the road.

Even so, a small part of her had held out hope that he would come riding up, declare his love, and they would live happily ever after the way that couple had done in the old black-and-white movie she’d watched on the late, late show last night.

She’d closed her eyes and settled back on the couch and pictured him charging through the door, hauling her into his arms and telling her that she didn’t have to feel afraid or disappointed or regretful because he loved her, too, and he wanted to be with her.

But those had been silly dreams.

This was reality. Her nursery. Her responsibility. Her life. And it was right here, while his existed hundreds of miles away. Not that the distance was the real problem. The real problem was that he simply didn’t return her feelings because Houston Jericho didn’t believe in love.

He believed in sating his hunger and satisfying his baser needs. Lust, pure and simple.

That’s what she told herself.

But lust didn’t explain why he’d lost his control yesterday and forgotten all about the precious condoms he always wore. He’d been madly, desperately in lust since he’d walked back into her life, yet not once before had he been so overwhelmed he’d forgotten a condom.

It was almost as if he’d wanted a deeper commitment from her. More of a reason to give it all up and stay right here. She had no doubt that he would never abandon his child. He would step up and do the right thing and stand by her.

But she didn’t want Houston Jericho and his sense of duty. She didn’t want anything from him.

At least that’s what she told herself as she went about her morning and tried to ignore the painful truth.

Houston Jericho was leaving.

Again.

H
E WAS LEAVING
,
ALL RIGHT
. You’re damned straight he was.

He’d told himself that all night as he’d sat down by Cadillac Creek and watched the sun come up. He’d thought of every reason why he should leave, why he wanted to leave, but it still wasn’t enough to make him drive past the county line, toward Austin and the plane that waited for him, and his life beyond his hometown.

He got close. But every time he started to pass the Y’all Come Back, Now, Ya Hear? sign, he would remember some barn where he’d thrown rocks or some house that he’d always admired, and he would have to turn around, eager for one more glimpse of his past, dead certain that one more look would be enough to ease the turmoil raging inside him and close that chapter of his life once and for all.

He’d driven down every dirt road and followed up on every small memory, but nothing eased the ache in his chest. He’d run out of places to go and things to see and there was nothing left but the small road that turned toward the cemetery where his father had been buried so many years earlier during that record-setting cold day in February.

Not that he’d felt the cold firsthand. He’d been far away in Cheyenne. Too busy winning to slow down for anyone or anything, least of all his father. It wasn’t as if the old man would have wanted him there, anyway. He’d never wanted Houston or his three brothers, any more than he’d wanted their mother when she’d been alive.

Even so, the three boys had been a constant presence in his life, always picking him up when he passed out or urging him to eat to counter the effects of the alcohol, yet he’d hated them, anyway. He’d resented them. He’d abandoned them.

The only reason Houston had felt even a small measure of guilt was because his brothers had had to deal with the arrangements without him. But it was Austin and Dallas who’d convinced him to stay in the finals in the first place. They’d wanted him to win, to make a name for himself. To make a name on the outside that would be celebrated rather than frowned upon the way it was right here in Cadillac, thanks to their drunk of a father.

No, Houston sure as hell didn’t owe the old man anything. Not then and not now.

But he owed himself.

Sarah was right. The whole funeral thing wasn’t so much for the person in the casket, but the people all around it. To give them an opportunity to come to grips with their loss.

And maybe, just maybe, if he took the walk down that path and saw for himself that the old man was truly dead and buried, gone for good, somehow he could shut out the voices once and for all.

He glanced at the plane ticket sitting on the dash. He didn’t have time for this. If he left now, he could just make it.

Even as he told himself that, he reached for the door handle and climbed out of the truck. He lifted the latch on the gate and started down the long, winding track.

His chest tightened with each step, until the air sawed past his lips and his heart pounded a fast, furious rhythm.

A few steps and he rounded the twin oak trees into a small clearing. He blinked and stared at the freshly planted flowers that surrounded the simple headstone. The weeds had been pulled, the grass mowed. New shrubs circled the area. His heart revved as his gaze touched a cluster of bright yellow daisies.
Sarah.

He thought back to that day in the truck when they’d made their first nursery delivery and she’d commented on the lack of flowers at his gravesite.

“He didn’t deserve flowers.”

She’d said both the flowers and the funeral were for the people left behind. They were a way to say goodbye.

He’d told her he didn’t need to say goodbye. That’s what he wanted to believe. Because if he needed closure it would mean that his dad’s thoughts and opinions had actually mattered to him. That Houston had actually liked the old man. That maybe he’d even loved him, despite that his father had never returned that love. Well, no way. Not for all the cookies in Miss Marshalyn’s cookie jar.

Bick Jericho hadn’t deserved anyone’s love. And he hadn’t wanted it, as he’d said many times, fortifying the wall between himself and his three sons. As though if he made it thick enough and high enough, he wouldn’t have to worry about feeling anything for them. And he wouldn’t have to worry about losing them the way he’d lost his wife.

That’s what Houston told himself. What he knew to be a cold, hard fact. At the same time, he couldn’t help but remember that first time his father had taken him to Hank Brister’s and set him on top of that mechanical bull. And the way he’d plopped Houston on his shoulders that one Christmas morning and bounced him around. And the way he’d kissed Houston’s mother on that last and final visit they’d made to the hospital before her kidneys had given out for good.

Those were the only good memories. Too few to count, he told himself.

But they did count.

They were burned into his memory and he couldn’t forget them. Even more, he couldn’t hate his father the way he wanted to. The way he should, considering the old man had been bitter and jealous toward him.

“Go on and get out of here. You won’t make it. You’ll be back here just like me. Stuck here, just like me.”

He’d been ready to come back to prove his old man wrong, but it had been too late. There’d been no convincing the man that despite the uncanny resemblance, Houston was nothing like him. Houston was a winner, not a loser. Not a drunk, no-good loser who didn’t have balls big enough to step up and be a man and take care of his boys. And love them the way they’d wanted to be loved.

The way Houston still wanted to be loved.

Bick hadn’t had any tolerance for such an emotion.

“Love’ll cripple you, boy. You mark my words.”

But it wasn’t love that had turned his father into a bad husband and an even worse father. Houston realized that as he stood there amid the daisies and the bluebonnets. It was love that had turned this neglected spot into a beautiful landscaped garden.

It was fear that had been his father’s downfall. His father hadn’t given up his dreams because he’d been saddled with a wife and kids and he’d had no other choice. He still could have fulfilled his dreams had he been courageous enough to pursue them. No, he’d been afraid to try and even more afraid to fail. And so he’d run from that fear, straight into a bottle.