Vegas Two-Step (13 page)

Lord, was this how he flirted? And she thought she was pathetic. She folded her arms and shot him her best no-nonsense glare. “No. You’re the one standing on my porch. Not the other way around.”

Something cruel flashed in Brent’s Nordic eyes. “You a lesbo or something, Nellie? I mean, there’s been rumors and all.”

She flinched at his words. Lesbian? Just because she didn’t spread her legs for every man in Oak Stand? Nellie wanted to throw something at Brent. Beau would probably work. He’d scratch those perfectly tanned cheeks. But who hurled a cat at a man? Part of her wanted to slink inside and close the door, hurt and embarrassed, typical Nellie. But she did neither.

Instead, she allowed her lips to curve upward then she casually caught her lower lip with her teeth. She raked Brent with her eyes, not once but twice. Then she reached out and laid her hand flat on his muscled chest. “Why? You want to watch, Brent?”

She had never seen Brent Hamilton at a loss for words, but damned if he didn’t look shocked. His eyes shifted from conniving to confused. Poor Brent. She’d rocked his delicate sensibilities.

Nellie allowed a low laugh to escape and she walked her fingers up to his shoulder. “Just kidding, Brent. I don’t do girls, anyway. And if I did, I wouldn’t let you watch.”

She pressed one finger into the cleft in Brent’s chin before stepping away. She threw him a sunny smile.

His only response was to blink.

“You never did tell me why you’re on my porch,” she said, grabbing the doorknob and turning expectantly toward the man still gathering his wits.

“Uh, yeah, Bob McEvoy told me you were looking for a contractor. I saw you heading this way and thought I would come by and offer my services.” Brent still looked shell-shocked. She wondered if anyone had ever provoked the town hero before.

“I plan on remodeling my kitchen. I put in a couple of calls this morning, so I could go ahead and get the quote process rolling. You want to give me an estimate?”

He nodded his head. “Look, I’ll just give you a call and we’ll set up a consult. I gotta get going anyway.” He seemed to be in a big rush all of a sudden. Self-satisfaction burgeoned inside Nellie. She’d turned the tables on someone. She’d made a man so uncomfortable he wanted to slink off her porch like a whipped pup.

“Sure,” she drawled with a hint of come-hither in her voice. “You just give me a call anytime.”

Nellie couldn’t say Brent actually scrambled off her porch, but he sure didn’t waste much time hustling toward the truck parked just around the corner. It had Hamilton Construction written on the side of it, along with his phone number. She could jot the number down, but she was almost certain Mr. Football would be calling her. His eyes may have gone all befuddled, but they’d definitely shown interest. Brent would be back.

She picked Beau up and nestled him in the crook of her arm. His lawn-mower purr cranked up and she dropped a kiss on his heart-shaped nose. “Well, Beau, I’ve gone two years without a date and darned if two men didn’t pop up today. Too bad neither is the one I want. Too damn bad.”

She dropped the cat back onto the gray boards of the roomy porch and checked the antique mailbox beside the front door. Nothing but the electric bill, a tanning bed flyer, and a brochure advertising a free weekend in Las Vegas.

She wanted to laugh, but the pain flashed so hard and fast she couldn’t even smile at the irony.

“Get Wild In Vegas.” Big, bold letters, flashing signs, bright lights.

Been there. Done that.

Nellie crumpled the brochure into a giant multicolored ball just the perfect size to fling into the wastebasket.

“Screw men,” she said as she stomped into her house. They could all go to hell.

That was obviously not in the cards, Jack thought as he angled his new Ford F-250 to the side of the road in front of a ramshackle building called The Bait Shack.

The truck rolled to a stop and Jack thumped the steering wheel with his head. He was exhausted, hungry and cranky. Two days driving across the arid southwest in the blistering sun made for a giant headache.

The only bright spot in his trip was the gleaming new truck he drove. A fiery red beauty, it purred over the highway, eating the miles, cradling his body in plush leather seats, and providing him song after song on the satellite radio. The only thing it couldn’t do was reinflate its own tire.

He slipped from the truck, noting the door to the bait shop opening at the same time. He walked around to the passenger side and, sure enough, the tire was flat. It caused his fine-looking truck to tip like a drunken sailor on shore leave.

“Man, that’s some truck.” Jack heard the voice from behind him. “You got a flat or somethin’?”

Jack wanted to turn around and say, “Nah, I just over-inflated the other three for the hell of it…”

Of course, he wasn’t quite sure of the size of the fellow behind him, so he didn’t. They grew them big in Texas. He wasn’t going to risk a black eye.

Jack turned around. “Looks like it.”

The man staring back at him was skinny as a beanpole, blacker than tar and gap-toothed to boot. A friendly smile lit his grizzled face. “Reckon we’d better get to changin’ it then.”

Jack raised his eyebrows at the stranger’s words. For one, the man didn’t even ask if he could lend a hand. Jack had experienced his share of kind strangers, but this one seemed pragmatic in his approach. He was going to help; that’s what he was supposed to do. Second, he was about seventy, perhaps even eighty, yet there he was, shuffling around behind the truck, wiping his brow with a worn bandanna.

“Woo, sure is hot,” the man commented. “We’re in for a rough summer, I do believe.”

Jack followed the man, who turned and stuck out a papery hand. “My name’s Willie Turner. This here’s my store.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Jack said, taking the man’s hand. It felt fragile in his larger one. “Name’s Jack Darby. I appreciate your help.”

Willie’s rheumy eyes danced. “That’s what neighbors are for.”

Jack didn’t know how the man figured he was a neighbor. No one in Oak Stand knew him or his name. He’d bought the horse farm in the name of his newly established corporation, Sonar Caballo, so the man’s words puzzled Jack.

“Neighbors?” Jack asked.

“Ain’t we all neighbors in this ol’ world?” The old man bent and peered underneath the truck. “Your spare sittin’ under here?”

Jack launched into action, locating the jack and the spare. Before he could blink, he and Willie had the deflated tire off and the spare on with a minimum of groaning and sweating. He wiped his hands on a towel he’d tucked in the door of the truck before he set out.

“Come on in and get yourself a cold drink,” Willie said, turning and heading for his tiny store. He didn’t leave room for a refusal.

Jack pulled the screened door open and felt the cool rush of air-conditioning as he tried to adjust his eyes to the dim room. It smelled of earthworms, hummed with crickets and rattling coolers, and felt like he’d stepped back thirty years in time. There was even a 1977 Dallas Cowboys calendar on the wall behind the cash register.

“Go on and grab a soda,” Willie said from behind the counter. “Get me one of those orange ones if you don’t mind.” He rifled underneath the counter and Jack stepped toward the cooler, pulling out a Nehi Orange and a Dr Pepper. He shut the case just as Willie flopped a dog-eared phone book onto the counter.

“I can’t rightly remember Old Bill Fuller’s number. He’s got a tire store in town, and I know he could patch that tire right up. You got time for that?”

Jack popped the top on his soda and handed Willie the orange can. “Yes sir. I’m going to be staying over at the Henderson place. I mean, well, I just bought the place.”

“Know it well,” Willie said, thumbing through the few yellow pages in the book. “My mama used to work for Mrs. Henderson back in the fifties. They was good people. Their boy dying over there in Vietnam liked to kilt them.”

Jack took a big gulp of soda, enjoying the way the icy beverage coasted down his throat and settled in his belly. He had no clue why he’d told Willie he’d bought the farm. He wasn’t ready to reveal himself to the town, at least not until he saw Nellie.

Willie shoved the phone book toward him, handing him a tiny notepad and pen brandishing a bank logo.

He obediently jotted down the info, folded the paper and shoved it into his back pocket. “I thank you, Mr. Turner, for helping me. It was a kindness I hope to repay someday.”

Willie waved his gratitude away. “The good Lord put us here to serve.”

Jack finished his soda and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. “My thanks anyway. How much do I owe you for the drink?”

“Not a thing. Just make sure you come see me when you want to go fishing on that pond you got out there. I got every kind of bait you need and some you don’t,” the old man added, settling himself into a folding lawn chair behind the counter.

Jack smiled. “I’ll do that. It’s been awhile since I’ve been fishing. Perhaps you’ll join me and help me catch a mess of fish to fry.”

Willie pointed one crooked finger at him. “Name the place and time.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Turner.” Jack waved as he walked out the door.

Blinking against the brilliance of the afternoon sun, he walked back to his truck. Gravel crunched beneath the old work boots he’d found in the back of his closet. He’d been in town but half an hour and already had a date. Okay, so it wasn’t with Nellie, but fishing with an old-timer who knew his way around a rod and reel was a close second.

Now he just had to figure out how to present himself to Nellie. His plan had gotten him this far, but what next?

Most people would’ve called him crazy. Hell, at times he thought rolling the dice on Nellie sounded like the stupidest stunt ever. Chuck everything and go after some woman who’d lied to him like a snake-oil salesman? Maybe he’d swallowed a stupid pill the night Elle—wait, Nellie—had shown up.

But, no, he knew. He hadn’t even been surprised when a horse farm popped up for sale right outside her hometown. Serendipity. Fate. Kismet. Divine intervention. Put any name to it, but Jack knew what he had with Nellie was real.

He slid behind the wheel and fumbled for the air-conditioning button. Damn, but Texas was hot in late June. The air was so thick he felt he couldn’t even breathe. Rivulets of sweat coasted down his back.

He fired the AC on high.

Sweet, cool air poured out as he pulled away from the bait shop. Willie had come out front and stood waving goodbye.

Not such a bad welcome after all.

“Hell,” he muttered. “Just what I need—a run-down, piece-of-crap house. Can’t wait to see the barn.”

He didn’t make a habit of talking to himself, yet in a setting such as this, black cat included, he felt it perfectly logical.

Jack opened the truck door, slid out from behind the wheel, and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He needed help.

Someone answered on the fourth ring.

“Wuz up, J.D.?”

“Hey, Drew. Not much. Where’s your mom?”

The phone clattered and he heard his nephew call for his mother before asking his favorite question. “When you comin’ down for a game?”

“I’ll try and make it soon. I got to get your mom’s help first.” He hated putting Drew off. Lord knows he didn’t make his nephew’s baseball games often enough. Maybe if things worked out with Nellie—and they would work out—he could take her to watch his nephew pitch.

“I had to ice my shoulder after every game. It’s been sore a lot.”

“You using that liniment I sent you?”

“That stuff smells like horseshit. How am I supposed to ever get laid smelling like that?”

Jack heard his sister pick up another line. “Andrew Taggart! You watch your dirty mouth!”

“Sorry, Mom. Bye, J.D., gotta get to practice.”

He heard his nephew hang up. “Hey, sis.”

“What am I gonna do with him? His father doesn’t take a bit of interest. Getting laid. He just turned seventeen, for goodness’ sake.”

He smiled, kicking a stone into the overgrown grass beside the front walk. “Well, that’s when I first got laid.”

“Don’t tell me that,” Dawn said. Jack could hear resignation in her voice. “I can’t believe he’s old enough to brush his own teeth, much less want to have sex.”

Silence hung on the line.

“I’m getting old,” his sister sighed.

“Yeah, getting old sucks,” he said.

“What’s up?” Dawn asked. Jack could hear dishes being dumped into the sink. His sister was a legendary multitasker.

“I need your help.” He looked up at the house. It had good bones, but needed some major sprucing up. He was going to spend a buttload to get the place in shape. He could only hope his Vegas house sold soon and for above asking price.

“You? Wait. You? Jack Darby? You need help?” Dawn was not only a multitasker, but a typical older sister.

“You want to be a smart-ass, or do you want to put your skills to use?”

She stopped taunting. He could hear her nearly salivate over the phone. “Skills?”

“Yeah, this place I bought needs work. A lot of work.” He walked up and surveyed the porch. A couple of slats were missing. The front door looked to be in good shape, but the windows were fifty years old with cracking paint.

“What do you mean? Like a remodel? Because I don’t do remodels. I own a furniture redesign shop.”

“Uh, like I know that.” He started to add that he’d helped her finance it, but she didn’t need to be reminded of her little brother’s success. She was doing fine on her own.

“Just saying,” she said. He heard glasses clink and a cabinet door slam. “You want me to come up and take a look?”

“I’m calling,” Jack said, pulling a set of keys from his pocket. He was almost afraid to open the door. He wished he had brought Dutch. At least the dog would protect him. Or maybe not. Dutch was afraid of the wind if it blew too hard.

“Hmm.” Dawn was thinking. He could hear the cogwheels turning in her head. She was visualizing her calendar—Andrew’s games, consultant appointments, meetings at the church. “I guess I can come up this weekend. Larry has Drew. Next week’s out because of tournament ball. I could at least help you get a game plan for what needs to be done.”

“That’s great, Dawn. I could really use you.” He knew the words that would lock Dawn into coming. Need and appreciation. His sweet sister was so predictable. God, he loved her.

“Okay, okay, you already have me. No need to pour on the sugar, Jackie.”

He rolled his eyes and noticed an enormous spiderweb lacing the beams of the porch. He put the key in the lock and gave it a twist. The bolt slid home with a loud click. Jack pushed the door open. The creak wasn’t as bad as he’d expected.

Sunlight followed him into the foyer. First impression: The Waltons meet the Brady Bunch. Dusty oak floors made a worn path into the large living room. Groovy striped wallpaper lined the single wall to his right.

“Wow.”

He heard crystal clinking before Dawn said, “What?”

“This living room is really orange.” He stepped into the room. A tired gold sectional filled one half. A shag rug centered in front of a bay window harbored a forest of dust bunnies or maybe Texas tumbleweeds. A macramé basket hung drunkenly from a lone hook in the corner. A few tables were scattered about, as if they’d missed the burn pile by a splinter. In the corner squatted a wood-burning stove.

“Like how? Russet or tangerine? Or maybe a melon?”

He snorted. “Like orange. Um, Tennessee-orange.”

“Tennessee-orange? What kind of…oh, yeah, you’re a guy. Tennessee-orange. That’s like bright.”

“Yeah. No shit, Sherlock,” Jack quipped, walking toward the kitchen tucked to the right of the living area.

“You want me to come or not?” she snipped. He forgot how much she hated “potty” words, no matter that she used them herself every time she stubbed a toe or broke a nail.

“Sorry,” he said, peering through the gloom of the small kitchen. It looked very green, like that sixties’ green. Puke.

“Okay, listen. I gotta run. Drew has practice. He’s already started my car and is honking the horn. I’ll come on Friday. Until then, hire somebody to do some cleaning and start salvaging anything you think you can use. I’ll bring catalogues so we can order the basics.” Dawn didn’t ask. She commanded. It was the benefit of being the oldest.

“Aye-aye, captain.” He closed his phone. Thank God for sisters like Dawn. He never could have called Cheryl to help. She was constantly on deadline. Forgetful, lovely and committed to writing those God-awful romance books, his sister Cheryl would have gladly pitched in to help and then promptly forgotten she had. She’d remember at Christmas.

Dawn took charge. Newly single after thirteen years of a rotten marriage, she held her vulnerability in her hand like a repulsive beetle, refusing to look at it even as it scuttled about her palm. She balanced raising her son Andrew with launching a new business, taking Internet classes, and avoiding her creep of an ex-husband and all his legal troubles.

She was a classy lady.

He trudged through the dining room, kicking old empty boxes to the side along with dusty newsprint. Depressing. Up the stairs. Rickety. Into the first bedroom. Moldy. Second bedroom. Musty. Master bedroom. Not so bad.

He was afraid to peek into the bathrooms—they couldn’t be good—so he whipped out his cell phone and started calling the utility companies. He needed to get someone out here ASAP. He could rough it for a few days, but Jack Darby had been no Boy Scout. And he wasn’t starting anytime soon.