Where the Heart Leads (3 page)

Her first impulse was to turn around, run back into the house, and lock the door behind her.

But an inner voice told her otherwise.
Behave yourself, Moira. Remember that Gram and Gramp are depending on you, that Astrid and Arne are depending on you. Even Ivanhoe is depending on you.

She took a deep breath. “That's—uh—not like anything I ever saw on the streets of Pasadena.”

“It's a dually. Good for hauling livestock and construction equipment.” Rafe stepped back and regarded his vehicle with obvious pride. “I've been doing my own contracting here in Bosque Bend, and this baby saved the city a lot of money on the high school conversion.”

He swung the passenger door open, and Moira looked up and up and up.

“It's—it's a Swiss alp!” she croaked. “There's no way I can climb up there!”

“No problem. I'll help you. I do it for my mother and sister all the time.”

Moira stifled a gasp as his hands encircled her waist and hoisted her up to the seat—it was as if he'd touched her bare skin.

She fastened her seat belt and concentrated on breathing normally. Why was she getting all hot and bothered? A drawling cowboy with a shock of red hair—he wasn't her type, no matter what his eyes looked like.

Rafe opened the driver's side door, and she glimpsed the ring on his left hand as he hoisted himself into the truck.

Besides, he was
married, married, married!

He started the truck and glanced across at her, but Moira folded her arms across each other and looked out the side window as he drove down the street.

Lynnwood was blurring into twilight. The autumn dark was coming earlier every evening, and Halloween was less than two weeks away. She and Astrid would have to pick up a pumpkin at the store tomorrow and some trick-or-treat candy too.

Rafe stopped for a red light before turning onto the highway and gave her a reassuring smile. “You're gonna enjoy yourself this evenin'. Friday nights at Omar's, everybody in the house is wearin' western. You'll see more drugstore cowboys tonight than you ever saw in Hollywood.”

“I thought you said you wanted to discuss the upcoming show.”

“That too, but you need to get a good whiff of Texas first.”

“I've been to Texas before. One of the characters I played, Twinky Applejack, sneaked into the luggage when her brother packed up to go to a dude ranch. She ended up at Southfork and hobnobbed with the Ewings.”

He laughed, that deep rumble that struck a resonance she didn't know she had.

“I mean
real
Texas, not TV Texas. Good Times is my Uncle Omar's place, and he cooks up the best pork ribs for twenty miles around.”

“What if I'm a vegetarian?”

He gave her a cattleman's look of pure horror. “You're not, are you?”

She couldn't help but smile. “No, but I'm not much of a rib eater either. All that sloppy sauce.”

“That's an easy fix.” He turned onto the highway. “By the way, Friday is a band night, and Seward Gap—that's my brother's band—is gonna be playin'. They do a lot of covers, and sometimes, when everyone's drunk enough, Travis throws in his own stuff too. We used to do an Everly Brothers act together while we were in high school, but Travis has moved on to bigger and better, while I'm mostly singin' Delilah to sleep now.”

His wedding ring caught the last beam of sunset as he made a quick turn onto a ranch-to-market road, and the words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them.

“Does your wife sing too?”

Rafe paused before answering, and his voice was bleak. “My wife…passed…three years ago come New Year's Day.”

He'd always known he loved Beth, but he'd never known just how much until he found her lying on the soft winter grass with a bullet through her head. Cradling her in his arms, he'd carried her inside and laid her on the couch, then called 911.

Police Chief Mervin Hruska and his guys arrived in record time. Mervin, who'd been a groomsman at their wedding, had gently berated him for “disturbing the—uh—body” and pretended not to see the tears coursing down his cheeks.

Beth, the joy of his life, was dead.

His grandmother used to sing a song about a lovely dancer who was one of twilight's fairy daughters, and that's how he always thought of Beth. She was someone sent from above the clouds, a sprite, a beautiful girl overflowing with love and laughter.

His life had been perfect—he had a wonderful wife, a good job with good prospects, and the sweetest baby in the world.

Then his father died much too soon, and his world wobbled on its axis.

And when Beth was killed less than a year later, it went hurling into deep space.

The coroner said the bullet probably came from the gun of one of the itinerant ranch hands who had been shooting into the air all day on the ranch across the road—celebratory gunfire. But by then, the vaqueros were long gone, and he was left alone with his sorrow, his memories, and his precious child.

Travis, of course, took over the ranch for a while, and his mother moved back into the house to help with Delilah, but he was on his own in regard to female companionship.

Some guys would have drowned themselves in the bottle, but he'd never been much of a drinking man. Sex was the only thing he could lose himself in, and the physical act was all he wanted—relief with no emotional commitment—nothing that would break his bond with Beth.

Lately, though, he'd gotten tired of the game. In fact, Moira Farrar was the first woman in months he'd felt even a quiver of interest in, probably because she was such a serious little soldier, far different from the Hollywood stereotype he'd expected. And then there was that voice of hers. His body tightened at the thought of it. He'd recognized her immediately when he ran her down in the hall of the museum, but it was that husky voice that made him wonder about possibilities.

The car veered as he hit a rut in the road.

Get your mind out of your trousers, cowboy, and pay attention to your driving.

He put on his brights and slowed down to thirty, then dropped another five as he continued down the narrow, poorly lit road. The whitetails were in rut now, and twilight was a prime time for courting couples. A deer could leap in front of a vehicle without a second's notice, and the last thing he wanted was for a sexed-up buck to splatter his entrails all across the windshield when Moira had hardly been in town a full day.

He risked a sideways glance at her.

But why had she asked about Beth? Had someone gotten to her already and said something about him? Maybe Bertie Fuller? Not that he could do anything about it if she had. He'd known the Fullers lived next door when he set Moira and her sister up in the Lynnwood house, but there wasn't anywhere else available. The guild couldn't afford to shell out rent on top of her salary, half of which he was footing anyway

Moira had gasped out the standard “I'm so sorry,” when he'd told her about Beth's death, then rolled her lips inward as if she were punishing them for asking the question.

Now she was staring out the side window again. Maybe she was thinking about her husband. According to news reports, nearly every woman in the country had gone into mourning when Colin Sanger died, so Moira must have been devastated.

Oh God, this was a fine way to establish a relationship—with both of them thinking about their lost loves. Of course, because of Delilah, he'd had to rejoin the living a lot sooner than he'd wanted too, but Moira's loss was still relatively fresh.

On the other hand, she'd moved halfway across the country and was reinventing herself as a theater director. That signaled new beginnings to him.

He gave her a quick once-over.

Maybe she'd feel better when they got to Omar's. Like his uncle always said, everybody has a good time at Good Times. And judging by the set of her jaw, Rafe would guess Moira hadn't had many good times lately.

But maybe he was playing his hand wrong. Maybe he shouldn't be taking Moira to Omar's place first off, before she'd gotten to know him.

Good Times was predominantly a male hangout, and he'd brought women here before, but they were locals—the guys were their fathers, uncles, bothers, cousins, and ex-husbands—so the high testosterone levels didn't bother them. Moira was different. She was a hothouse flower, accustomed to dining at expensive restaurants with a whole lineup of servers catering to her every whim.

But what the fuck was a hothouse flower doing in a Podunk town like Bosque Bend?

He narrowed his eyes. Whatever the reason, he was damn well going to take advantage of it. He'd been attracted to her from the second he ran into her in the hall—the way she squared her shoulders as if she was trying to seem taller, the way she looked straight at him without flinching or flirting, her economy of motion, her calm eyes, her high cheekbones, and cute bump of a nose, her porcelain skin and curved cupid lips…

Careful, cowboy. You're driving.

He scanned the side of the road for the turnoff to Good Times. There it was, right past the sign for the county line. Looked like some of the boys had been using it for target practice again.

Half a mile down the road, he pulled into the crowded parking lot, jolting the dually into a space at the back. They'd have to walk uphill to the building, but the rise wasn't steep. He'd keep Moira close beside him to make sure she didn't trip on something in the dark. And if she did, he'd hold her even closer.

She turned to him as soon as he cut off the ignition. “Before we go any further, I want to apologize for mentioning your wife. I'd noticed your ring and assumed—well…”

He breathed a sigh of relief. So that's why she'd been giving him the cold shoulder. Might as well let her have it straight.

“I'll always wear this ring.” He flexed his left hand and looked at the token of his eternal commitment. “I'm thirty years old, and I've had my share of relationships since Beth died, but I'll never remarry.”

This way, if he and Moira did hook up, she'd know the score. Love was off the table for him. It hurt too much.

Moira was surprised to realize that she liked the feel of Rafe's arm looped casually around her as he led her through the jungle of old cars, new cars, vans, pickups of all sizes, a couple of motorcycles, even a small RV.

Up ahead, a string of randomly blinking lights hung down from the front roof of a cinder-block building with two corrugated metal units attached to each side of it. It looked like a setting for yet another follow-up to
Texas Chainsaw Massacre
, which made her wonder whether Rafe was actually trying to keep her steady on the uneven terrain or trying to prevent her from escaping.

She stepped out of Rafe's embrace as they walked up onto the wood slat porch. Horseshoes and old Coca-Cola clocks hung on one side of the door, and a large, weathered poster was mounted on the other side. It advertised a snarling, beetle-browed wrestler billed as “The Meanest Man in Texas.”

“Is that your uncle?”

“No, it's Growler Redlander. He got this place up and runnin' forty-some years ago. It's just across the county line from Bosque Bend, and back when the town was dry, folks used to drive over here for their liquor. Omar snapped the place up when ol' Growler died, tripled the size of it, and started hirin' bands and cookin' up ribs. Everybody and their dog comes here now.”

He rested a hand on her shoulder, a heavy, possessive hand that seemed to mean a lot more than that casual shoulder hug. All her alarm bells went off.

She wasn't ready for this!

But if she wasn't ready, why did she have the urge to snuggle up against him and purr like a contented cat when his arm moved around her shoulder again?

R
afe pushed open the door, and they walked into the room together.

Moira peered into the dark. Long trestle tables lined the back wall, and the right side of the room was crowded with four-person tables, all of them occupied.

“That area to the left of the stage—why aren't there any tables there?”

“That's the dance floor. And the door off to the right leads to the kitchen, where the crew chops up the ribs. And the guy who's makin' his way toward us, the one all in black with the ostrich father in his hat, is Omar himself. He cooks the ribs out back all afternoon till they're ripe and ready, then gets himself all gussied up for the evenin's fun.”

Rafe gave his uncle a high five and a fist bump. “To good times, Omar.”

“Glad you could make it, Rafe. Introduce me to the little lady.”

Moira felt herself being nudged forward.

“Omar, meet Miz Moira Farrar. Moira is Bosque Bend's new theater guild director. Moira, this is the one and only Omar Schuler, rib chef extraordinaire.”

She smiled and held out her hand.

Omar didn't seem to want to let go of it. “Thought you looked familiar, angel. I remember when you were Cliffie Clifford's surprise prom date on
Teen Time Hookups
. Whatever happened to him?”

“I'm not sure.” Actually she knew exactly what had happened to Cliffie. After the series folded because Cliff was so drugged out that he couldn't remember his lines, he let fly with a couple of rounds of buckshot at the producer's house. The last she'd heard, Cliffie had grown a shaggy beard, had his face tattooed like a Maori warrior, and was peddling bead necklaces and low-grade crack on the Santa Monica boardwalk.

Rafe scanned the crowd. “Hey, Omar, I'd like to get us a table near the stage. You still keepin' a spare in the back room in case the King shows up?”

“Sure thing, Rafe. Y'all get on up there, and I'll get you set up.”

“Thanks, Omar.” They bumped fists again. “I owe you one.”

Rafe took Moira's hand and worked his way toward the stage, clapping several backs in the process and introducing her to more people than even she could remember, partially because she was blinded by the glitter.

A Hollywood premiere had nothing on Omar's. The men looked like they had signed up for the Rose Bowl Parade, and every woman there, even the ones with gray hair and bifocals, seemed to be dressed as either a leather-fringed Annie Oakley or a this-side-of-slutty Miss Kitty.

Definitely, she should have worn the shirt with the butterflies on it—and added a sequined cowboy hat for good measure.

A teenager wrapped in a white apron came out of the kitchen and put a table down in front of the stage, then added two chairs.

Rafe slipped him a five. “Thanks, guy. Appreciate it. And how about getting us a good dozen ribs? And a pitcher of”—he gave Moira an assessing glance—“Bud Light?”

She nodded. She wasn't much of a drinker, but she preferred lite beer if she had a choice.

The teen pocketed the tip. “Thanks, Mr. McAllister. I'll see to it.”

“One more thing, cowboy.”

Rafe gave her a wink, and she wondered what was up.

“Hold the sauce.”

Moira looked across the table at Rafe, really
looked
at him, something she hadn't allowed herself to do while she thought his wife still walked the earth. He wasn't as breathtakingly handsome as Colin, but his features were regular, he had a great smile, and oh—those eyes.

And she'd totally misread him—that's what Hollywood does to you—although that wedding ring had played its part. Now they had to begin all over again.

She searched for a safe conversation topic, something you'd talk about to a person whom you'd just met six hours ago. “Uh—Pen Swaim told me you're an architect as well as a rancher, so why do you live in Bosque Bend? I would think you'd find more business in a big city like Dallas.”

“Beth and I did live in Dallas for couple of years after we graduated from University of Texas, but when my father died, I had to come home to take care of the ranch.”

“You must have a lot of family here.”

He laughed. “When I was a kid, it seemed like everyone in town was a cousin. The McAllisters run to small families, but my mother—she's a Schuler—had ten siblings, and most of them are all still around.”

“Doesn't anyone ever leave Bosque Bend?”

“McAllisters usually stick, but a lot of the other kids, especially the ones who go off to college, leave for good. Bosque Bend's been makin' up for it population-wise, though. Floravista—that's a community for active adults—has attracted lots of retirees. My mother moved there last year.”

Moira nodded. “Retirees are good for community theater—they're usually big donors.” She paused as their waiter deposited a pitcher of beer and two glass mugs on the table. “There's a guy coming up behind you who's lugging a big music case. I guess that means the band's about to set up.”

Rafe twisted around. “That's the double bass. Right behind him are the fiddle and backup guitar. Travis is coming through the door now. He's lead guitar and vocals.” His eyes narrowed. “And the woman with him is Micaela Atherton.”

Moira studied the striking-looking brunette tagging along behind Travis McAllister. What a wonderful Della she'd make. “I know she's singing the female lead in the
Gift of the Magi
, but she's also in your brother's band?”

“Sometimes.” He poured more beer into her mug, then refilled his own. “Micaela's a pianist and usually plays classical, but Travis gets her to cut loose every now and then.” He took a long swallow of the brew. “Rocky—that's Travis's wife—won't be too happy about Micaela bein' here tonight.”

Their waiter reappeared with a tray piled full of ribs, placed it on the table along with a half roll of paper towels, then cast a confused glance in Moira's direction. “Omar says it's on the house because you're a big star.”

Rafe grinned as he watched the teenager head back toward the kitchen. “I guess he doesn't watch reruns.”

Moira laughed and picked up a rib between her thumb and forefinger. “Poor Nancy. How soon she is forgot.”

Rafe took a couple of more swallows of beer and watched as Moira nibbled at the tender pork.
Not only pretty, but has a sense of humor.
He liked a woman who knew how to laugh. Maybe he'd get her out on the dance floor with him later on in the evening, when everything got mellow, and find out what else she knew how to do.

The background noise died down as the band members talked among themselves, tuned their instruments against the tinny piano, and ventured a few experimental riffs.

Moira watched the action on the stage as she polished off her second rib and sipped at her mug. She could see why Rafe was concerned about the relationship between Micaela and Travis—the pianist's dark eyes followed his brother's every move, and the smiles Travis was giving her were a lot more than friendly.

Travis walked over to the microphone and strummed a chord for attention, although the glittering rhinestones embedded on the front yoke of his teal-blue, silver-fringed shirt should have done the job already. “Howdy there, folks!”

The crowd roared a howdy back at him. Apparently Seward Gap was a local favorite.

“Glad to see so many of y'all out here at Good Times tonight. Coming in, I spotted Mayor Traylor and his lovely wife—take a bow, you two—and I see that our new theater guild director, Moira Farrar, is here too, getting acquainted with my brother and the local scene—stand up, Moira!”

Oh God, no!
She shrank against the back of her chair. Everyone else was sparkling in their cowboy best, and she was wearing a dumb chicken-and-waffles T-shirt.

Rafe leaned across the table. “Stand up and get it over with,” he hissed, “or he'll come down here and lift up your hand like you've won a prizefight.”

Moira scrambled to her feet and the room applauded a welcome.

Travis grinned. “Moira, this first song is for you—and your date.” He flashed Rafe a wicked grin, gave the band the downbeat, and launched into Willie Nelson's “Red-Headed Stranger.” The audience joined in on the choruses.

Rafe rocked his head in his hands. “I hope Rocky gives him holy hell when he gets home tonight.”

“Is Travis's wife really named
Rocky
—R-O-C-K-Y?”

“It's Marcy Ann, but her father always called her Rocky.” He finished the last of his beer in one big gulp. “Her mother is a Colby, as in Colby-McAllister Ranch.”

Moira nodded and reached for another rib. Everyone around here seemed to have a history. That must be how it worked in small towns.

Couples began to move onto the dance floor as Travis switched gears to a soulful Ernest Tubb classic.

Moira took a swallow of beer to wash down the tender pork and concentrated on Travis's performance. His voice was good, and he knew how to use it. A vibrant baritone, it could dig down low and dirty, then soar up to the rafters for angelically sweet high notes. But what really grabbed her was that sexy edge, that cutting little whisper.

She understood why Travis had been cast for the dream sequence in which the penniless husband imagines what it would be like to be as rich as John D. Rockefeller. Rafe's brother had versatility, voice, and stage presence, not to mention good looks. He wasn't as tall as Rafe, but his features were sharper—maybe too sharp—and his auburn hair—darker than Rafe's—was better behaved.

Moira finished off her beer and crossed her arms, considering. Not everyone yearns for bright lights, but it was a wonder Travis hadn't left town for Nashville or New York by now.

Rafe smiled when Moira held her mug out for a refill. She'd charmed Omar, hadn't made any snide observations about the dress code, gone along—after a little urging—with Travis's introducing her, and right now she was tapping her fingers to the fast one-two beat of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.”

Yeah, Moira was mellow—relaxed, smiling, and lazing back in her chair. It was a beginning, but he wanted more than that.

He wanted her to be as hot for him as he was for her.

Now was the right time to get started, when half the tables were line dancing to “Watermelon Crawl.”

Get her on the floor for the fast ones, and she'd be in his arms for the slow ones.

The music paused as the band tuned up for the next number, and he leaned toward her. “How about we—”

Travis called out his name. “Hey, Rafe, I've had a request for a blast from the past—the Everly Brothers. You got your pipes tuned up?”

The crowd, pretty well oiled by now, started pounding on the tables.
Shit, what choice did he have?
Throwing Moira a look of apology, he hopped up onto the low stage. Travis stuck an extra guitar in his hands, and Rafe strummed an experimental chord to make sure he still remembered how to play.

Travis edged over to him. “How about ‘All I Have to Do Is Dream'? It might help your case.” He nodded toward Moira.

“Trav, I haven't touched a guitar in months.”

“Give it your best, bro. The mayor's wife is the one who wants to hear us, and I'm not about to turn that woman down.” He returned to the microphone. “Back by special request from Missus Mayor—the McAllister Brothers!”

Rafe stepped forward to share the mike. He usually got a charge out of revisiting the old act, but not right now. He had other things on his mind—like a California girl with a restaurant advertisement hugging her breasts.

He looked over at her. She gave him an amused grin and toasted him with her mug, so what the fuck. He signaled Travis, and they hit their guitars at the exact same moment, then began to sing.

Moira took a swallow of beer and closed her eyes to savor the blend of the brothers' voices. As usually happened when close relatives sing together, their timbres rubbed against each other, contradicting and complementing. The sound of Rafe's deep bass against his brother's baritone made her tingle all over, and the overt sexuality of the song didn't hurt either.

She took a final sip from her mug, then pushed it aside half-full. No more for her. She didn't want to get all warm and cuddly and do something stupid, like have sex with Rafe McAllister in the palatial backseat of his truck.

She took sex much too seriously to let that happen. That was one thing she'd learned from Colin—that sex is serious business.

May his soul rot in hell.

Three songs later, Ernest Tubb was walking the floor over his lost girlfriend, and Moira had relaxed enough that Rafe could hold her against him from shoulder to knee.

He leaned down to nuzzle her neck.

Her scent was in his nostrils, the feathery softness of her short-cropped hair brushed against his jaw, and her arms were clinging to his shoulders. It had been months since he'd been this attracted to a woman. Maybe he could take her somewhere tonight where they could be alone, somewhere that had at least a couch in it.

But no, it was way too soon. He wanted Moira for more than a one-night stand.

Besides, he was sort of her boss, and he didn't want her to think the job came with strings. He'd better clear the air on that score on the drive back to town—which meant they should leave now, while he was more glow than flames.

He made a production out of looking at his watch. “Time to call it a day. Your sister said y'all had a lot to do tomorrow, and I have a blacksmith comin' tomorrow so I'll have to get up early.”

Moira opened her eyes and moved out of his arms, then gave him that soft, fuzzy look women get when they've just been awakened.

He took a deep breath, picked up his hat, and waved at Omar, who was standing at the back of the room with a couple of black-clad bouncers, then caught up with Moira as she collected her purse and sweater.