Where the Heart Leads (7 page)

The sisters froze, and an aura of discomfort strained the atmosphere. Moira was puzzled. What boundary had she crossed?

Xandra forced a smile. “Sister and I live upstairs. We have a kitchen, a bathroom, and separate bedrooms.” She started walking toward a tall showcase at the front of the room. “Let me show you some of the trophies our students have won.”

It was an obvious distraction, but Moira let herself be herded over to the glass display case.

She opened her eyes wide and waved her hands to express her admiration and awe. “Impressive!”

For whatever reason, the women seemed to breathe easier, and Moira was able to leave on a high note. She walked out into the sunshine and congratulated herself on a job well done. Now to face the martinet at the museum. Maybe the sensible pumps would carry the day.

As it turned out, she could have walked into the docent's office dancing hip-hop in her Zulily dress and butterfly shoes and still been given the keys. The martinet was a fan.

“Oh, Ms. Farrar, you don't need to show us any identification! We all know who you are! We've been expecting you! I've got the keys all ready for you—color coded and labeled. The red one is for the greenroom—that's what you call the room where the cast gathers during the performance, isn't it?”

She handed over a jangly key ring.

“Oh, and would you mind autographing this Post-it note for my granddaughter? She's been watching reruns of
The Clancy Family
with me and just loves Nancy! You're such a funny little thing—always getting yourself in such crazy predicaments! We laugh at you all the time!”

Moira mustered up the standard gracious smile, signed her name, and drew a quick happy face, then grabbed the keys before the docent had second thoughts about entrusting them to a lamebrain like Nancy Clancy.

She jingled them in her hand as she walked out of the museum office, her back soldier straight. She wasn't Nancy or Twinky or Robota or any of the other roles she'd played—she was Moira Miranda Farrar, director, and she was going to inspect her realm, then be off to meet her knight gallant for lunch.

She'd better keep a close eye on her watch. This was one appointment she did not want to be late for. They'd set the time for eleven thirty, and Rafe had told her his office was above the jewelry store on the square.

With every step up the stairs, Moira devised another “what-if.”

What if Rafe had meant this morning to be a business meeting? What if he thought she was easy pickings because she slow danced with him at Omar's? What if she'd dreamed it all? What if she hadn't remembered the time correctly—or the location of his office?

Now that last one was ridiculous because she was quite good at remembering things—unless her pulse was beating like a tom-tom and her ears were ringing with siren calls.

Cool it, Moira. You've had crushes on guys since you were a kid, and Colin was the only one you truly fell in love with. Rafe McAllister is just a passing fancy of your sex-starved female hormones, and you've got it bad.

But maybe the best way to get rid of an itch is to scratch it. Maybe a relationship like Rafe proposed, sex only, is the way to go.

Being head over heels in love with a guy gives him too much power.

She reached the landing at the top of the stairs.

Yeah, sex for the sake of sex—that would be her modus operandi from now on. Or was she just rationalizing? Trying to justify the heat she felt every time she was near Big Red—every time she thought of him?

A wide-open door loomed at the top of the stairs, and she could hear people talking inside.

She stopped at the threshold. Rafe was bending over the shoulder of a dark-haired woman and looking at a computer screen. A lineup of machines and horizontal filing cabinets covered the counter behind her desk, and a child's play space was on the far wall.

Delilah had everything she'd ever need when she put in her time at Daddy's office. A chalkboard hung behind the little table and chair set, and bright pink shelves overflowed with toys, storybooks, coloring books, crayons, dollies, and a family of stuffed animals. And if she ran out of steam, a lime-green nap futon was available.

Moira knocked on the doorframe to announce herself, and Rafe looked up, then crossed the room to meet her.

The dark-haired woman stood up. “Hi! I'm Sissy Nieto, Rafe's assistant. You two are going for lunch, right?” The corners of her mouth twitched in amusement, and she put a teasing emphasis on
lunch
.

Rafe shot her a killing glare. “It's
lunch
, Sissy. Moira gets her choice of Calico Cat, Fish Daddy's, or Six-Shooter Junction.”

“Whatever you say, Rafe. I'm leaving now. I assume you won't need me back this afternoon?” Sissy opened a drawer for her purse and gave him a wide-eyed, too-innocent stare.

As soon as the door closed, Moira stepped away from Rafe and lifted her chin in defiance. Her pulse might be jumping sixty, but if he had plans to lay her out on that lime-green futon, he had another thing coming.

“I choose Six-Shooter Junction.”

Without missing a beat, Rafe grabbed his Stetson from the counter. “Six-Shooter Junction it is, milady. Your carriage awaits out back.”

Everything looked neat and orderly in Rafe's office as he took her through it except for the wall across from his desk, which was covered with layers of architectural drawings on sheets of pale yellow paper.

She had her doubts when he'd said they would go down a fire escape, but the cast-iron stairs had been charmingly renovated—someone, probably Rafe, had painted it a bright blue and placed a pot of purple flowers in each turn. And the alley was so well kept that, at first, she'd thought it was a side street. And, contrary to Sissy's insinuations, Rafe acted like a perfect gentleman when he helped her into the truck.

He stopped at a traffic light on one corner of the square, and Moira watched as a workman climbed up a tall ladder and slipped a smiling pumpkin face over one of the streetlights surrounding the courthouse. Farther down, the square was blocked off with sawhorses.

“What's going on over there?”

Rafe didn't even look. “They're decorating for the big Halloween celebration. We do the same thing at Christmas, but with plastic snowmen and plywood angels.”

“No wonder I had to park six blocks down from your office.” Her sensible heels had turned out to be the right choice after all.

Rafe stepped on the accelerator and merged into traffic.

“It's a fall festival sort of thing. The arts and craft show starts on Wednesday. The talent shows and the beauty contests are added in next week, and then, on Halloween, we have the Pumpkin Party for the young'uns. Lots of country kids come in for it—they live too far apart for trick-or-treating. All the civic groups participate, and there are games, carnival rides, a fortune-teller—all sorts of things. Everyone wants to make sure the kids have a good time.” He slowed down to let a horse van turn in front of him.

“Delilah's preschool is sponsoring a fishing booth this year. The kids drop a weighted string over the side of the counter, and a mother who's hiding under the counter clips a little toy on it.”

“So that's how that works.”

Rafe turned onto a street paralleling a green expanse. “Bosque Bend's pretty good about community projects. This park, the Shallows, is a good example. The river used to slop over its bank whenever a good rain came along, and the shore was an eyesore—and could be dangerous. Now look at it.”

Moira nodded. “It's lovely.” A trail circled the large fountain and branched out to the east and west along the river. It would be nice to walk down one of those paths sometime. Maybe even with Rafe. They could bring a picnic hamper and spread a blanket under the shadow of the low-branching trees, and…who knows what might happen…

Don't get ahead of yourself, Moira. Hold back, hold back. You don't know if you can trust this man. People aren't always what they seem.

Rafe crossed the bridge and turned onto the street that ran parallel to the river on the other side, the side lined with restaurants. No need to guess which one was Six-Shooter Junction. The animated marquee sign that featured two electronically smoking pistols framing a list of the specials of the day was a dead giveaway.

Rafe parked the truck and came around to lift her out. To anyone watching them, he was a tall man courteously helping a height-challenged woman out of a big truck. They wouldn't know that he skimmed his hands lightly—just enough that she knew they were there—along the outline of her hips. They wouldn't know that he brushed her breasts against himself, causing her nipples to send her signals she was trying to ignore.

And they wouldn't know that when she reached the ground, his sparkling eyes looked deep into hers.

Those eyes—just when she thought she'd become immune to them, they worked their magic all over again.

S
ix-Shoooter Junction was as cowboy kitsch inside as it had been outside. Intertwined cattle horns hung over the doorway, and the walls were covered with huge reproductions of 1800s “Wanted” posters intermingled with leather chaps, ten-gallon hats, canteens, spurs, holsters, collections of old guns, and even a couple of wicked-looking bullwhips.

The thirtyish woman behind the host stand was costumed accordingly—unless she usually wore a low-cut salmon-orange gown, a collar of assorted glittering necklaces, and earrings so heavy that they sagged her earlobes.

Moira felt the hostess's eyes slide right over her and settle on Rafe. The woman shifted her hips and gave him a studiously sexy smile.

“Howdy there, cowboy. Haven't seen you around these parts lately. Want your usual table?”

Rafe tugged politely at the brim of his hat and broadened his drawl. “Sure thing, Miz Liz. Got a little California gal with me and want to show her some good ol' Texas hospitality.”

Liz raised a sardonic eyebrow and she tossed her hair. “Hospitality—is that what you're calling it now, Rafe?”

For a second there, Moira thought Miz Liz was going to slither up to Rafe and rub herself against him like a cat in heat, but instead, she turned to a younger woman who was wearing a purple version of what was apparently Six-Shooter Junction's version of the classic saloon gown. “The Quanah Parker table.”

Moira checked out the restaurant as the hostess's understudy led them past tables named for Annie Oakley, Bat Masterson, Deadeye Dick, Pawnee Bill, Calamity Jane, Stagecoach Mary, and Will Rogers. The place was half-full, which meant it must be overflowing in the evening, which also meant the cuisine would be pretty good. Not that she was a connoisseur. Pretty much, she ate whatever was put in front of her.

The assistant hostess seated them in an alcove decorated with an Indian blanket and enlarged photos of Indians, teepees, and warhorses. As Moira slid around to the back of the bench, she peered up at the blowup of a stone-faced warrior hanging at the back of the nook. She'd seen that picture somewhere before.

Rafe followed her around the padded bench and placed his hat between them, establishing enough of a boundary that Moira didn't feel the urge to scoot away from him.

But why was she being so skittish? After all, she'd been playing around with the idea of having an affair with him. And she'd been thrilled to the core when he ran her down his body in the barn, then kissed her.

God, she was at war with herself. She wanted to move closer to him, but she also wanted to play it safe.

A waiter in full western regalia sauntered up to their table. His name tag identified him as Marshal Wyatt Earp, and he was dressed for his character, complete with an obviously plastic pistol and what looked like a genuine handlebar mustache. After depositing two glasses of ice water and a basket of rolls on the table, he adjusted his gun belt and flashed his badge.

“Howdy, ma'am, Mr. McAllister. Sorry I didn't get here earlier. Got held up by a fracas down at the O.K. Corral.”

Moira knew a cue when she heard it. “Them Clantons always was low-down varmints.”

Six-Shooter Junction was theater-in-the-round, and the actor in her couldn't help but play along.

Rafe didn't bother with the menu—he knew it by heart—which gave him a few extra minutes to study Moira as she read through hers, page by page by page.

His little soldier was game. She was enjoying the outrageous ambience of the restaurant just as she'd accepted dress-up night at Omar's. Texans knew what their image was to the world, and they enjoyed pushing it to the limit—and Moira was getting a kick out of playing along. She'd fit right in. Maybe he could convince her to stay around a while—like permanently.

He glanced down at Beth's ring and took that last thought back.

Well, he might not be in the market for a wife, but there was no getting around it that he wanted Moira in his bed—although a mound of sweet-smelling hay would work just as well.

He liked the outer package—the steady hazel gaze, the angles of her face, the soft, sweet mouth, the supple slenderness of her body—but it was her intensity, her inner strength that had attracted him from the moment he nearly mowed her down at the museum. She threw her whole self into everything she did—escorting Delilah to the ladies' room, meeting the board, riding a horse, even choosing her meal. What would it be like to have all that intensity directed at him?

He shifted uncomfortably on the padded bench, then cast a sidelong glance at Moira, who was still studying the menu like it was the script for the rest of her life.

Did he have a chance?

“See anything you like?”

What would she order? Chicken salad? That seemed to be the favorite lunch of the women he'd brought here before. He always wondered if they made a beeline for the refrigerator when they got home and ate half a ham to compensate for starving themselves when they were with him.

She closed the menu. “The six-ounce filet. Rare. Sautéed spinach. Fried sweet potatoes.”

It figured. That intensity of hers must burn up a lot of calories. He grinned to himself and signaled the waiter.

Moira unfolded her napkin and looked around the room again. A giant chandelier made of deer antlers hung over what was apparently the restaurant's party table, which was currently occupied by several well-dressed women wearing pastel cowboy hats like those dispensed in the museum.

She looked around in wonder. “This place is way over the top. Nothing is real. It's like a stage setting.”

Rafe laughed. “Speaking of stages—have you had a chance to check out the theater rooms yet?”

Moira nodded. “Just this morning. I started with the dressing rooms. They're huge. I guess they used to be classrooms?”

“Yeah. We needed rooms on the second floor so that they'd be at the bottom of the theater.” He paused to reach for a roll. “What about the stage itself?”

Moira took a strengthening breath. “It's good-sized, but the backstage area is crowded, especially with the light booth in the wing. I'd like to move it, maybe into the balcony, and we need to get all the curtains on a motorized system rather than relying on a strong arm standing in the wings.” She paused—he might not like what she would say—then decided to let it all hang out. After all, the theater guild had hired her to bring them up to snuff. “There are plenty of gels and lamps, of course, but the lights need to be…brought up to date too. I'd like to get a new board and dimmers. And some automated lights that can be controlled by the board.”

Rafe shook his head. “No go. We've got a light crew that knows how to operate the equipment as it is, and I don't want us to drain donors and the city arts coffers for a stage we're not goin' to use for very much longer. We'll get state of the art when we're in our own venue.”

The Bosque Bend Theater Guild would have its own stage?
Pendleton hadn't mentioned that to her. “When will that be?”

“Sooner rather than later. We've finalized the deal to buy out the current owner of the old Huaco movie theater, and she's signed the papers.” He finished off his roll. “Josie Apodaca has been runnin' a used furniture store out of the theater lobby for the past fifteen years, and she told me she's havin' a big sale this week before she moves out—doesn't want to take anythin' with her when she sets up in Floravista. It might be a good chance for you and your sister to pick up whatever furniture you need.”

“Sounds like a good idea.” It would be nice to have a couch in the family room and maybe a few more chairs, just to fill up the space. The rooms were so empty now that they echoed. “By the way, I've been meaning to tell you that how much Astrid and I appreciate the theater guild arranging for us to have a house. I was expecting to have to do a lot of cleaning, but it's in great condition too. How long since it's been occupied?”

“Just a couple of months.” His eyebrows twitched. “Rocky's mother met a guy online and went off to Florida to marry him.”

“You're saying that Rocky's mother lived there?”

Rafe nodded, “Theda Eagan moved her kids into town after the rattler took Rocky's father down. Dad helped her buy the house.”

“So Rocky lived there too?”

He nodded. “Until she married Travis.”

“That's double good luck for me, then. I like Rocky.”

Rafe gave her a big smile. “Everybody likes Rocky. She can be sorta crazy, but she's a lot of fun. Always laughing. Travis was lucky to get her.” His eyebrows twitched again. “I just hope he can keep her after all this business with Micaela runs its course.”

Moira took a sip of water and looked at Rafe over the rim of her glass.

Rafe McAllister was one good-looking man, and it wasn't just the sparkling eyes.

Damn.
Why had she ordered such a big meal?
She didn't care about food. Lunch with Rafe wasn't about eating. A hamburger at that drive-in with the neon fisherman on its roof would have been just as good. And a lot more private.

Rafe's voice snapped her back to Six-Shooter Junction. “You must miss California. Do your parents still live there?”

She rattled off her standard reply. “My mother has lived abroad for several years. I don't see her very often.”

“What about your father?”

She gave him a bright smile, the same smile she'd given entertainment reporters who asked about her so-called home life, and the same nonanswer. “Our mother's parents raised Astrid and me—and our brother.” She tossed her head as if everyone in California had absentee parents. “Actually. The three of us are half siblings—same mother, different fathers. That's why Astrid and I don't look alike.”

His forehead knit in disagreement. “But y'all
do
look alike. She's taller than you, but there's something about your eyes and the shape of your faces.”

Moira shrugged her shoulders. “That's the Japanese in us. Our grandmother's parents emigrated from Osaka two months before she was born.”

“Well, you've got me beat. The most I can claim is one-sixteenth Comanche.” Rafe glanced up at the enlarged photo behind him. “Quanah Parker was my grandmother Schuler's great-grandfather.”

Moira looked at the picture again. So that's where she'd seen that stone face before—worked into Enid McAllister's family collage. And that was the exact same expression Rafe had on his face when he'd told her about the panther.

Maybe she'd better change the subject.

“I'm going to have to start thinking about costumes soon. Donna Sue told me to get in touch with a woman named Marilyn Bridges.”

“Her ladies will sew up stuff for us, but we store the old costumes too. Maybe you can use some of those.”

“What about wigs and stage makeup?”

“A local salon, Ooh La La, takes care of our hairstyling and supplies us with wigs when we need them. Billie Joe keeps the makeup in a refrigerator at her restaurant—Calico Cat—and orders whatever else is needed.”

Moira went into concentration mode. “Billie Joe Semple. The milliner, makeup, restaurant.”

Rafe could almost hear her brain filing the new information in its proper drawer. He gave her a sidelong glance. “Do you have us all memorized already?”

She shrugged. “It's sort of a trick.”

And he'd bet it was a survival mechanism too, a way to bring order to her own personal universe. He'd read a thumbnail sketch of Moira Miranda Farrar on the Internet yesterday evening after she and Astrid left, and her background had sounded damn sketchy to him. Her mother had been a model he'd never heard of who was now embarked on a career of serial matrimony all across Europe, and her father had been a big-wig French industrialist he'd never heard of who'd been involved in some sort of price-fixing scandal. And three half siblings being raised by their grandparents wouldn't have been the ideal home life. Neither did playing the youngest orphan in a TV revival of
Annie
when she was just four years old.

The age Delilah was now, for God's sake!

His little soldier hadn't been the lackadaisical Nancy Clancy she'd played on television. She'd been a working adult in child-sized clothing.

Moira smiled as Rafe parked the dually in the empty spot beside her Toyota. Their vehicles looked like David and Goliath.

The street, which had been parked up tight this morning, she noticed, had entirely cleared out. They were alone. This could be interesting. Would he slide her down against him again? Or drift his mouth across her face or down her throat, maybe nibble at her ear?

He came around to her side of the truck, and her heart thumped with anticipation.

But all he did was lift her to the ground, kiss her gently, then step back. “See you tonight at the rehearsal.”

She stared after him as he walked to his truck, then fumbled with her key lock and slid into her car.

That was all? A granny kiss and “See you tonight at the rehearsal?”

After all the drama she'd put herself through?

It was as if an inviting swimming pool had gone empty the very second she'd decided to dive in—just like the stupid story she'd given out about Colin.

But that had been the best she could think of at the time.

Rafe reviewed his lunch date with Moira as he drove back to the office. Six-Shooter Junction had been fun. And dropping her off at her car afterward had been even better. He could still taste her sweet lips.

He'd wanted more, a lot more, but flattening her against the side of the truck for a tongue twister on a city street under a bright noonday sun wasn't his style. He preferred more privacy—and more possibility.

He parked the truck and climbed the fire escape into his office.