A Love to Call Her Own Page 4

  “People change, Ben.” Lucy’s voice was softer. “They regret things they did. They regret things they didn’t do. I’m not asking you to make up with Patricia. I just think if you show her compassion now when she really needs it, it’ll mean something to you later.”

  Forgive, his dad had often preached. Not for the person who wronged you, but for yourself. You deserve better than to waste time and energy on resentment.

  He had a lot of resentment. Would forgiving his mother ease some of it? Could he do that for her? Or at least, like Dad advised, for himself?

  Grudgingly he said, “I’ll think about it.” Before Lucy could do more than inhale sharply in surprise, he warned, “But don’t keep calling me. I’ll let you know when I’ve decided.”

  * * *

  Jessy awoke bleary-eyed around eleven, her head aching, her mouth dry and gross, her eyes puffy. One glance at her pillowcase confirmed that (a) she’d forgotten to take off her makeup the night before, and (b) she’d cried herself to sleep.

  After the long, sad, awful afternoon with Patricia Sanderson, she hadn’t been able to keep memories and images out of her mind. Her own notification call, knowing what LoLo was going to say before she opened her mouth, the sorrow, the shock, the guilt. Aaron’s dignified transfer by private jet from Dover Air Force Base to Tulsa, then by hearse to Tallgrass. Choosing flowers, arranging the service, clasping the flag presented graveside by the post commanding general.

  The overwhelming sadness and guilt.

  Other people claimed tears were cathartic, but not Jessy. They made her feel like she was drowning in sorrow long after the last one had fallen. She never felt better after crying. It was torture, one drop at a time, and required a recovery period, best accompanied by a bottle of Patrón.

  Steadfastly avoiding the kitchen, she showered, dressed, and put on makeup. Her wardrobe ranged from girl-next-door to serious professional to sex-on-four-inch-heels. Today, with a light hand on the cosmetics, orange cargo shorts, and a striped shirt, she was in girl-next-door neighborhood. She wasn’t sure what she was dressing for, other than going out—feeling the way she did, she wasn’t staying in the house with the Patrón—until she went to the closet for shoes.

  Her gaze caught on the camera bag on the shelf. Now, taking pictures was cathartic. She’d learned with her first camera, when she was fourteen, that the world was safer when she looked at it through a lens. She could capture the stark, lush, harsh, kind beauty in any single instant. If ugliness managed to intrude, she could Photoshop it out and create perfection. Ilena Gomez, her preggers margarita doll, had called her photos haunting and majestic, a compliment that had lingered for weeks in Jessy’s heart. Still did.

  Even so, she hadn’t picked up the camera in a month. There wasn’t a lens long enough to distance her from the mess of her life.

  After pulling on a pair of sandals with thick rubber soles, she picked up the bag, retrieved the battery that was always in the charger nearby, then her purse, and left the apartment. When she pulled out of the alley a few minutes later, she headed north. She didn’t know where she was going, but out of town sounded good.

  The Oklahoma countryside always seemed peaceful, except when storm clouds hurtled across the sky, and even those had incredible beauty. In her four years there, Jessy had gotten only one photo of a tornado, but she hoped for another chance someday, preferably an impressive one that formed quickly and broke apart just as quickly without doing any damage.

  Not today, though. She just wanted to feel the camera in her hands, to look around her with that protective distance in place, to enjoy the sun and breathe the fresh air, and to hopefully get rid of a bit of the ugliness inside her.

  Seeing a pasture with cattle ahead, she slowed and turned onto the dirt road that fronted it. A few hundred feet down, she parked at the side of the road, right wheels close to the bar ditch, took out the camera, and crunched over gravel on her way to the pasture fence. The boards, though worn gray with weather and time, held securely under her weight, so she climbed to the top, balancing carefully as she focused the lens on the nearest cow. Deep red and white, it chewed lazily, methodically, its huge eyes watching her with disinterest.

  “I’m just another two-legged oddity in your world, aren’t I?” Jessy murmured, snapping off pictures, close up and from a distance, cows and babies, trees and fence and sandstone boulders and sky. Something unwound in her gut, so slowly that it took her a while to realize it was tension seeping away. She’d missed this feeling of capturing a perfect moment in time, of preserving the scene, of creating something that would long outlast her. She’d needed it, needed something that wouldn’t leave her feeling ashamed as so much of her life did.

  Traffic passed on the highway, but she ignored it as she turned to face the opposite direction. The field across the road was overgrown, enclosed with rusty barbwire that sagged between ancient wooden posts. Though it had once been cleared, red cedars were taking over again, along with sumac seedlings that would provide gorgeous splashes of color come fall. Wildflowers grew in patches: Indian paintbrush, black-eyed Susan, purple coneflower. Clumps of iris spread in straight lines about thirty feet from the road, bearing a few blooms among the spent flowers that had already faded.

  Jessy crossed the road again, racking up pictures from every angle. She was crouched next to the ditch, lens directed to the irises, when fine vibrations transmitted from the ground to the soles of her feet. A pickup truck was coming down the road, a dust cloud trailing behind it like a balloon bobbing after a toddler. She glanced at the dust, then the camera, and stood, folding her arms against her chest and over the camera to protect it.

  The driver stopped well short of the stop sign, waited a beat, then eased forward until the truck was even with her. Oklahomans were friendly, she reminded herself. A quick hello-how-are-you-doing, and he would leave her in nondusty peace.

  Then she saw him, and peace was the last thing on her mind.

  Memories assailed her—a sunny afternoon, the sweet fragrance of flowers filling the air. A little conversation, an ill-advised invitation, and a much-needed distraction on a tough day. She had suggested a beer and a burger at Bubba’s and he’d agreed. She’d made the drive to the bar knowing she would drink too much, get too bold, wind up in bed with him, then regret it forever, but she’d gone anyway. At that moment, filling the emptiness inside her, even just for a while, had seemed worth the shame and disgust that would follow. She knew the pattern; she’d gone through it countless times before.

  But Dalton Smith had disrupted the pattern. Unlike the men before him, he hadn’t been anonymous. He hadn’t disappeared from her life as abruptly as he’d entered it. She’d seen him again, and again, and she’d felt…something.

  Jessy was afraid of feeling that something.

  He studied her much the way the cow across the road had—brown eyes, impassive expression, no sign of interest—except little lines crinkled the corners of his eyes, and his fingers were tightening around the steering wheel. He hadn’t expected to see her out this way, and it wasn’t a pleasant surprise. He didn’t think much of her—only fair since she didn’t think much of herself.

  The dust settled as he looked at her and she looked back. Fighting the urge to move—fleeing to her car seemed a good idea—she waited for him to speak, remembered he could be very slow about that, and blurted out the first words that bypassed her brain and reached her mouth. “Why are those irises growing like that?”

  His gaze shifted from her to the flowers in the field, then back again. “This is the old Jefferson place. A tornado took it out about twenty years ago, but left the irises in the front flower beds.”

  She looked at the flowers again, imagining a snug little house behind them, white with a broad porch, maybe a swing, and curtains fluttering in the breeze. A home destroyed in a matter of seconds, lives changed. Her own familiarity with instant disaster sent a shudder through her and led to her next inane question. “How many tornadoes have yo
u seen?”

  “None.” The corner of his mouth quirked. “The Smith family knows how to take shelter.”

  “I don’t know where I’d take shelter. I live downtown, second floor of the Berry Building.” Lord, she was babbling now. This was no conversation to be having with a man who’d seen her at her worst in their first-ever encounter and hadn’t been impressed in their subsequent meetings.

  “That building has a basement. Underground is always good.”

  “And maybe wind up with the entire building collapsed on top of you?”

  His mouth quirked again. A person who didn’t know better could be forgiven for mistaking it for a smile trying to get free. “Better than getting blown away at two hundred miles an hour.” After a moment, he added, “In a corner or under the stairway.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Her rent included a storage area in the basement, so she had access. She just had trouble picturing herself down there in the middle of an unholy storm with no lights, probably no cell phone service, and who knew what kind of little skittering, slithering creatures. Her bedroom closet, though not as safe, was clean and comfy, and if she did get blown away, at least it would be with her cameras and her shoes.

  They just looked at each other for another moment. She’d never been the sort to find herself at a loss for words, especially with men, but that was exactly where she was now. They’d already discussed weather—how lame was that? If he would just go on his way…

  He nodded in her direction. “What are you hiding there?”

  She blinked before remembering the camera. She held it up, then lowered both arms to her sides. She’d been more comfortable, she immediately realized, with them crossed. “I didn’t want it to get dusty.”

  “You like taking pictures of scrub and weeds?”

  “No, I was photographing the wildflowers—” Realizing they probably were weeds to a rancher, she broke off. “Actually, I stopped to take pictures of the cows over there. The one in front is a pretty girl. She liked posing for the camera.”

  He glanced to the right, and this time it was obvious he was controlling a smile. She hadn’t yet seen him smile, but she would bet it was worth preserving with a close-up glossy. “Don’t tell his owners. They paid good money for the calves they’re going to get from him.”

  She was coming off lame and dumb. Heat crept up her neck and into her face, but she managed a careless shrug. “What do I know? Once you put them in little foam containers, they all look alike.”

  “Supermarket beef.” He gave a shake of his head. “I haven’t eaten beef from a grocery store in…well, ever that I can recall.”

  “Yeah, well, I haven’t butchered something I’ve raised since birth and served it up for dinner.”

  “That’s the way of the world. Sometimes you eat. Sometimes you get eaten.”

  Halfheartedly she looked for another vehicle so he would have to move on, but it wasn’t likely. She’d driven the country roads around Tallgrass for hours and learned that two cars constituted heavy traffic. Anyway, somewhere inside, a small traitorous part of her was sort of enjoying the conversation, though she wasn’t sure how that could be. How many times had she hoped never to see him again? How many times had she thought it would be best if they could treat each other as complete strangers? How often had she desperately wished they’d never met?

  Not as often as she should have. Yeah, she’d been shameless. Yeah, he’d seen her obnoxious, drunk, and naked. Yeah, he’d had obvious regrets, and she did, too.

  But there was something about Dalton Smith…

  * * *

  “You like Herefords?”

  It wasn’t the smoothest question a man could ask a woman, Dalton acknowledged, but it wasn’t just his people skills that had grown rusty over the years. Hell, when the only creatures he talked to five out of seven days a week had four legs, it was easy to get out of practice with the art of conversation.

  Jessy blinked those emerald green eyes once before glancing at the “pretty cow” in the pasture. “Is that what the red-and-white ones are?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They’re pretty.”

  Pretty tasty, too. He kept that to himself. “You ever seen a Belted Galloway?”

  She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Since I don’t have a clue what it is, I’m gonna say no.”

  Maybe cows weren’t the best topic of conversation, but it was a subject he could discuss, apparently, with anyone. Even a delicate little city girl who couldn’t tell a bull from a heifer. “It’s a breed of cattle. Mostly black with a white band around the middle, though I know a guy who has a few red-and-white ones. That’s what I raise, them and palominos.”

  He’d swear her ears literally perked up. “You raise horses?”

  “Yeah. The girls are very pretty. You can—” Realizing what he’d been about to say, he clamped his jaw shut. Invite her to his house? Just because he’d had that thought last night about getting back to a normal life? Because she’d gotten under his skin in that one afternoon and made him remember what it felt like to be alive?

  Because she was the only woman he’d thought twice about since Sandra. And yeah, because she’d gotten under his skin that afternoon.

  She was watching him warily, her eyes shadowed, reminding him that he hadn’t treated her the way he’d been taught to treat women. He’d walked out on her while she slept, pretended not to know her, been rude. It was only the last time they’d been together, sharing a table at Bubba’s, that he’d behaved in a way that wouldn’t have made his mother smack him.

  With a growl from his stomach, he glanced at the dashboard clock. He’d intended to get a hamburger in town before making stops at the post office and the feed store. But he wasn’t completely out of anything vital, and the bills he was mailing could wait another day, and Jessy was silent, watching and waiting, and…

  He drew a breath, then blurted out, “My ranch is a few miles east. You want to see the animals and—” He removed his Stetson, ran his fingers through his hair, then reseated it. “And maybe have a sandwich or something?”

  It was the hardest question he’d asked in a long time.

  She was quiet a long time, then a shaky smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Okay, um, sure,” she said, avoiding his gaze, her fingers clasping, then loosening on the camera. She actually managed to come off as shy—a trait he never would have imagined in the smoking-hot sexy redhead he’d met two months ago. “I’ll follow you.”

  As she pivoted to walk to her car, Dalton pulled into what was left of the Jefferson driveway, backed out again, and started slowly toward home.

  In four years, he’d never invited anyone to the house, and now twice in two months he’d done just that—first with Dane Clark, a soldier from Fort Murphy who had a soft spot for palominos, and now Jessy. Not only would she still have a hold on his brain, now she would be leaving memories of herself in his house, with his animals, on his property.

  Though it had worked out with Dane, the first friend Dalton had made since high school, having Jessy there could be a step forward with reclaiming his life…or two steps back.

  He kept his speed down to minimize the dust, and Jessy stayed far enough back to avoid the worst of it. When he turned into his driveway, dirt so hard-packed it took a fully loaded stock truck to raise a particle of dust, she closed the distance, parking a half beat after him under the oak.

  Inside the house, Oz barked, his face popping up at one window, then another, ears perked and yelps increasing with frustration that he couldn’t get to their visitor. “I have to let Oz meet you before he takes out the front door. You want to eat first?”

  Jessy hesitated, camera strap and purse strap over one shoulder, arms across her middle. “Yeah, sure. I skipped breakfast.”

  She walked to the house with him, but her head was constantly moving, gaze sliding over the structures, the fences, the pastures, the horses, the wood swing, the honeysuckle gone wild where the old well house had fi
nally collapsed, taking note of everything as if she found it all deeply interesting. At least, more than him.

  Or to be fair, maybe she was more comfortable with things than with him. He sure as hell was.

  He gave Oz a firm command to sit before cautiously opening the front door. This would be his first official introduction to anyone outside the family, and its success depended more on Jessy than on the mutt. Did she like dogs, hate them, fear them, prefer cats? Was she going to shriek, maybe shove Oz away?

  Oz’s butt was hovering a few inches above the floor when Dalton stepped inside, and his entire body vibrated with excitement. His long pink tongue dangled from the side of his mouth, and he was sniffing the air so thoroughly and so fast that it was a wonder he didn’t hyperventilate.

  “Oh, you have an Australian shepherd! He’s beautiful!” The words came from behind Dalton and from the area of his knees, because she was crouching on the floor, sending out let’s-play vibes as strongly as the dog.

  No need to worry there. With a hand gesture, he released Oz, who closed the distance with one jump, leaning his body against hers with enough force to make her wobble before she readjusted to sit on her butt. She appeared to know his next move would be to climb into her lap for some serious scratching and grateful licking, and she was prepared for it.

  She likes your dog. That’s always a good thing. It sounded crazy, but he’d known there was serious potential between him and Sandra when she’d fallen in love with his horses the first time she’d seen them. Animals were too big a part of ranch life to get involved with a woman who didn’t like or, worse, was afraid of them.

  Leaving Jessy and Oz to bond, he went into the kitchen and washed up, then foraged inside the refrigerator. He’d offered a sandwich or something, and that was one thing he knew he could provide. Mom had roasted two chickens for dinner the night before, baked a couple loaves of bread, and made a dewberry cobbler. She’d also brought four quarts of home-canned pickles and a bowl filled with vine-ripe tomatoes from one of their South Texas neighbors.