The Cowboy Way

Tessa Quinn stood outside her café, her long, dark brown hair tumbling down her back, pouring fresh water into the community dog dish. She smiled and waved as Melissa trotted past on the opposite side of the street.

Melissa waved back, pondering an idea that had been rattling around in the back of her brain for a while now: playing matchmaker by inviting both Tessa and Tom over for supper on the same night. Of course it would mean borrowing more food from Ashley’s freezer stash—or even convincing her twin to whip up some culinary wonder befitting the occasion. Sure, it would be a risk—Tom and Tessa might wind up disliking not only each other, but her as well—but suppose luck was with them? Suppose it was the start of something big?

She smiled at the thought. Maybe, so she wouldn’t feel like a third wheel, and Tom wouldn’t feel outnumbered, she would ask Steven to come back, too. This time, of course, she wouldn’t practically tackle the man on the sidewalk at the end of the evening and kiss his face.

Remembering, Melissa blushed. She’d had the remainder of Saturday night and all of Sunday to get over giving in to that one foolhardy impulse, but here she was, still obsessing about it. What was her problem? She decided to hold off on the matchmaking, at least until Ashley got back from Chicago and could serve as a sort of advisor.

Lord, she missed her sister.

Melissa jogged on, passing by the library, and the log post office, with its large green lawn, flag and flagpole, and the row of bright blue mailboxes facing the street. It was time to head for home, she decided, leaving Main for the oak-shaded residential street that lay parallel to it.

Every house was familiar; Melissa knew who lived there now and who had lived there before that, and before that. She knew the people and their histories and their hopes and the names of their pets, living and gone.

That was life in a small town for you.

Eventually, she reached Ashley’s B&B, and was pleased to note a conspicuous absence of naked croquet players, at least in the front yard. Maybe it was the inclement weather, she thought, with a smile.

Or they could be around back, cavorting away.

Melissa was so distracted by those thoughts, and so used to running along that street in the early morning, that she wasn’t paying attention, and nearly got run over as she crossed the dirt-and-gravel alley between the B&B and the Crockett sisters’ place.

Brakes screeched, shrill as fingernails on some celestial blackboard, and tiny rocks peppered Melissa’s skin. Even though the rain was still coming down, dust boiled up around her in a cloud. Trying to fling herself out of the path of doom, she leaped for the nearest patch of grass, stumbled and tore open the knees of her sweatpants when she fell just short of her aim.

Moments passed, taking their sweet time.

Everything seemed to vibrate around Melissa, like some void. Sounds dragged, as though someone had put a finger on an old vinyl record as it went around on the turntable.

And then Andrea was crouching in front of her, taking her firmly by the shoulders. “Are you all right?” the girl croaked out. “Oh, my God, Melissa, are you hurt?”

Melissa stood up, with some help from Andrea, trembling and coughing wet dust out of her lungs and shaking her head, all at once. It was then that she saw Byron standing nearby, looking worried, his hair sleep-rumpled. His clothes had that hastily put-on look.

Andrea followed Melissa’s glance then focused on her face again and rushed on. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—”

“Maybe she ought to see a doctor,” Byron said.

Again, Melissa shook her head. She’d gotten a scare, and she’d scraped her knees, but she wasn’t seriously injured. At home, she’d shower and, if it turned out she’d broken any skin, she could apply antibacterial ointment and bandages.

None of which meant she was going to let the incident pass without comment, however. Yes, she should have watched where she was going, should have looked before sprinting across the alley. Yet that old car had been going way too fast.

“Who was driving?” she asked, looking from Byron to Andrea.

A flush of color moved up Byron’s neck, and he shoved a hand through his hair.

“I was,” Andrea said, a mite too quickly. “It’s my car.”

Melissa wasn’t convinced that Andrea had been behind the wheel, but she’d made her point, and no laws had been broken, after all. She bent to pull the torn fabric of her sweatpants away from her knees, and the burning sensation made her wince.

Byron started to move, hesitated, and then took a resolute step toward her. “You might be hurt,” he said.

A swift and wholly unexpected rage swelled within Melissa in that moment, stealing her breath away, no doubt triggered by the near miss she’d just had. Her mind flashed on the photos of Chavonne Rowan’s small, broken body, taken at the medical examiner’s office in Flagstaff. And those images were still vivid in her recollection; as if she’d seen them only moments before.

You might be hurt.

Hurt, indeed. The way Chavonne had been hurt?

“At least let us give you a ride home,” Andrea pleaded, her expressive eyes brimming. “Please?”

Melissa paused, then nodded. Her house wasn’t far away, but the rain was coming down harder now, and the flesh on her knees burned and she felt mildly sick to her stomach.

Byron didn’t actually take her arm, though that had probably been his original intention. Instead, he just sort of herded her toward Andrea’s car, opening the heavy door on the passenger side and waiting for her to get in. Andrea scrambled behind the wheel.

Melissa noticed that Andrea had to scoot the seat forward to reach the gas and brake pedals, but she didn’t remark on it. She noticed a lot of things—being detail-oriented was part of her nature as well as her job—but even so, she tended to take most observations with a grain of salt. It was too easy to jump to conclusions.

Andrea’s car was practically a relic, she reminded herself, and it was possible that the seat had to be adjusted every time she sat in it. Big John had owned an old rattletrap of a work truck like that once, back in the day. The seat had had a mind of its own and needed constant adjustment.

Andrea tightened her grip on the steering wheel and glanced at the rearview as Byron got into the back.

Melissa, understandably distracted, finally got it then. Byron had spent the night with Andrea, in her little apartment over the Crockett sisters’ garage, and whoever had been driving had been in a hurry because neither of them wanted the elderly ladies to know about the rendezvous. Chances were, Velda wouldn’t be thrilled that her son had pulled an all-nighter, either, especially so soon after getting out of jail.

It was no wonder the kids were rattled. They’d nearly flattened the county prosecutor under the front wheels.

“I’ll be at work on time,” Andrea told her boss a couple of minutes later, as she pulled the car to a stop at Melissa’s front gate.

“Fine,” Melissa said, shoving open her door to climb out. Since she was in good shape, it surprised her to discover that she was stiff all over, sore and achy.

Byron got out, too, and stood waiting on the sidewalk, the rain making his hair curl, watching her intently.

Melissa felt a sudden need to reassure him. Maybe it was that he looked so young, standing there, and so vulnerable, a regular Lost Boy.

“You did a great job with the yard,” she said.

“Thanks,” he said, and she realized he was waiting to walk her to her front door.

Melissa waved to Andrea and turned to go through the gate, only to find Byron one step ahead, holding it open for her. Her skeptical side—after all, she was a prosecuting attorney—warned her not to be too trusting. Being softhearted too often translated to being soft-headed, in her experience.

It might well be true that Byron was basically a good kid who’d made a serious mistake and paid the price for it. On the other hand, he could be putting on an act. The next drug fix, the next tragedy, might be right around the corner.

Rain slid off the roof over Melissa’s porch, and she and Byron ducked through, like people passing beneath a waterfall.

Melissa wore her door key on a chain around her neck when she ran, and she pulled it out through the neck of her sweatshirt then, her hand still slightly unsteady. She’d gotten a powerful jolt of adrenaline a little while before, and it hadn’t completely subsided.

Gently, Byron took the key from her hand, inserted it into the lock and opened the door for her, handed the key back when she turned on the threshold to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely.

Melissa nodded. “Be more careful next time,” she said.

He nodded. “You’re sure you’ll be okay?”

“I’m sure,” Melissa replied, because she was. Growing up on a working ranch, she’d been thrown by horses and stepped on by cows. She’d fallen out of hay mows and off the backs of trucks and tractors, all with relatively little damage.

By comparison, this was nothing.

“Byron?” she ventured.

He still looked miserable. “Yeah.”

“Choose your friends carefully. Nathan Carter is bad news, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Byron absorbed that, his face pale and taut. “Right now,” he answered, quietly and at some length, “I can’t afford to be that picky. A guy needs friends, and right now, Andrea and Nathan are the only ones I have.”

Sadness pinched the back of Melissa’s throat. She said nothing more, but simply nodded in response to Byron’s words.

Fifteen minutes later, having showered and gingerly dried herself off with little dabbing motions of her towel, she’d forgotten the brief conversation entirely. There were small cuts on both her knees, but they weren’t deep, and the bleeding had stopped. The rest of her body felt bruised, though, as if she’d actually been struck by Andrea’s car.

After bundling herself into a robe, she padded along the hallway to the kitchen, whipped up her protein smoothie, and gulped down a couple of over-the-counter pain pills with the first sip. In another few minutes, she told herself, watching dully as water sheeted down outside of the window over the sink, she’d be right as—well—rain.

Dressing took twice as long as usual, since every motion made some joint or muscle ache, but Melissa remained undaunted. She got herself into a pink-floral print skirt and a long white sweater, summer-light, and flicked on a few swipes of mascara and lip gloss.

Between the rain and her recent shower, her hair had frizzed out, and she was in no mood to spend half an hour taming it with a blow-dryer and a brush, so she clamped the stuff into a loose roll at the back of her head with an enormous plastic clip and called it good.

Tendrils drifted down around her cheeks and her neck—the look was softer than her usual tailored approach, more Ashley’s style than her own, but it pleased her, nonetheless.

While she was inside, the rain had stopped, and the sun was out, bright as polished brass.

When Melissa limped into her office, just before nine, Andrea was already there, standing in the middle of the floor like a sentinel and grasping a plain glass vase containing a huge bouquet of purple and white irises, most likely appropriated from the Crockett sisters’ garden, in both hands.

“These are for you,” Andrea said anxiously.

Melissa smiled, took the flowers and started to go around the nervous young woman, toward her own office. “Thanks, Andrea,” she said. “But you shouldn’t have. It really wasn’t necessary.”

“You could have been badly hurt,” Andrea burst out, “or even—”

Melissa paused, frowning. “I’m all right, Andrea.”

Andrea’s eyes clouded over with tears. “I know you think—you think Byron was driving this morning, and that I’m covering for him, because of what happened before, to that girl, Chavonne. But I was behind the wheel, not Byron.”

Melissa sighed, continued into her office and set the vase of flowers carefully on a corner of her desk.

They really were beautiful, dewy and vibrantly colored.

“What you do in your personal life is none of my business,” she said, looking at the irises instead of Andrea. They’d both learned a lesson; now, it was time to move on.

“But—?” Andrea prompted, without inflection. Clearly, she wasn’t ready to let the subject drop. Melissa, on the other hand, would have preferred to pretend that it hadn’t happened.

“You’ve come a long way since your foster-home days, Andrea,” Melissa replied, after drawing in and expelling a deep breath. “I hope you won’t throw all that away by doing anything foolish.”

Andrea blushed miserably. “Like going out with Byron Cahill?”

“I didn’t say that,” Melissa pointed out.

“You didn’t have to,” Andrea said. Still, there was no anger in her tone or her expression.

Melissa rested a hand on the young woman’s forearm. “Okay, for what it’s worth, here’s my opinion. Byron has to be going through some major adjustments right now. He has a lot to deal with, and so do you. Maybe it would be better to let the dust settle a little before you get too—involved.”

Andrea tensed slightly. “Because he was in prison.”

“Partly, yes,” Melissa answered. “And partly because both of you are young.”

“Right,” Andrea said, her tone turning crisp as she turned on one heel to leave Melissa’s office. “I’ll get your messages.”

Bemused, and still aching all over from the tumble she’d taken into the gravel that morning, Melissa put her purse away, sat down in her chair and booted up her computer.

A tap at the framework of her open door alerted her to Tom’s presence. Melissa smiled, and even that hurt a little.

Tom glanced in Andrea’s direction and then came inside Melissa’s office and closed the door.

“We’ve got trouble,” he said. His tone was solemn.

Melissa looked up at him, her smile a thing of the past. “Sit down, Tom,” she said.

But he shook his head. “I’ve had a complaint from Ashley and Jack’s neighbors,” he told her. “About the guests. Since it’s sort of a—delicate matter, I wanted to run the report by you before I go over there.”

Melissa closed her eyes for a moment. Dammit, that bunch of geriatric outlaws were running around naked again, and this time, someone had seen them.

She did not need this.

The B&B should have been Ashley’s problem, not hers.

Tom cleared his throat, and his expression was diplomatic. His eyes twinkled, though, and he wasn’t in any rush to state his business, it seemed to Melissa. “They’re disturbing the peace,” he said.

Melissa rolled her eyes. “Disturbing the peace?”

“Apparently, they’re playing the stereo at top volume. Practicing the tango on the back patio.” Tom drew in a breath, his eyes still dancing with amusement. “The Crockett sisters are worried that the noise will scare their fish.”

“Their fish?”

“You know. Those fancy goldfish they have.”

“And this is my problem because—?”

“Well,” Tom said, “because Ashley and Jack left you in charge of the B&B, for all intents and purposes. I thought you’d want to know what was going on.”

“Good heavens,” Melissa said.

Tom chuckled. “I’m fixing to go on over there and have a word with those good folks, of course,” he went on. “I’m sure they don’t mean any harm. You can come along or stay here—your choice.”

Melissa groaned as the weight of twin responsibility settled on her shoulders. “I’d better go with you.”

Tom nodded. “That would probably be a good idea,” he allowed, his mouth twitching at one corner, “but maybe I should go in first, just in case.”

“Just in case what?” Melissa asked, feeling testy. The over-the-counter pain pills she’d taken with her morning smoothie, before leaving home, were taking the edge off, but that was about it. “Last I heard, the tango wasn’t dangerous. Not for spectators, at least.”

Tom gave her a wry look as he opened the office door and waited for her to step through before following.

Andrea was just rising from her chair, the usual handful of pink phone messages clutched in one hand. She looked pale, and there were faint shadows under her eyes.

“Anything important?” Melissa asked, with a glance at the messages.

“I’m not sure,” Andrea admitted. “There was a call from a woman complaining that one of her neighbors is buying too much toilet paper—way more than anybody needs, especially when they live alone.”

Melissa frowned, puzzled.

But Tom gave a chuckle and a low whistle that brought the faithful Elvis click-click-clicking down the hallway from his master’s office on canine toenails and said, “Sounds like the same old controversy Aunt Ona has to deal with every year when rodeo time rolls around.”

“Mr. Creed called, too,” Andrea added, while Melissa was still pondering Tom’s cryptic remark. “I guess he didn’t have your home number. Anyway, he said he and Matt really enjoyed supper last night and they’d like to reciprocate as soon as possible.”

Melissa blushed slightly. “Okay,” she said, avoiding Andrea’s gaze. She could actually feel Tom’s grin, though she didn’t look at him, either.

“We’ll be back in a while,” Tom explained to Andrea.

Out of the corner of her eye, Melissa saw Andrea nod before turning and going back to her own desk.

Moments later, Tom, Melissa and Elvis were in the squad car.

Melissa flipped through the messages to make sure there was nothing urgent, then shoved them into her purse. All except for the toilet paper concern, of course.

The caller, not surprisingly, had been Bea Brady, one of the more vocal members of the Parade Committee. She’d spoken up during the meeting out at Creekside Academy, Melissa remembered.

“Some people,” she said, with a long sigh, “have way too much free time.”

Tom’s mouth quirked at one corner. Elvis, meanwhile, sat in the middle of the backseat, behind the metal grill. “I suppose you realize,” he said dryly, “that there are a few people around Stone Creek who’d say that about us. The big joke down at the barbershop is that I don’t even need to load my service revolver—I can just carry a single bullet around in my shirt pocket, like Barney Fife.”

A giggle escaped Melissa, in spite of everything, but when she spoke, she was utterly serious. “Sometimes I think I’m in the wrong line of work,” she admitted, surprising herself as well as Tom.

Tom, already signaling to turn onto Ashley’s street, cast a quizzical glance in her direction. “Really?” he asked. “You worked pretty hard to earn that law degree and pass the bar exam and then build a resume. What would you do if you weren’t a lawyer?”

As the alley between the Crocketts’ and the B&B came into focus, toward the end of the block, cell memory must have kicked in, because Melissa felt the impact of her fall all over again, as if it had just happened.

“Interesting question,” she murmured in response. Before the breakup, she and Dan had agreed on a general plan: she would take a few years off from her career when she felt ready, help raise his two boys, have at least one baby, try out some of the domestic arts, like cooking and decorating, à la Ashley. “And I don’t think I know the answer.”

And that was probably the whole problem, she reflected. She not only didn’t know what she would do if she didn’t practice law, she didn’t know who she would be.

She’d been so sure that she loved Dan, wanted to make a life with him, but when it came time to set a date and to actually get married, Melissa had panicked. Dan, who’d been patient for a long time, had been coldly furious, and then he’d delivered an ultimatum; she had forty-eight hours to make a decision, one way or the other: marry him, or call it quits.

Melissa hadn’t needed forty-eight hours, or even forty-eight seconds.

She’d called it quits.

Of course, she’d expected Dan to come around in a day or two—a week at the longest—with flowers and sweet talk, the way he had every other time they’d ever disagreed about anything, large or small, but that time was different. There was no soft music, no steamy makeup sex, no anything. Within a week, in fact, Dan was dating a waitress, the woman he’d since married.

“Well,” Tom said, drawing the cruiser to a stop in front of the B&B. “We’re here.”

“Yes,” Melissa said, squinting her eyes and peering at the front of her sister and brother-in-law’s gracious house. “Let’s get this over with.”

Tom chuckled, unfastened his seat belt and got out of the car. Reaching the sidewalk, he opened Melissa’s door for her, then released Elvis from the back.

Even from where they stood, the sounds of merriment coming from behind the house were clearly audible. There was spritely guitar music, laughter, cheering and loud, enthusiastic applause.

“Damn,” Melissa muttered, shaking her head, as Tom opened the front gate and waited for her to walk through ahead of him.

“You can wait here if you want to,” Tom offered, as Elvis trotted happily ahead, nose to the ground.

“It isn’t as if I’ve never seen a naked man before, you know,” she said.

Tom laughed. “Huh?”

Unwittingly, she’d just revealed her secret fear: that the B&B guests were naked again. “You know what I meant,” Melissa replied, with a little snap to her tone.

Tom remained amused. “By the way,” he went on, “what’s the matter with you? You flinched every time I took a corner on the way over here, and I’d swear you’re limping a little.”

He’d taken the lead, following the walk that ran alongside the house and into the backyard with its high fences and sheltering trees, but he looked over his shoulder at her as he spoke.

Melissa raised and lowered her shoulders. Carefully. “I took a little spill when I was running this morning,” she said. “It’s no big deal.”

Elvis, having reached the backyard, began to bark. The sound was the purest joy, and Melissa had to smile.

Tom stopped in his tracks as soon as he’d rounded the far corner of the house, and Melissa, bringing up the rear, almost collided with him.

“I’ll be damned,” he murmured.

She peeked around him.

And there was the Wild Bunch, the men dressed like matadors, except for their hats, the women in flamenco outfits and holding roses in their teeth, tangoing like mad across the wide stone patio.

The music, pouring from a boom box, was deafening.

Elvis stood near the edge of the patio, a delighted witness to the festivities, barking his brains out as he followed the action.

Spotting Melissa and Tom, John Winthrop hurried over to crank down the volume on the boom box. He was wearing one of those round hats trimmed with tiny pom-poms.

The other man in the group finished up the dance by dipping his partner.

Melissa, more impressed than she would have admitted to Tom Parker or anyone else, could only assume that osteoporosis wasn’t an issue in this particular crowd.

Tom cleared his throat, then summoned Elvis to his side.

Melissa stepped up next to him, concentrating on one thing. Not laughing.

“Why, it’s Melissa,” said Mr. Winthrop, beaming, taking off his hat and bowing deeply. “How nice to see you again!”

“That’s quite a costume,” Melissa said.

“Rented,” Mr. Winthrop replied. He drew in a deep, robust breath and let it out in a whoosh. “We got to talking about our trip to Spain—we went three years ago—and I guess we got a little carried away by all the memories.”

“There’s no costume-rental place in Stone Creek,” Tom said, sounding suspicious.

“We called a shop in Flagstaff,” Winthrop explained jovially. “They were kind enough to deliver.”

“Oh,” Tom replied, clearly at a loss.

“The neighbors are complaining about the music,” Melissa told the gang. “It was too loud.”

The women looked annoyed. The men were crestfallen. Melissa felt like the original wet blanket.