The Cowboy Way

Tom blinked. Straightened his spine. “When I get around to it,” he said, in a mildly affronted tone.

“Have you run a background check on her yet?”

“Of course I haven’t.”

“A person can’t be too careful,” Melissa threw out. Then she sighed and changed the subject. “I was just coming from the Parade Committee meeting,” she said pointedly. “You know, that little thing I’m doing because your aunt, Ms. Ona Frame, has to have her gall-bladder out? You owe me, Sheriff Parker. And if you think I’m going to put up with being pulled over for no reason—”

Tom did a parody of righteous horror. Laid a hand to his chest. Back in the squad car, Elvis let out a yip, as though putting in his two cents’ worth. Then Tom laughed, held up both hands, palms out. Elvis yipped again.

Melissa leaned to retrieve her purse and that stupid clipboard.

He laughed again. “He’s got you pretty flustered, that Creed yahoo,” he said, looking pleased at the realization. “I haven’t seen you this worked up since you were dating Dan Guthrie—”

Too late, Tom seemed to realize he’d struck a raw nerve. He stopped, reddened, and flung his hands out from his sides. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” Melissa huffed, turning on one heel.

Tom followed her as far as her front gate. “It’s not as if you’re the only person who’s ever loved and lost, Melissa O’Ballivan,” he blurted out, in a furious under tone. “Imagine how it feels to be crazy about a woman who looks right through you like you were transparent!”

“I can’t begin to imagine that, for obvious reasons,” Melissa replied, heading up the walk.

Elvis howled.

Tom stuck with Melissa until she’d mounted the first two porch steps and rounded to look down into his upturned face. “You deliberately misunderstood that,” he accused, but he’d lost most of his steam by then.

Melissa sighed. “You were referring to Tessa Quinn, I presume?” she asked, though everybody in town and for miles around knew that Tom loved the woman with a passion of truly epic proportions. Everybody, with the probable exception of Tessa herself, that is.

Tessa was either clueless, playing it cool or just not interested in Tom Parker.

Tom thrust out a miserable breath. “You know damn well it’s Tessa,” he said.

Melissa cocked a thumb toward the squad car and said, “Get Elvis and come inside. I made a pitcher of iced tea before I went out.”

But Tom shook his head. “I’m supposed to be on patrol,” he said.

“Well, that’s noble,” Melissa replied, as the dog gave another long, plaintive howl, “but I’m not sure Elvis is onboard with the plan.”

“I was just taking him over to the Groom-and-Bloom for his weekly bath,” Tom said. He took very good care of Elvis; everybody knew that as well as they knew his feelings for Tessa. “He’s just worried about missing his appointment, that’s all. He’s particular about his appearance, Elvis is.”

Melissa smiled. Nodded. “Tom?”

He was turning away. “What?”

“Why don’t you ask Tessa for a date?”

He looked all of fourteen as he considered that idea. His neck went a dull red, and his earlobes glowed like they were lit up from the inside. “She might say no.”

“Here’s a thought, Tom. She might say yes. Then what would you do?”

“Probably have a coronary on the spot.” Tom sounded pretty serious, but there was a tentative smile playing around his lips. “Same as if she said no.”

“So you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t.”

“That’s about the size of it,” Tom said.

“I dare you,” Melissa said. When they were kids, that was the way to get Tom Parker to do just about anything. Of course, she hadn’t tried it since playground days.

He flushed again, and his eyes narrowed. “What?”

“You heard me, Parker,” Melissa said, jutting her chin out a little ways. “I double-dog dare you to ask Tessa Quinn out to dinner. Or to a movie. Or to a dance—there’s one next weekend, at the Grange Hall. And if you don’t ask her out, well, you’re just plain—chicken.”

Instantly, they were both nine years old again.

Tom stepped closer and glared up at her. “Oh, yeah?” he said.

“Yeah,” Melissa replied stoutly.

“You’re on,” Tom told her.

“Good,” Melissa answered, without smiling.

“What do I get if you lose?” Tom wanted to know.

Melissa thought quickly. “I’ll buy you dinner.”

“As long as you’re not cooking,” Tom specified, looking and sounding dead serious.

This was a bet Melissa wanted to lose. “I’ll recruit Ashley,” she said. “She can do those specially marinated spare ribs you like so much.”

“Deal,” Tom said, without cracking a smile. Even as a little kid, he’d been a sucker for a bet.

“Wait just a second,” Melissa said. “What if I win? What happens then?”

“I’ll take over as chairman of the Parade Committee,” Tom told her, after some thought.

“Deal,” Melissa agreed, putting out her free hand.

They shook on it, then Tom turned and stalked back to the gate, through it and down the sidewalk to his car. “Just remember one thing!” he called back to her.

“What?” Melissa retorted, about to turn around and open her front door.

“Two can play this game,” Tom said.

Then he got into the cruiser, slammed his door and ground the engine to life with a twist of the key in the ignition, leaving Melissa to wonder what the hell he’d meant by that.

He made the siren give one eloquent moan as he drove on past her house and vanished around the corner.

“Damn,” Melissa said, as the answer dawned on her.

Now she’d gone and done it.

Tom would lie awake nights until he came up with a dare for her. And it would be a doozy, knowing him.

But she didn’t dwell on the problem too long, because she had things to do. Like go over to Ashley’s, thereby braving the wild bunch, who might well be swinging from the chandeliers in their birthday suits, to steal a main course and a dessert from one of the freezers.

* * *

“NEXT TIME,” STEVEN told the rearview reflection of a chagrined Matt, as they drove out of town, “it would be a really good idea to talk it over with me before you go inviting people to our place for supper.”

Matt was no pouter, but his lower lip poked out a-ways, and he was blinking real fast, both of which were signs that he might cry.

It killed Steven when he cried.

“I was just trying to be a good neighbor,” Matt explained, sounding as wounded as he looked. “Anyhow, I like Ms. O’Ballivan, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he said, tightening his fingers on the steering wheel, then relaxing them again. “I understand that your intentions were good,” he went on quietly. “But sometimes, if that person happens to have other plans, or some other reason why they need to say no, it puts them on the spot. There’s no graceful way for them to turn you down.”

Matt listened in silence, sniffling a couple of times.

“Do you know what I’m saying, here?” Steven asked, keeping his voice gentle.

Matt nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I get it. I’m gifted, remember?”

Steven laughed. “There’s no forgetting that,” he said.

“Are you mad at me?”

An ache went through Steven, like a sharp pole jabbed down through the top of his heart to lodge at the bottom. “No,” he said. “If I straighten you out about something, it doesn’t mean I’m angry. It just means I want you to think things through a little better the next time.”

Matt let out a long sigh, back there in the peanut gallery, one of his arms wrapped around Zeke, who was panting and, incredibly, managing to keep his canine head from blocking the rearview mirror.

“It’s kind of weird, calling you Steven,” Matt said, after a long time. He was looking out the window by then, but even with just a glance at the boy’s reflection to go on, Steven could see the tension he was trying to hide.

“Who says so?” Steven asked carefully. Conversations like this one always made his stomach clench.

“I do,” Matt told him. His voice was small.

The turn onto their road was just ahead; Steven flipped the signal lever and slowed to make a dusty left. “What would you like to call me?” he asked.

“Dad,” Matt said simply.

Steven’s eyes scalded, and his vision blurred.

“But that doesn’t seem right, because I used to have another dad,” Matt went on. “Do you think it would hurt my first daddy’s feelings if I went around calling somebody else ‘Dad’?”

“I think your dad would want you to be happy,” Steven said. It was almost a croak, that statement, but, fortunately, Matt didn’t seem to notice. They’d reached the top of the driveway, so Steven pulled up beside the old two-tone truck and shifted out of gear. Shut the motor off. And just sat there, not knowing what to say. Or do.

“If he was Daddy,” Matt reasoned, “then I guess it would be all right if you were Dad.”

Steven’s throat constricted. He literally couldn’t speak just then, so he shoved open the truck door and got out. Stood staring off toward the foothills and the mountains beyond for a few moments, until he’d recovered some measure of control.

When he turned around again, both Matt and Zeke had their faces pressed to the window, gumming it up big-time with their breaths.

He laughed and carefully opened the door, so Zeke wouldn’t plunge right over Matt and his safety seat and take a header onto the ground.

“I think that’s a great idea,” Steven said.

“So I can call you Dad?” Matt asked.

“Yeah,” Steven replied, ducking his head slightly while he undid the snaps and buckles. “You can call me Dad.”

“That’s good,” Matt said. A pause. “Dad?” He said the word softly, like he was trying it on for size.

“What?” Steven ground out, hoisting the little boy to the ground, and then the dog.

“How come your eyes are all red?”

Steven sniffled, ran a forearm across his face. “I guess it’s the dust,” he said. He pretended to assess the sky, sprawling blue from horizon to horizon. “A good rain would help.”

* * *

“HELLO?” MELISSA RAPPED lightly at her sister’s kitchen door, though she’d already opened it and stuck her head inside. “Anybody home?”

There was no answer, but she could hear voices coming from the dining room.

Melissa hadn’t seen a car parked outside, so she’d hoped the lively group had gone out, maybe to play miniature golf or take in a movie. She would have loved to raid the freezer and duck out again, unnoticed, but she was afraid one of the oldsters would wander in, be startled and collapse from a massive coronary.

So she moved to the middle of the floor and tried again. “Hello?”

This time, they heard her. “Melissa, is that you?” a woman’s voice called cheerfully.

“Yes,” she answered. Then she drew a deep breath, proceeded to the inside door and drew another deep breath before pushing it open.

The guests were gathered at one end of the formal dining table, playing cards. And they were all wearing clothes.

Melissa was so profoundly relieved that she gave a nervous, high-pitched giggle and put one hand to her heart.

How amused Ashley and Olivia and Brad would be if they could see her now. In her family, she did not have a reputation for shyness, and her sibs would have gotten a major kick out of her newfound fear of naked croquet players.

“Come and join us,” Mr. Winthrop said, rising from his seat. “We’re playing gin rummy, and I’m afraid we’ve all known each other so well, for so long, that there just aren’t any new tricks.”

I’ll just bet there aren’t, Melissa thought, but not with rancor. Initial embarrassment aside, she liked these people. They had spirit. Imagination. Wrinkles. Lots and lots of wrinkles.

“I can’t stay,” she said, and the regret in her tone was only partly feigned. She enjoyed gin rummy and, heck, everybody was dressed, weren’t they? “I’m having company tonight, so I came by to borrow a few things.” She waggled her fingers at them, backing toward the swinging door. “Enjoy your game.”

“Don’t take the roast duck,” one of the women sang out, shuffling the deck for another hand of cards. “Your sister promised that to us. It’s Herbert’s favorite, and he’s turning ninety tomorrow.”

“Hands off the duck,” Melissa promised, palms up and facing the group at the table, and then she slipped out. She was smiling to herself as she headed for the large storage room, off the kitchen, where Ashley had two huge freezers, invariably well-stocked.

One was reserved for desserts, one for main courses.

She selected a container marked Game Hens with Cranberries and Wild Rice, Serves 6, Ashley’s graceful handwriting looping across the label. Melissa hoped that Matt liked chicken, as most kids did, and would therefore accept a reasonable facsimile.

For dessert, she purloined a lovely blueberry cobbler.

Best with Vanilla Ice Cream, Ashley had written on the sticker. It was almost as if she’d known, somehow, that her twin would be breaking into her frozen-food supply soon and would need guidance.

Melissa set the food on the counter, went back to the inside door to poke her head in and say goodbye.

The card players were still clothed and so normal-looking that she could almost believe she’d imagined the notorious backyard croquet game. Maybe she really was going nuts.

“See you,” Melissa said stupidly, her face strangely hot as she backed away from the door.

She turned, grabbed the food containers and boogied out the back door, glad she’d parked her car in the alley, so she wouldn’t have to walk around front, where she might have to stop and chat with one of her sister’s neighbors. She wasn’t feeling very sociable at the moment.

She made a quick stop at the supermarket for ice cream and a premade spinach salad, then hurried home.

When she got there, Byron was working, shirtless, in the front yard, pruning shears in hand, snipping errant branches off the maple tree and stemming its invasion of the sidewalk.

Nathan Carter, a local dropout with a history of misdemeanors to his credit and not much else, sat cross-legged in the as-yet-unmowed grass, watching him.

“I thought you couldn’t come until tomorrow,” Melissa said, addressing Byron but shooting a curious glance at Nathan as she spoke, then grappling with Ashley’s plastic containers and the stuff she’d bought at the store. “Something about relining the Crocketts’ koi pond?”

Nathan returned her look, smirking. She’d never liked the kid; a sort of latter-day James Dean type, he seemed to fancy himself a rebel without a cause.

He was also without a job, a house or a car, as far as she knew. He came and went, turning up every so often to bunk on his cousin Lulu’s screened-in side porch and stir up whatever trouble he could.

Byron, sweating, paused and pulled an arm across his forehead. His eyes were wary, and oddly hopeful, as he watched Melissa and nodded once. “Got that done,” he said. “Those fish are back in the pond, swimming around like they had good sense. I’ll be back in the morning to finish up around here, but I thought I’d whack off some of these branches tonight.”

Melissa looked from Byron to Nathan and back to Byron, tempted to take her temporary yard man aside and remind him that he ought to be careful who he hung around with, given that he was on parole.

“Byron, here,” Nathan put in helpfully, “is a little short on cash.”

“I could advance you a few dollars,” Melissa said.

Nathan and Byron responded simultaneously.

“Awesome,” Nathan drawled, his tone oily, like his mouse-brown hair and his filthy T-shirt and jeans.

“I wouldn’t feel right taking money,” said Byron, with a decisive shake of his head. “Not when I haven’t finished the job.”

Had this kid changed in jail, Melissa wondered, or had she misjudged him, way back when? There had never been any question of his guilt, that was true, but maybe Velda had been right.

Maybe she should have tried for mandatory treatment in a drug and alcohol facility instead of time behind bars.... No. She had considered every angle, consulted experts, lain awake nights. She’d done what she thought was right and there was no use second-guessing the decision now.

She turned her thoughts to her supper guests—Steven and Matt Creed. Nathan dropped off her radar, a nonentity.

And she immediately felt better.

The containers of frozen food, now beginning to thaw, stung like dry ice through the front of Melissa’s top and she still wanted to tidy up the house a little, choose an outfit—nothing too come-hither—do something with her hair, and put on some makeup. A touch of mascara, some lip gloss, that was all.

Maybe a little perfume.

The message she wanted to send was, Welcome to Stone Creek, not, Hey, big guy, what do you say we hire a sitter, slip out of here, and go find ourselves a place to get it on?

She blushed, because the second version wasn’t without a certain appeal, then realized she hadn’t responded to Byron’s last statement. “Okay, then,” she told him, ignoring Nathan, tugging open the screen door with a quick motion of one hand and holding it open with her hip. “See you tomorrow.”

Byron nodded and went back to snipping branches off the maple tree.

CHAPTER SEVEN

BY 5:59 P.M., MELISSA was ready to serve supper—the game hens, warming in the seldom-used oven, filled her small, bright kitchen with their savory aroma. The cobbler, already thawed and heated through, sat cooling on the counter nearest the stove, covered by a clean dishtowel. The antique table, which too often served as a catchall for newspapers and junk mail, looked like something straight off the cover of Country Living magazine.

Melissa took a moment to admire the crisp white tablecloth, the green-tinted glass jar in the center, spilling over with perfect white peonies from the bushes on either side of the front steps. The plates, purchased on impulse in, of all places, an airport gift shop, were decorated with checks and flowers and polka dots.

She tilted her head to one side, considering the look. Fussy, yes. Feminine, definitely. Cheerful, to the max.

But was it too fussy, feminine and cheerful?

After all, this wasn’t a reunion of her high school cheerleading squad; she was entertaining a little boy and a grown man.

And what a man. There should have been a law.

Melissa chewed briefly on one fingernail, fretting. With the exception of the flowers in the jar, none of this was at all like her—the fancy dishes had been gathering dust in the cupboard above the refrigerator for a couple of years, she hadn’t cooked the food and she had exactly one tablecloth to her name—this one. It didn’t even have any sentimental value, that tablecloth—it hadn’t been passed down through generations of O’Ballivans, like the various linens Ashley and Olivia so prized. No, Melissa had bought it on clearance at a discount store, just in case she might need it someday—her share of the heirlooms were stored in a chest, out on the ranch. Did she have time to drive out there and grab some?

Deep breath, she instructed herself silently.

Just as she drew in air, a rap sounded at the front door. They’re here.

No time to tone down—or tone up—the decorations now, obviously.

Melissa, feeling especially womanly in her summery dress, a multicolored Southwestern print with touches of turquoise and magenta, gold and black, went to greet her company.

Matt stood on the porch with his nose pressed into the screen door, his damp hair already beginning to rebel against a recent combing, springing up into a rooster tail at the back of his head and swirling into little cowlick eddies here and there.

Melissa’s heart melted at the sight of him; a smile rose up within her and spilled across her face, warm on her mouth. Of course she was aware of Steven, standing behind the boy—how could she not have been aware?—but she didn’t make eye contact right away.

No, she needed a few more deep breaths before she could risk that.

So she concentrated on Matt—unlocking and opening the screen door, stepping back so he could spill into her house, all energy and eagerness and boy.

“You look very handsome,” she told the child, resisting a motherly urge to smooth down the rooster tail with a light pass of her hand.

Matt’s smile seemed to encompass her, like an actual embrace. “And you look beautiful!” he responded.

“Amen,” Steven said huskily. That single word coursed right over Matt’s head to lodge itself in Melissa like a velvet arrow.

Her throat caught, and her gaze betrayed her, going straight to him long before she was ready.

Steven wore jeans, a little newer than the ones he’d had on earlier, along with polished black boots and a white, collarless shirt of the sort men favored back in the Old West days. His hair was damp from a recent shower, like Matt’s, but there were no cowlicks and no rooster tails, and he smelled like a field of newly sprouted clover after a soft rain.

A free-fall sensation seized Melissa, buffeted the breath from her lungs, as though she were skydiving without a parachute, or riding a runaway roller coaster.

The feeling was stunning. Terrifying, in fact.

And categorically wonderful.

“I hope you’re both hungry,” she heard herself say, and the normality of her tone amazed her, because on the inside, she was still being swept along, helter-skelter, like a swimmer caught in a fast current.

“We’re starved,” Matt answered, looking around the living room, as alert as a detective scanning for clues.

Steven smiled and cleared his throat slightly, raising one eyebrow when Matt turned to look up at him.

“Well, we are,” the boy insisted, folding his small arms.

Steven grinned, unwittingly—or wittingly—sending a charge of electricity through Melissa. His eyes, so very blue and with a touch of lavender to them that reminded her of summer twilights and late-blooming lilacs, ranged idly over her, pausing here and there, lingering to light small fires under her skin. It seemed lazy-slow, that look, but she knew it couldn’t have lasted more than a fraction of a moment.

“Then let’s get you some supper,” Melissa told Matt, extra glad he was there, and not just because she was already so fond of him. If she’d been alone with Steven Creed, considering her strange state of mind, she might have jumped the man’s bones right there in the living room.

Okay, so maybe that was an exaggeration. But she was definitely attracted to him, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was on dangerous ground.

Remembering her duties as a hostess, she led the way into the kitchen.

Matt started toward the table the moment they entered the room, but Steven caught the child lightly by one shoulder and stopped him.

“Where do we wash up?” Steven asked, looking at Melissa.

She pointed toward the hallway just to the left of the stove. “The bathroom is that way,” she said.

The Creed men disappeared in the direction she’d indicated, then returned a couple of minutes later.

Melissa was just setting out the main course. Since she didn’t own a platter, she’d left the food in Ashley’s freezer-to-oven casserole dish.

“Are those chickens?” Matt asked, eyeing the halved game hens dubiously.

Steven chuckled. “Yes,” he said mildly. “They’re chickens.” And then he caught Melissa’s eye, waiting for something.

After an awkward moment, Melissa pointed to one of the chairs. Steven pulled it back, let Matt scramble up onto the seat.

“Can I eat with my fingers?” Matt wanted to know.

Steven answered without taking his eyes off Melissa. “Thanks for asking,” he said, in an easy drawl. “But no, Tex, you can’t eat with your fingers.”

It finally came home to Melissa that Steven wasn’t going to sit down until she was seated. She moved toward the middle chair, oddly embarrassed, waited for Steven to pull it out for her and sat.