Chapter Nine
Jowas pouring her second cup of Coke, and making a face at it, when someone sat down at her bar. She turned and smiled genuinely. Not her you’re a paying customer and I’m in a bad mood, but I’ll pretend I’m not smile, but the real deal. “Hey, Jeff. Back for lunch today?”
He grinned and put his worn Marshall High ball cap on the bar in front of him. “Couldn’t help it. You convinced me to come back. Service can’t be beat. Plus, you’re one of the only people in this town who remembers to call me Jeff.”
“Benefits of being a newbie. I don’t have to forget embarrassing childhood nicknames. Drink?”
“Just a Coke. I’m out running errands for my mom today.” He made a face.
“Aw, that’s cute,” Jo teased and passed him the drink. When he scowled, she patted his shoulder. “It’s nice. A man who is good to his mother makes the women look twice.”
“Yeah?” He sipped his drink and looked over the top of her head, like he was considering the statement, weighing its truthfulness.
He was a cutie. With his dark brown hair a little shaggy, thoughtful brown eyes to match and quick smile, he was going to slay the co-eds in law school. She imagined he already knew that, though. He seemed to carry an innate boyish charm that told her he’d gotten his way more often than not by flashing that dimple. But in a good-natured sort of way, not a sleazy way.
He didn’t dress like a lot of the other young men around town. Both times she’d seen him, he’d been in a collared shirt. Today a polo, last time an Oxford button down. His jeans today were fresh, and he had simple Adidas running shoes on rather than the crease-worn denim and scuffed work boots she was used to. But then again, not everyone who lived in the area was a rancher.
Jo sent his food order back to the kitchen and wiped down some more glasses to place on the top shelf, ready for the real rush.
“Quiet in here this time of day.”
Jo nodded. “Not many people are hitting the bottle this early, and while I think we’ve got a kickass menu, the diner still wins the lunch race by a long shot. But since they don’t serve alcohol . . .”
“You make up for it with the dinner crowd,” Jeff finished. “I like your style, Jo.”
She winked at him. “I like yours, too, Jeff.”
The lunch hour passed rather quickly, thanks to Jeff and his company. When she mentioned once that he should get on with his errands, he waved it off and said his mother wasn’t going to be home until later anyway. “Miranda Effingham is a busy lady. She’s one of those committee people,” he said in a deadpan whisper.
Knowing exactly the type, Jo laughed. “You lucked out, then, only running errands instead of being roped into going to a meeting or setting up a cakewalk or whatever.”
“Can’t argue there.” He set some bills down on the bar—way over-tipping, by Jo’s quick estimation—and stood. “But you’re right. Eventually the chairwoman will be home and I should have all the things put away like a dutiful son.”
He was adorable. The girls at school were goners. “Off you go, then. Shoo. I can’t be responsible for the chairwoman bringing down the law on you.”
He stared at her a moment, and she almost wiped a hand over her face to see if she had something stuck there. “What?”
He replaced his hat and shook his head. “Nothing. Have a good day.”
“See ya.” She bussed his area and took the bills to the register. Yup. Over-tipped by a long shot. She shook her head and hoped he didn’t see their conversations as a reason to have to go so far over the typical fifteen percent. Maybe she’d dial back the friendliness a little.
But something about him just struck her heart. He was almost like the little brother she’d wanted when she was younger.
“Cutie pie gone?” Amanda walked by with an armful of dishes and deposited them for the dishwasher to handle.
“Cutie pie?”
“J. J.”
“Oh. Jeff,” Jo corrected. “He’s going by Jeff now, as he informed me.”
Amanda rolled her eyes. “That’ll stick, like, never. He’s been J. J. since he was born, and J. J. he shall stay, if anyone in this town has something to say about it.”
They shouldn’t, but Jo didn’t bother saying anything.
Amanda cocked a hip on the edge of the bar and surveyed the dwindling lunch crowd. “I know you have this thing about gossip, but if it’s about another business, it’s more like industry news, right?”
Jo raised a brow. “Sure, I guess.”
“Gimmie’s is closing.”
Jo’s hands nearly dropped the tall glass she was hand washing in the bar sink. “Run that by me again?”
“Gimmie’s, down the street. It’s closing.”
“I know where Gimmie’s is,” Jo said softly, eyes staring straight ahead. Gimmie’s was one of the other two bars located within town. Though neither of her competitors offered a selection of food like hers, they did have their own draw. Gimmie’s was the nicer of the two, in her opinion, with decent flat screens and far more room for dancing and more pool tables than she carried. Her space was taken up with more tables.
“I think the glass is clean,” Amanda said dryly.
“What? Oh, huh.” Jo turned the water off and set the glass in the side rack to dry. “Any reason why they’re closing down?”
Amanda pursed her lips. “Now would this be more of that industry news, or gossip?”
Jo swatted her with the bar towel.
She laughed and danced out of the way. “All right, all right! Don’t bruise me. I’ve got another date with my cowboy!” She held up her hands in surrender. “From what I hear, Meldon—that’s the owner—is getting too old to handle the place, and he doesn’t have any kids to pass the business on to. He’s willing to sell, but I guess he’s been looking for a buyer for a few months now on the DL, and no nibbles. So he’s packing up shop and heading to a retirement villa in Arizona. His brother’s there.”
“That’s specific, all right.” Jo mulled it over. One less bit of competition. One more step up in being recognized by this town as a staple. An institution. An insider. “Maybe I should send him a fruit basket or something. I’m sorry to see him go.”
“Sure you are.” Amanda’s smug smile said it all.
“Hey, a little competition never hurt anyone. And besides, it’s hard to close up a business you put your soul into, I’m sure.”
Her friend watched her for a moment, and Jo realized she’d gotten too emotional. Time to get back to work. “Okay then. Thanks for the heads up.” She shot Amanda a serious look. “But no more gossip.”
“Industry news,” Amanda sang as she headed back to bus her remaining tables.
“Industry news,” Jo muttered again, but smiled. One more step. One more very important step.
Trace saddled one of the brood mares currently not pregnant and led her toward the main house. After loosely looping the reins around a column, he headed in the front door. “Emma?”
She poked her head out from the kitchen, with Seth in the Bjorn in front of her. “Your boots off?”
He took one giant step back onto the entry mat. “Just wanted to take Seth out for a bit.” But he couldn’t help smiling at the picture of the housekeeper and toddler. Two peas in a pod, that duo. Seth adored his Emma. “If you can spare him, that is.”
Emma rubbed a hand over Seth’s head and the boy giggled. “He’s quite the help. He spent the morning tearing through a laundry basket of folded clothes.”
Trace winced. “Sorry about that.”
“Just as well you’re taking him out. He needs the fresh air. Not to be cooped up in the house with an old lady.” Emma slipped the carrier from her shoulders, expertly keeping one supportive arm under Seth.
As she handed him his son at the door, Trace bent down and kissed Emma’s cheek. “Where’s this old lady you speak of? I only see you, the awesome Emma.”
“Go!” She swatted his arm and shooed him out the door. “Bring him back in one piece!”
Trace lifted a hand in acknowledgment and undid the reins of the mare. Then he stared for a moment. How the hell would he get up in the saddle without dropping the kid?
“Need a hand, big brother?” Bea walked out in a pair of bright pink pants and a cropped top.
“Hold him while I hop up.”
She still grimaced, but willingly accepted her nephew without complaint. Improvement.
“He’s drooling.”
Okay, one minor complaint.
“They do that sometimes. He’s getting another tooth.” Trace swung up easily into the saddle and reached down for Seth.
Bea handed him up willingly. “Okay, you two up there are adorable. And you know I don’t use that word lightly. I’m taking a picture. I’m sure Peyton would love it for the website.”
“Hear that, son? We’re adorable. Watch out, ladies under two. Seth Muldoon comin’ at ya.”
Bea reached around to her back pocket and pulled out her phone. A quick snap later, she waved as they walked sedately toward the hot walk area.
Trace settled one arm comfortably around Seth’s middle as his son clapped with glee. The rocking of the horse was soothing, while the elevated height and forward motion provided entertainment. Plus, they were on a horse. It was a natural progression for a Muldoon.
As they entered through the open gate of the hot walk area, Steve tipped his hat back. “New hire?”
“You know it.”
“Looks a little green. Maybe we should start him mucking some stalls.”
Trace smiled. “Soon enough.”
He realized after a moment, the entire picture was laid out perfectly. His son, a few years from now, helping him clean stalls. Learning how to take care of his tack. Groom a horse. Fix a thrown shoe.
All on Muldoon land.
For once in his adult life, he could look years down the road and mentally picture himself in the same place.
Was that supposed to be frightening, or exciting?
He let the horse do her thing in a slow, plodding circle. The horse knew what to do, and if Trace hadn’t held his son, he could have put the whole thing on autopilot. While the pace would have bored Trace by age three, Seth’s not-quite-one-year-old self was thrilled with the action. And Trace remembered all over again exactly why he’d fought to keep his son, rather than walking away when Rose came to him to tell him she was pregnant.
And no, her husband wasn’t the father.
He’d been so close to losing Seth altogether....
His hands tightened on the reins, and he loosened them again with effort. Going back there was not where he wanted to be. Seth was with him, where he belonged, and that was the end of it.
Seth was a Muldoon, and he belonged at M-Star.
Why was it so hard to remember he did, too?
Trace stretched his back, wincing at the twinge. But he manned up and grabbed his saddle, ready for a workout.
“Freeze.”
Red walked up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. “I think after the spill you had, you should take a day or two off.”
“I’ve already been up once today.”
Red snorted. “I’m sorry, but a breeding mare walking in a circle at point-two miles an hour while you’ve got your son does not exactly count. Rest up. The work will be there tomorrow. Stretch, heat, the whole deal. I’ll ride Lad for a while.”
Trace made a face. “You shouldn’t be doing my work for me.”
Red sighed. “I hate admitting this, but it’s been too long since I’ve done the workouts on an experienced animal. I want some time. Give me the excuse, will ya?”
His lips quirked. “Is this another ‘Please do me the favor of going out for a beer with Red’ moment?”
“Not at all,” Red lied easily. Trace wasn’t fooled. He patted Trace’s shoulder and grabbed his own saddle. “If you insist on working, I have a few errands you could run.”
Errands. Trace rolled his eyes. “Pass.”
“Ah, well. Thought you might like the chance to catch some lunch in town, but hey. No skin off mine.”
The idea of grabbing a quickie with Jo during a lunch lull appealed too much to resist. “I—wait. Why do you think I want lunch in town?”
Red stared at him with disappointment. “How stupid do you think I am?”
“I’d say very, just to piss you off, but right now I’m in no shape to defend myself so I’ll just let you go on.”
“I see the way you watch that cute bartender. The owner. Jo? Every time you’ve gone in there and I’ve been with you, you track her like you’re on a hunt and she’s the game. So I’m guessing you wouldn’t mind a chance to do a little more hunting.”
No point in mentioning he’d already technically bagged the game. And wasn’t that just a horrible metaphor? “Yeah, well . . . fine. Whatever.” He jabbed one finger at Red. “But this isn’t about lunch, or hunting. I need to pull my weight. And if you’re not going to let me up on a real horse today, then I’ll run your damn errands.”
“Suits me. Peyton’s got the list at the main house. She’s in her office.”
Trace heard Red chuckling as he left the stables, but he ignored it. He paused to remove his boots at the front door, freezing a moment to see if he could hear Seth. But then, noticing the time, he knew his son would be down for his morning nap.
A quick knock on the office door was all the warning he gave before walking in. “I’m informed by Lover Boy you have some errands for the gimp to run.”
“Yup.” Without looking up, Peyton held up a sheet of paper. “This stuff is piled in a corner of the storage barn. Grab one of those big boxes and fill it up, then run it to the animal shelter. If you make a quick pit stop to the feed store for the things at the bottom of that list, I’d appreciate it.”
The animal shelter? “We’ve got an animal shelter?”
“Morgan started the ball rolling on that little venture about four years ago. Runs mostly on donations. Whenever we’ve got blankets too worn for the horses, we pass them on. They cut them down to puppy-appropriate sizes.” She frowned and keyed a few more figures into her spreadsheet of doom. “And a few other things they ask for from time to time.”
“Got it.” Easy enough. And just like Morgan to see a need and go filling it. He’d guess the place never lacked for donations. People loved the Brownings, and they adored Morgan. Always had. Now that he was a respected vet, and likely worked for every family in the surrounding area, he must have a whole host of donors.
He was still reading the list as he slipped his boots back on. Otherwise, he would have seen the danger he stepped into.
“Trace!”
Bea hustled up the front steps, her heels clattering noisily over the old wood. “You heading into town? I’m dying to get out of here for a while.”
Aw, shit. “I’ve just got two quick errands and that’s it. It’s not a shopping trip.”
“Where are you going?”
“Animal shelter.” That’d shut her up.
Instead, to his shock, her eyes lit with excitement. “Oh, puppies!” She grabbed a bag hanging from the nearby hook and shooed him. “Go. Let’s go. The dogs await.”
“I thought you hated animals.”
“Puppies are not animals,” she said, staring at him like he was an idiot. “Puppies are adorable little balls of fluff that melt into you. Plus, it can’t hurt to play with them for a while, can it? They’re all caged up in there like fuzzy puppy jail. And now I have that awful, sad Sarah McLachlan song stuck in my head.”
His own head was starting to hurt. “I’m just dropping off a donation, Bea.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t mind some help, would you?”
He watched as she struggled over the dirt path in her heels. The white of her capri pants was already turning dusty. “It’s old blankets and junk. You wanna carry an old blanket?”
“The puppies need blankets? I’ll carry a blanket.”
He shoved open the large sliding metal door leading to the storage. “You asked for it.”
Jo’s heart added an extra beat into its rhythm when the door opened and Trace walked in. She wasn’t used to seeing him in the daylight, but the sight added another memory to her store. His jaw was freshly shaven, and his dangerously good looks were . . . not downgraded exactly. He was still sinfully handsome. But the edge of illicitness was gone. More boy next door, less dangerous to make out in a dark corner.
She smiled, doing her best to mask the jolt she felt at the sight of him. “Hey, stranger.”
“Hey back.” He settled down at the bar and looked her over. “You look good.”
“Ditto.” She tossed a coaster in front of him. “Drink, lunch or both?”
“Water, and I’ll be ordering lunch in a second. I’m just waiting for . . .” He trailed off and glanced at the door as it opened again. “That.”
Jo remembered Bea Muldoon—Trace and Peyton’s youngest sister—as she glided through the door. There was no other word for it. Some women wore heels like they were born to wear them, and Bea was one of them. Jo watched, amused, as several male heads turned and followed her every move, the gentle sway of Bea’s hips as she walked up to join her brother at the bar. Normally, Jo would call it practiced, and respect the dedication to the art. But Bea made it look as natural as breathing.
Bea patted her brother’s shoulder, then looked horrified at herself. “I need to go wash my hands, repeatedly. Jo, sweetie, do you have any lye soap, or maybe a sand blaster back there?”
That’s one of the things Jo loved about Bea. She immediately treated you like her best friend. As someone who moved around often, she’d been grateful to meet people like Bea. “Sorry, just regular soap and paper towels, though they might be rough enough to qualify as low-grade sandpaper.”
Bea sighed and headed in that direction. “It’ll have to do.” She didn’t look around to notice if others were staring as she walked to the bathroom. But they were.
Trace laughed. “She’s just pissy because she had to get a little dirty. All for a good cause, though. And I did warn her. Not my fault she didn’t take me seriously.”
Jo set the glass of water down on the coaster. “What in the world did you drag her into?”
“Drag? Hell, she jumped at the chance. I think she’s bored at home.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “She probably needs to get out more, see a few friends. But she claims nobody around here gets her.”
Jo sympathized. “Years away from home will do that to you sometimes.”
“Didn’t happen to me,” Trace rationalized. Then his face brightened. “Hey. Two city girls, you might get along. You should hang out.”
“Thanks, but I can get my own date.” She winked at him and started pouring Bea a Diet Coke when she saw the woman walk their way. “I assumed . . .”
“Thank you, God.” Bea gulped down half of it in one very un-Bea-like slurp. “I think I had five pounds of dust coating my tongue.”
“Jesus, Bea, we were in there for less than an hour. And frankly, I had to drag you out.”
“Where’d you go?” Jo couldn’t handle the curiosity any longer.
“The animal shelter,” Trace said. “Went to drop off some donations from the ranch, and Miss Priss here”—he cocked his head toward Bea—“begged to come along.”
“It turned out for the best, didn’t it?” she shot back.
“Not if you keep complaining and whining like a girl.”
“Hey,” both Jo and Bea said simultaneously. Then they laughed.
It felt good, laughing with another woman. She appreciated Amanda’s friendship, but the employer-employee relationship added a complicated line she didn’t want to cross. It held them back from being closer, forming a more permanent bond.
Okay, so maybe Trace was on to something.
“Ready to order, or should I lock the cage door and toss in a rare steak to see who wins?”
“Salad.” Bea scanned the menu quickly. “You can do that, right? Something that doesn’t come with a side of buffalo or cow?”
“Yes, smartass.” Jo grabbed the menu and tossed it on a pile behind her. “You want yours with bacon and three cups of cheese, right?”
Bea stuck her tongue out, but smiled. “If you have a raspberry vinaigrette . . .”
“You get Italian dressing.”
Bea turned to Trace. “The service here is lovely. I can see why you suggested it.”
So it had been Trace who’d brought the siblings to the bar. Jo bit back a smile at that. “You want haute cuisine? Meet up with the other foodies in New York.”
Bea’s eyes fluttered closed and one hand paused dramatically over her heart. “If only.”
Trace handed Jo the menu. “Burger, rare as you can make it. Fries.”
“I like the easy ones.” She punched in the order on the screen and then did her best to keep her distance. Not just out of principle, but because she didn’t want to intrude on the sibling bonding.
Yeah, they bickered like kids squabbling over a toy, but she could tell they loved each other. And they still had some work to do in order to catch up. So she’d give them their space. Besides, she had other customers at the bar, and more than one of them wanted to chat about Gimmie’s closing.
Her standard “It’s too bad, a strong local economy is good for everyone” line was received well enough, with nods and smiles. But inside, every time, she couldn’t help but do a little mental shimmy in response. It wasn’t her fault the bar was closing; it wasn’t as if she’d run the owner out of town. He’d been looking to sell, he didn’t have a buyer, and he wanted to move closer to his brother. No guilt involved.
She glanced up as Bea answered her cell phone. Her rushed tones told her something was up.
Trace gave her a smile and shook his head. “Probably her agent.” Jo took that to mean nothing was really wrong, just Bea being Bea.
A few minutes later, Trace waved her over. “We need to cash out. We’ve got to head back to the animal shelter.”
Moving on autopilot, she printed their ticket. “Don’t tip,” she said as she handed it to him. When he raised a brow, she shrugged. “I’m the owner. Technically, you aren’t supposed to tip the owner.”
“Learn something new.” He handed the trifold back with cash. “Just the same, you did the work so you’ll have to accept the gratuity. Do whatever you want with it.” Before she could argue, he winked and followed Bea out the door.
Just as the door closed behind them, Bea popped her head back in. “Hey, Jo!”
“Yes?”
“We’re going to hang out sometime, okay?”
Jo couldn’t answer before the door closed again.
Pushy bunch, those Muldoons.
Jo found herself looking forward to the next time she ran into either of them.