Chapter Seventeen
Trace popped into the kitchen to check on Emma. “Everything going okay in here?”
She shooed him back until his toes were at the edge of the tile. “Out of my kitchen or there’ll be hell to pay.”
He obediently watched as she fluttered around the kitchen, pausing every so often at an appliance or by a cutting board, never in one place for long. Like a bee moving from flower to flower, constantly in motion.
“Is everything going to be ready?”
Emma shook her head. “The boy brings a girl home and acts like suddenly I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“I’m sorry, Emma.” He chanced losing a limb and stepped behind her to kiss her cheek. She scowled, but leaned into the gesture. “I’m nervous, okay?”
“I know. Which is why you’re still breathing while you stand in my kitchen. Out.”
He gave her a grateful smile and headed out, pausing at the doorway to ask, “You sure you won’t eat dinner with us?”
“Buncha young people talking too loud and constantly using those i-whatevers you have attached to your hand all through dinner? I think not.” She wiped a strand of hair back with her wrist, never losing her grip on the butcher’s knife she wielded with expert care. “Besides, who would keep Seth occupied upstairs?”
Good point. “Seth will probably sleep through dinner anyway.” It was one of the main reasons he’d asked Jo to dinner so late in the evening. He wanted a chance to spend time with her on his turf, but knew having a typical family dinner would scare her off. There was nothing like a teething ten-month-old who currently hated his high chair and drooled like he was paid by the ounce to dampen the mood. So it would just be the five of them: Peyton and Red, him and Jo, and Bea.
Bea, of course, had no problem being a fifth wheel. As far as she was concerned, it meant she got more attention. Always a win with little sis.
“If he gets to be too much, just let me know.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “I had you three how many years ago? I know what I’m doing. Now if you want dinner to actually start on time—which is hours too late, if you ask me—you need to go and leave me in peace.”
“Thanks, Emma,” he said and left her to finish up.
He found Red at the dining room table, setting placemats down.
“How’d you end up setting the table?” Trace inched a candlestick to the left, then stepped back. Too far. He inched it the other way.
Red watched him, one brow cocked. “You need a ruler?”
“Do you have—bite me.” He flipped Red off and stepped away from the table before he started rotating all the placemats a quarter turn or some equally ridiculous shit. “Sorry for wanting things to be nice. Not all of us can woo our women in the barn.”
“Takes real skill,” Red agreed. “Maybe someday you’ll be man enough.”
Trace kicked at him, but Red was already out the door and heading toward the living room, laughing.
“What could he possibly have to laugh at?” Peyton strolled in, looking like a hot mess.
“Why haven’t you showered? Jesus, Peyton.” He checked his watch. “She’s going to be here in like ten minutes.”
“Jo’s not stuck up. She won’t care what I look like. It’s just us at home. We’re not carpooling to the Ritz or anything.” She sat down in her usual chair and reached for a carrot from the plate Emma had set out.
He debated slapping her hand away and knew that was too much. “I give up. I’m going to go watch for her. . . .” He listened a moment. “That’s her. Do not embarrass me, or I’ll be forced to break out The Pictures.” The ones from her Rodeo Princess days. Oh, yeah. That was a real threat.
Peyton smiled smugly. “I burned them.”
“Not the copies I hid in my room before I ever left home.” He had the pleasure of watching her face drain of color before he headed to the front door.
He stepped out on the porch and waited for Jo to climb out of her car. She did, a simple skirt flowing around her knees. She adjusted one strap of her tank as she straightened and ran a hand over her hair. Down again, the way he liked it. A river of black silk just begging for his fingers to play with. When she looked up and saw him, she smiled. But the gesture held a hint of wariness that he wanted to erase.
“Hey.” Trace held out a hand and led her up the last two steps. “Welcome to the ranch.”
She glanced around, taking in what little she could see in the last light of day. “I’ve never been here before. Looks huge.”
“It’s a good size, though not the largest in the state by far. Definitely not what we might call huge.” He led her through the front door and waited while she took in the house. He tried to see it through her eyes.
The natural wood and warm tones of the floor clashed with the industrial sculptures and sleek artwork his mother had picked out for the space before her death. Sylvia had insisted that spending money so the place looked as if they were already loaded made them more attractive to prospective clients. Since their father had been little more than a doormat where Sylvia was concerned, she’d let loose a decorator and—in Trace’s mind—ruined the natural appeal of the house.
But it hadn’t been his house to say otherwise. Still wasn’t, no matter what anyone said. Peyton didn’t have an eye for stuff like that, or else she likely would have changed it months ago. Not that they really had the money, anyway.
Maybe if they sold some of that artwork . . .
“The house is awesome. And, just for frame of reference, my first apartment in San Francisco could have fit on your front porch.” She held out a bottle he hadn’t noticed. “This is for you guys. A little nicer vintage than what we normally stock at the bar. Not many wine drinkers in the area, but I thought . . .”
“I love a good white.” Bea sailed—not walked, sailed—down the stairs and enveloped a confused Jo in a hug. Her runt of a dog followed in her wake and sat a short distance off, looking forlorn. Though Trace thought that might just be depression due to the fact that he was wearing a collar designed to resemble a man’s shirt collar and tie. The dog had no dignity left. And why was he even over here? Bea had her own place now. Why didn’t she use it?
“Thank God you’re here. Save me from the testosterone and horse talk. Remind me of my days in civilization. Bring me some city charm.”
“City charm. An oxymoron if ever I heard one.” Peyton lounged in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame. She nodded to their guest. “Hey, Jo.”
“Hey, Peyton.” She smiled and waved, not seeming at all put out by the casual welcome. “Hey, Red.”
“Jo,” Red said, walking up behind Peyton and sliding one arm around her waist. Trace watched as his sister’s face softened just a little, and she leaned back into him. Despite all his initial concerns, he knew they were all but perfect together.
Bea took the wine from her hand. “I’ll just go put this on the table so we can have it with dinner.”
Jo nodded, then looked around a little more. Her eyes caught on something, and he turned to see what had snagged her attention.
Seth’s play gym. He’d done his best to remove reminders of the child from the first floor, to give her some time to breathe and relax. But he’d missed that one. Damn it. He took her arm and steered her toward the dining room.
“Emma’s so glad to have company, she’s probably outdone herself. But she always says that and manages to top herself the next time. She made chicken—you like chicken, right?” He was babbling. Damn it, why did he have to let this build in his mind so much until he all but ruined it with nerves?
Either she sensed his unease or she just naturally knew what he needed. Jo placed a hand on his cheek and leaned in for a slow, sensual kiss. There was heat, but it was a slow burn, not a flash of fire. And it ended too soon as she pulled back and smiled up at him.
“Thanks for inviting me to dinner.”
“Yeah. No problem.” Yeah? No problem? Jesus, he was a regular Casanova. “I’m glad you were able to come out. I worried about you the other night, leaving you to deal with that mess.”
“What mess?” Peyton walked in, passing them on the way to the kitchen.
“Just a customer giving us a little trouble.” Jo waved it off and sat in the chair he held out for her.
Red waited for Peyton to return and held out her chair as well. Peyton paused, an amused smile on her lips. “We should have company over more often. I could get used to this kinda treatment.”
He bent down and bussed her lips, using the opportunity to slap her playfully on the ass. “Get in the chair, woman.”
Peyton slid easily into her seat and leaned over to stage-whisper at Jo, “He knows I love it when he plays caveman. If you stick around long enough after dinner, you might get to watch the clubbing before he drags me—”
“Dinner!” Emma called out cheerfully, backing into the dining room carrying a platter.
“Thank you, God,” Trace muttered, and shot his sister a look. One that his sister knew meant Don’t ruin this for me.
She smiled brightly and winked. “Sure you don’t wanna stay, Emma?”
“I’ve got a date tonight with Matlock reruns and that handsome fella upstairs.” She patted the table next to the platter. “Enjoy!”
“What was the trouble?” Bea took her seat and accepted the bowl of peas Red passed her. She spooned some on her plate, still watching Jo. “Nothing serious, I hope?”
“I don’t think so.” Jo took a slice of bread. “A patron left our place, somehow managed to drink until he was intoxicated somewhere else, then drove into the side of a building.”
“The Peckinpaugh house.” Red nodded. “Heard about that this morning when I went into the feed store. J. J. Effingham was drunk as a lord when they got on scene. Though that might have been what saved him, since he was so relaxed when he crashed. His body didn’t have a chance to tense up. A relaxed body doesn’t get hurt as badly as a tense one.”
“But nobody was seriously injured?” Peyton asked.
“No. Only now . . .” Jo glanced down at her plate as if trying to debate how far to go. Then she shrugged and reached for her glass to hold out to Trace. “Now he’s claiming I’m the one who gave him the alcohol. The implication is that I plied him with drinks until he didn’t realize how drunk he was, and then I made him feel like he had to drive home by not getting him a cab.”
“What a jerk!” Bea held her own glass out for wine. “Thanks, bro. That sneaky bastard. What’s the kid’s name again? We should send Trace and Red out there to beat him up.”
“What is this, West Side Story?” Red laughed. “You can’t just send us out like thugs whenever you’re mad at someone, Bea.”
She huffed. “What’s the point of brothers—pseudo-brothers included—if they won’t play muscle for you?”
“Poor thing,” Peyton whined sarcastically. “The world is against you.”
Bea turned her shoulder to Peyton and stared directly at Jo. “The police understand your side of things, right?”
“Well . . .”
Trace felt the stirrings of something cold in his blood. “This isn’t causing trouble, is it?”
Jo sighed. “No. I’m handling it. Nothing a few receipts and some witnesses can’t fix.”
“I know the Effinghams a little,” Peyton said, staring at her glass for a moment. “Not well, of course. God knows I wouldn’t be running in the same circle as the parents, and J. J. was too young for me to be in school with. But they’re all over the town. On every committee or board that pops up.”
“Sounds like they could cause some trouble,” Trace said easily, though he wanted to wring the kid’s neck.
“They’re the kind of parents who think their kid can do no wrong. Or, if they see the wrong, they’ll step in to minimize the damage to save face.” Peyton shrugged. “Appearances, you know. She might have gotten along with mama, if Sylvia wasn’t a drunk. Same theory on the appearance bit.”
There was silence around the table. Mentioning their mother in such a casual way was a new thing for them all. Then Red spoke. “If you need something, Jo, let us know.”
“Thanks.” She smiled widely. “So, Bea, what’s going on this week in the land of the soaps?”
Bea launched into her favorite topic—other than herself—and kept the conversation moving at an easy pace with funny quips about evil twins, faked suicides, and hidden jewels. But it was minutes before Jo relaxed. Trace reached under the table and found her knee, squeezing lightly in a reassuring gesture. Her leg inched toward his, brushing lightly against him.
He resisted the urge to pull that caveman stunt Peyton had accused Red of not ten minutes earlier.
But it was a near thing.
Jo resisted the urge to lick the dessert plate. Instead, she scooted the plate toward the center of the table. “That was amazing. Emma is a genius.”
“Which she never lets us forget.” Peyton winked. “Ask anyone. Emma runs this place, hands down. We couldn’t function without her.”
“Wouldn’t want to,” Trace put in. “She practically raised us. And we weren’t an easy trio.”
“Speak for yourself. I, for one, was an angel.” Bea batted her lashes.
Peyton coughed into her napkin, “Bullshit.”
The angelic moment was shattered when Bea shot her sister two middle fingers.
“Ah, sibling love.” Jo sighed and rested her elbows on the table. “I never got to experience this. How about you, Red?”
“Nope. Only child here, too. Gotta say, walking into this family was an eye-opener.”
Peyton elbowed him. “A good one, right?”
Red exaggerated a wince that made Jo smile. “Of course, sweetheart. A great one. A brilliant eye-opener.”
Trace gagged a little.
“Oh, please. Like you two aren’t adorbs over there,” Bea accused. “Just bring Seth down and you’d be the cutest little fam . . . ily. . . .” she ended lamely, realizing her mistake a beat too late.
There was a moment when the only sound was the huffing of Bea’s little dog-child panting under the table.
“Well, this was great,” Peyton said, pushing back from the table. “We should do it again. Jo, you need to come during the day so you can get the full tour. Do you ride?”
“Ride? A horse? I’m more of a subway kinda gal, myself.”
“We’ll get you up on one. Everyone learns to love it. Except that one,” she added with distain, pointing at Bea.
Red gave Bea a look Jo couldn’t quite interpret, then reached over and started gathering plates. “It’s our KP night. So you guys are free to escape.”
“We’re free! We’re free! Come on, Milton. Let’s go watch whatever’s on the DVR.” Bea sauntered out toward the living room without a backward glance. The dog trotted behind her, tiny legs working furiously to keep up with Bea’s mile-long stride. The tinkle of his tags, like a bell, made Jo smile.
“That dog is something else.”
“I’m still not sure it is a dog, frankly.” Trace looked disgusted at the whole thing, which made Jo swallow a laugh. “But she loves that damn animal. I don’t have the heart to tell her no dog likes getting dressed in the morning and . . . accessorizing.” He broke out the air quotes for that last one and shuddered.
She started to crack a joke, but broke off when he glanced around her.
“Sorry, hold on a sec.” He rubbed her arm and walked around her and up to the stairs. “Yeah?”
“Sorry.” Emma’s voice, unnaturally soft, came back. “But he’s having a hard time going back down and I thought maybe you could just give him five minutes. But if not, I—”
“I’ll be right there.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I didn’t wanna play Daddy tonight but needs must.”
“Go, it’s fine.” It made her smile a little that he didn’t hesitate to drop her like a hot potato because his son needed some cuddle time. She might not get it from a maternal standpoint, but she did know it made him a good man.
A good man deserved a chance, didn’t he? Was she tossing the, well, the man out with the baby and the bathwater?
She took a breath and held it, listening. Footsteps above, and they sounded like they were moving in a circle. Curiosity tugged at her, and she tried hard to battle it back.
But then, damn it, she heard what she thought was the start of a lullaby, and she couldn’t resist. Taking the stairs slowly, trying not to creak, she snuck up the steps. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but it felt as if she’d left one house and entered another. The sleek, modern artwork and showroom quality furniture had given way to a simple, comfortable, lived-in family room. The carpet was a beige shag, the couches were a dark brown, and there was a flat screen hung on one wall. From the top of the stairs, she could count several doors. Some to bathrooms, she assumed, others to bedrooms. Pausing, she waited to hear more of the song Trace crooned to his son.
Emma’s silver-tipped head popped over the top of the couch, nearly startling Jo into falling back and tumbling down the stairs. The woman’s grin was infectious, and she tilted her head toward the door with a sliver of light peeking through the opening.
Jo took this for an invitation and crept over to the door, pushing it open just a little. And what she saw made the breath catch in her throat.
Trace walked the floor with his son over one shoulder. The little boy looked sad, almost angry, but he was quiet. One fist was up by his mouth, the fingers red and a little wet as if he’d been sucking or biting on them. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes watchful. They caught sight of her before Trace did. The boy struggled against Trace’s hold, twisting to watch her.
Trace glanced over and saw her.
“Sorry,” she mouthed and started to step back. But he shook his head and motioned her in.
Frozen, Jo tried to move—pick a direction and just go!—but she couldn’t. Couldn’t step back, couldn’t move in. She was completely tied to the doorway, as if unable to make a choice one way or the other.
Sensing her problem, Trace walked over and held out the hand not cradling the boy to his shoulder. “He’s fine, just a little cranky. Another tooth coming in.”
“Ah,” she said, as if that made any sense to her at all. But when he took her hand, she let him lead her into the room.
“Seth,” he said quietly, turning so the boy faced her over his shoulder, “this is Jo. Remember her? You scared her at the grocery store last week.”
“He did not,” she whispered back. Seth watched her with big eyes, exactly like Trace’s deep blue ones. He was a miniature of his daddy. In twenty years, he’d be beating women off with a stick.
Or not. She smiled at that and tentatively reached up. His little fuzzy head, with wisps of dark hair curling around his ears, begged to be smoothed over. Then she snatched her hand back. Not her kid. Not hers to touch.
“It’s okay,” Trace murmured. “He likes the attention.”
Once more, she lifted her hand and let it smooth from the boy’s forehead down to his back. She was going on instinct, mostly. Seth moved into the caress, like a faithful dog wanting another scratch behind the ears. Okay, maybe she shouldn’t be comparing someone’s baby to a dog, but she was adrift on the whole kid thing.
“Hey, Seth,” she said softly. “I hear you’re not having fun with a tooth. I’m sorry to hear that.”
Between Trace’s gentle sway and the soft words, it seemed Seth struggled to keep his eyes open.
“You look a lot like your daddy, you know.” She glanced up to see Trace watching her. “Lucky for you, he’s a handsome guy. So it seems like you scored the genetic lottery on that one.” Taking a chance, she let one fingertip trail down his forehead, between his eyes to land on the tip of his nose with a near-imperceptible touch.
The touch seemed to soothe him, and he closed his eyes, nestling one ear against his father’s shoulder, and smiled a little. Or maybe it was gas. Jo couldn’t help but smile back. He was so darn cute, all snuggly and bundled up in his cowboy pajamas with feet meant to look like boots. What kind of woman could resist the picture these two men made?
“He’s pretty calm now. You want to hold him?”
And then the spell was broken. She stepped back, knocking into a table holding a lamp. She managed to reach back and grab the lamp before it crashed to the floor, but the damage was already done. Seth’s head jerked up, and his lower lip quivered.
Shit.
“I’m gonna get going.” She backed up, rapped her elbow on the open door and cursed under her breath. Then louder, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. I’m gonna . . . thanks for dinner.”
The sound of Seth’s wail and Trace calling her name chased her down the stairs. Bea poked her head up from the living room couch and called to her as well, but Jo didn’t even bother waving.
Escape. It was the only thing she could think of. Escape the domestic bliss she’d nearly slid into like a comfortable pair of sweatpants. No. No, no, no. Not her thing. And she’d almost forgotten. She didn’t do the kid thing. She was nobody’s stepmother.
Damn it. How had she let herself be lured into that?
She settled her bag on the passenger seat and started the car. She waited for one moment, then two, but realized what she was doing and forced herself to back up and turn around in the dirt road. She didn’t need Trace chasing after her. And waiting for him to come down behind her smacked of manipulation.
So back to the drawing board. It annoyed her she hadn’t seen this coming. Hadn’t realized the two males together—one big, one little—would hit her so hard. Make it so easy to forget what she needed in life, what she wanted.
Back to just using each other for sex, she supposed. It wasn’t a bad idea, over all. But now it felt a little hollow. A little shallow compared to what she’d just left.
What she’d just left wasn’t for her. She was a bar owner who lived alone and liked it. The end.
She just had to keep repeating that to herself.