Chapter Twenty
Salt and pepper shakers. What the hell was that woman talking about? Jesus.
Trace ran a hand over his hair and pulled hard. Infuriating. The entire gender was completely infuriating. Why the hell would she think she wasn’t right for them? Why would she think she was wrong for Seth? She’d done her best watching him; he was still in one piece. Half the time, that’s all Trace ever hoped for on the days when things weren’t meshing. Had she expected him to come back and be pissed off she hadn’t taught his son the alphabet yet?
Seth snorted and shifted positions in the car seat behind him. Trace smiled in spite of his annoyance. The kid was quite the charmer, clearly, if a few hours with Jo sent her running for the hills.
Maybe he should have been more annoyed. Pissed, even. But he couldn’t work up the head of steam to get there. Probably because, despite it all, he knew better. Jo was it for him. He didn’t know quite yet how to convince her of that fact, but they’d get there.
He didn’t need a nanny, didn’t want a stepmom for his son. He wanted a woman for himself. Yeah, she had to be good with Seth, overall. A good person, a mature influence. But she didn’t need to bake bread or know exactly what Seth needed at all times. He didn’t expect her to drop her life and stay home with the kid. He didn’t even expect her to have more babies.
He loved Seth, with all his heart. But he was perfectly fine making Seth his only shot at fatherhood.
So, he’d bide his time. Give her some space. And then he’d calculate the next move.
Jo Tallen was it for him. And whether she wanted to believe it or not right now, she felt the same way about him.
Like hell was he gonna give that up.
Hours later, after he’d put Seth to bed and knew Emma was tucked in for the night, he wandered the house. But it wasn’t enough space. The walls of the big house were closing in on him, like hot breath on the back of his neck. He grabbed his boots by the front door and stepped into them barefooted on the front porch. Just the quick change of atmosphere released a small amount of pressure. So he’d take a quick walk around the property and let loose some steam.
Maybe a long grooming session with Lad would work out some of the kinks in his mind. As he headed in that direction, a figure stepped out of the shadows of the garage and headed with a determined, long-legged stride toward the stable. Trace froze, his mind flashing back to months ago when they’d had break-ins and near-sabotage on their hands, perpetrated by their previous trainer, Sam Nylen.
But there was no way that figure was male. In fact . . .
He nearly bit his tongue. That was Bea. He’d bet his favorite boots on it. What the hell was his sister doing, walking around in the dark?
He stayed in the shadows. She didn’t even notice him as she crept into the barn and down the long corridor. He risked a peek around the door and saw her handling his tack. What the hell! But instead of Lad, she chose another horse—Lover Boy—to saddle. He’d figured Bea couldn’t saddle a horse if someone ordered her to at gunpoint, but she was proving him wrong. Her hands worked quickly and efficiently, and she didn’t flinch at the weight of the heavy saddle.
He didn’t question why she chose his tack. Peyton’s would be way too short, and she’d have reservations about using one of the hands’ things. So, by default, his won out. He ducked out moments before she turned to lead Lover Boy out the wide double doors. She paused long enough to swing easily into the saddle, no grunts or whining or moaning about chipped nails. And she was off, setting a natural pace and moving in the saddle like she was born to it.
He stared, slack-jawed, after her for a minute. How the hell had that happened? When had his Bea-Bea, the self-proclaimed indoor, city girl who hated dirt and thought horses were big, filthy beasts learned to ride?
Not just ride, he corrected. But ride like she’d been doing it for years. No hand had taught her to do all that as fast and efficiently as she had in the few months she’d been back.
Beatrice had been holding out on them. He mused over that—and why she might want to keep her riding a secret—as he walked toward her garage apartment. So maybe he’d wait for her, surprise her when she came back from her ride.
As his boots thundered up the stairs outside the trainer’s apartment she’d taken over, he could hear a whine start. Damn dog. He opened the unlocked door and stepped inside to find the thing wearing . . .
Oh, hell no. Was that dog wearing a robe? Jesus. Trace plopped down on the floor and called the dog over. Milton walked gingerly toward him, as if not sure why a man was in his mother’s apartment.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” He patted his thigh gently. Milton shook and wouldn’t approach. “Fine, I was gonna take that stupid robe off of you but—”
As if he understood, Milton was over by his side in a second, nudging his hand with his nose and silently begging to be released. Trace picked him up and set him on his legs while he unwrapped the robe’s tiny sash and pulled it off the dog’s front two legs.
“A robe,” he muttered, and tossed it at the bed. “There. You’re free. Off you go.”
Milton hopped down and went to lap up some water from his baby blue water bowl. A bowl, he noted, that had crowns all over it. The dog had no chance.
He ignored the soft sounds of Milton’s snort-breathing and heavy lapping and tried to figure out how to get through to Jo. She was freaked out, that was clear enough. And she wasn’t the type to play games. It wasn’t one of those I’m breaking up with you to see if you’ll chase me games some females played. She honestly thought she was a bad deal for Seth.
In his mind, the fact that she considered what was best for Seth at all made her better than most. The sippie cup danced through his thoughts again, and he smiled. He didn’t even mind when Milton’s dripping wet muzzle pushed at his hand to make room for his squat body on his lap. Absently, Trace scratched the dog between his soft, floppy ears.
So he’d give her time. She wasn’t the type to hop from man to man. He had time to make sure the next move he made was the right move.
He was all but asleep on the floor, sitting up, a twenty-pound mutt in his lap, when Bea walked through the door and screamed like someone had stabbed her in the chest.
He jolted awake and sprang to his feet, Milton scrambling under the kitchen table for safety. “What? What the fuck?”
Bea fell back against the door and held a hand over her heart. “Oh, my God. Trace. What the hell are you doing here? You scared me to death.”
Trace ran a hand down his face. “I think the feeling is mutual there. I was just out for a walk, thought I’d stop by and . . . check on you.” He watched her face for any hint of guilt.
She smiled. “That was sweet. But we’re doing fine, aren’t we, Milton? Come here, boy. Come . . . hey. Where’d your robe go?” She searched the floor before she caught sight of it on the bed. “We always wear our robes before bed, Milton.”
Milton flattened himself on the floor, as if trying to sink through it.
“You’re not in your robe,” Trace pointed out. “Hey, where’ve you been, anyway? Are those actually your clothes?”
She looked down at her outfit. Simple brown boots, faded jeans, and a shirt that looked like she’d pilfered it from Peyton’s closet, except it would be too small if that were the case. Which meant it was actually hers. She actually owned clothes that were meant to be worked in, ridden in, dirtied up. The world got stranger and stranger. “Just, you know. Out.” She ignored the second question.
“Out,” he repeated, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. “Walking around?”
“Yeah. You know, fresh air and all that. I forgot what clean air smelled like.” She reached under the table and dragged Milton from his opossum position. The dog’s toes dragged across the linoleum in defiance.
“Need to talk anything out?” he asked. “You know, anything weighing on your mind? Maybe a secret or two you’ve got pent up, want to get off your chest?”
“Of course not. Secrets are so not my thing.” She huffed and looked offended. Damn, she was a good little actress. “And I’ll beg you to remember you’re the one with the secrets, Mister Who’s the Baby’s Mama?”
Point taken. “How are you feeling? Any stiffness?”
Bea rolled her neck to the side. “Not really. I think I’m supposed to feel it tomorrow, or something. I’ll just use it as an excuse to go get a massage.”
He smiled at that. Riding might not have been the best choice the evening after an impressive car wreck. But then again, it was Bea. “You need to make sure to lock your door.”
“You could have stayed out, since I clearly wasn’t here to answer it.”
“But then I wouldn’t have been able to rescue the dog from his fabric prison.”
“Right. My head’s clear now, so we’re ready for bed.” She stared at him, then the door, then back at him again with a raised brow.
“Uh-huh.” He walked over and knuckled the top of Milton’s head. “Keep it real, dude. No more robes.”
“He likes it,” Bea protested, but Trace was already moving down the stairs, head shaking in denial.
As he passed the stable, he slowed and debated stopping in. Then he kept walking, back to the big house and his son. He’d check on his tack in the morning. But he had a feeling it’d be right back where it started, in good working order. Bea was more of a puzzle than he’d originally thought.
But then again, what woman wasn’t?
Stu followed Jo out the door after her shift. “Mail came while you were dealing with the beer rep.”
“Put it in my office, I’ll deal with it tomorrow.” She wanted a hot shower and bed, just like she had the last few days since Trace and Seth had walked out her apartment door. She wasn’t interested in being a Chatty Cathy today. Or any other day in the near future.
If the thought of taking on both father and son scared her so much, and she was past wanting to be with them, why was the opposite hurting just as much? Not being with Trace?
Ignore the pain. It will pass.
She unlocked her door, then turned. “You’re stalking me because . . .”
“Hey, just ’cause you’re in a breakup funk, don’t crawl up my ass.” Stu held out the stack of mail. “You’re gonna wanna read that one on top.”
The letter looked completely innocuous, with a return address in Marshall, but no name or business to identify it. “Why?”
“I expected it.”
Jo walked in, and Stu followed without invitation, closing the door behind him. She ripped open the envelope and pulled out the sheet of official-looking paper. She scanned it and then her head snapped up. “I have a hearing with the city council next week?”
“Yeah.” Stu, making himself at home, wandered into her kitchen and grabbed himself a Coke. “I knew it was coming, so I’ve been watching for it to make sure it didn’t get buried.”
Jo’s hands tightened around the edge of the letter. She managed to relax her grip slightly as she heard the crinkle of paper. “If you knew it was coming, why didn’t you say something?”
“When? As you served customers? Or while you were stomping up to your place after shift? You’ve had the talk to me and die look on your face all week. So, I waited until there was more concrete evidence.”
She couldn’t argue there. Her mood had been foul, and she knew it. Fingering the studs in her right lobe, she examined the page again. “What the hell do I do about this? Do I need a lawyer?”
“For a city council meeting?” Stu laughed and took a swig. “Nah. You’re not in Dallas anymore, remember?”
“I never lived in Dallas,” she murmured, reading the sheet for the third time.
“Whatever. You just show up and plead your case. Bring in people to stand up for you. It’s real informal around here. I mean, shit can get ugly. Don’t mention anything to anyone about the Founder’s Day float incident of ’96.”
Jo stared at him. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. That one drew some blood, and I don’t even mean metaphorically.” Stu killed the can and headed for the kitchen sink and the trash can under the counter. He started out, then doubled back and came out holding the sippie cup she’d bought for Seth. “What’s this still doing sitting around?”
Her heart kicked up a notch, but she shrugged. “Just keep forgetting to toss it.”
“Oh, well, here.” He made to step back to the trash can, but she lunged.
“No!” As her hand closed around the thick plastic, she realized just how pathetic she looked. “I mean, that’s wasteful. It was barely used, you know? I’m sure someone would want it.”
“Uh-huh.” Stu waited while she put the cup back in the kitchen, next to the stove, where she mentally punished herself by seeing it twenty times a day. She was sick. “Maybe you shouldn’t give up on things so easily.”
Jo snorted. “I don’t think it’s giving up to know what you’re good at and what you’re not. It’s called knowing your strengths and running with them.”
“Your parents teach you that?”
“My father, whoever the hell he is, has taught me nothing. My mom, yeah.” Jo sat and started opening mail at random, not even looking at each piece before moving on to the next envelope. “If a marriage wasn’t working out for her, she was gone. New city not turning up any wealthy prospects? Try something else. Why stick with what isn’t working?”
“What’d she do with you?”
“I got dragged along sometimes.” Rip. Tear. Open. Push aside. “Sometimes I ended up in decent boarding schools or private schools or whatever.”
“And you liked that, as a kid?”
“Hated it,” she answered automatically, then cursed herself. “It doesn’t matter. We’re not talking about husband hopping here. This isn’t about my mom. We’re talking about a kid who needs adults in his life who can be there for him and handle childrearing. Who won’t one day wake up and regret having him in their life because they’re over being a parent and want to try some . . . thing . . . new . . . .”
Stu smiled smugly. “This isn’t about your mom, huh? Sounds like you just lapsed there. Mixing up your past and your present.”
“Shut up,” she muttered, then realized she was wrinkling the electric bill. Smoothing it back down, she nodded to the door. “Don’t you have a grill to man?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He stopped by and kissed the top of her forehead. “You know, you’ve got more people in your life you can count on now. People who give a damn and don’t see you as inconvenient. Who want to watch you move up in the world and are willing to give you a boost to get there.”
“Thanks.” She watched him walk out the door, then stood and took the sippie cup from the kitchen. “This is stupid. Why am I keeping this?”
The sippie cup, predictably, didn’t answer.
“You’re not some magical talisman binding me to them. I’m not going to die if I throw you away. They’re not going to die. It’s not like I’ll never see them again, right? Small town. I’ll catch glimpses now and then. And the gossip . . . well, maybe I’ll have to start paying attention. Why am I talking to you again?”
She wasn’t sure, but she thought one of the cowboy boots might have mocked her.
“Whatever.” She slammed the cup back down on the counter and headed for the bathroom. She was losing her mind, all over a fucking cup.
As she ripped off layer after layer of clothing, she acknowledged Stu had a point. Maybe her lack of a normal, steady childhood had something to do with her inability to see herself having a typical, Cleaver-style family. Or some variation thereof. But again, it wasn’t just her who would be screwed if she didn’t listen to her instincts. It was Seth.
Were her selfish desires worth possibly throwing him in the middle of a clusterfuck?