Along Came a Cowboy (25 page)

I
slip in the door of Coffee Central ten minutes early. I thought about being fashionably late, but I decided I'd rather be manning my battle station when the enemy arrives. Jack waves to me from across the room, and I head that direction and then stop. Someone's already at the table. He turns, and I recognize Ron, who shoots me a rueful smile.

“Mayor Kingsley, nice of you to join us,” I say coolly. It doesn't take a professional detective to figure out who filled Blair in on last night's rendezvous at Chez Pierre. Blair says “reliable source.” I say “snitch,” “fink,” “stool pigeon.” Take your choice.

He chuckles. “I figured I owed you one.”

Jack clears his throat.

“And Jack figured I owed you one, too.”

Before I can speak, Alma comes up holding two coffees. She sets one in front of Ron and leans over expectantly. He gives her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, sweetie.”

“Thanks, sweetie?” I mouth to Jack over their heads.

He grins and shrugs.

“You two want to catch us up on the rodeo details before
the Wicked Witch of the West gets here?” Alma asks as she sits down next to Ron.

“Don't look now, but I think she just flew in,” Ron says.

I'm laughing. I can't help it. “You two are so bad.”

Alma looks indignantly at Blair and her cameraman making their way toward us. “If she thinks she's going to accuse my son of dishonesty and get away with it, she's got another think coming.”

Jack pats the chair next to him, and I sit down. “Tonight we get to just sit back and enjoy the show,” he murmurs. “And possibly feel sorry for Blair.”

I shoot him a puzzled look, and he mouths, “Trust me.”

When Blair approaches the table, she raises an elegant eyebrow. “What have we here?”

“A committee meeting,” Jack volunteers. “Some of our members were able to make it back tonight.”

“Well, in that case”—Blair smiles for the camera—“Shady Grove, let's talk rodeo.”

“Actually, let's talk manners,” Alma says. “And liability.”

Blair whips around so fast I think maybe a hair came out of place. She makes a cut motion across her throat, and the cameraman drops his camera and steps back.

“First of all, we're volunteers, and you
will
treat us with respect, or we'll rescind our permission for you to attend our meetings. Second, if you ever accuse my son or Dr. Donovan of impropriety again, you'll be standing in the unemployment line. Do you understand?”

“Well, I—”

Alma draws herself up, her shoulders back, her chin high, and her eyes leveled on Blair. I feel a little nervous, and she's not even looking my direction. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Blair licks her lips and brushes her hair back
from her face. “May we start filming again?”

Alma shrugs. “You could have filmed that if you'd wanted to. You're the one who told him to cut.”

Blair nods then motions for the cameraman to begin filming again.

Thirty minutes later, we have all the current business taken care of, and I think Blair's cameraman is nodding off. Blair stands. “We're going to go.”

“Come back anytime,” Alma says sweetly.

“Yes, well, we'll see when we can fit it into our schedule.”

When she's gone, I look at Alma and drop my mouth open. “Wow. Where did that come from?”

She laughs. “Years of teaching sixth grade. You learn how to tame bullies.” She looks pointedly at Ron. “Especially the ones you care about.”

Ron blushes. Wait, hold the phone—Ron
blushes
? He reaches over, takes her hand, and looks deep into her eyes. I hold my breath, sure I'm going to hear our crusty mayor declare his undying love for Alma Westwood. What comes out is no less proof of the taming of Ron Kingsley. “Alma, honey, can I get you some more coffee?”

When I get home from Coffee Central, I call Lark. As much as I'd like to, I can't put it off any longer.

“Saw you on ‘Get Real, Shady Grove,' ” she says first thing.

“Yep. We were at Chez Pierre.”

“I wish I'd had you give them a piece of my mind while you were there.”

“Really?”

“They fired Sheila because she was having some morning sickness.”

“Really?” I know I sound like a broken record, but I don't know what to say.

“She'll find something else soon.” A worried tone creeps into her voice. “I think.”

“One of the waitresses mentioned her.”

“That's odd.”

“Well, I brought her name up actually. I just asked if she worked there.”

“I bet they were embarrassed. Imagine—firing someone for being pregnant and sick.”

Why is it so hard to tell her this? “The waitress I talked to said Sheila quit.”

“Ha.”

“She was serious. She said Sheila told one of the other girls that she'd found a cushy situation with a family.”

Silence. “I'm sure she misunderstood.”

Oh, what to say?

“Or maybe Sheila did say that to one of the girls to keep from having to admit she was fired.”

“Yeah, maybe. But, Lark?”

“Yes?”

“Be careful.”

“I am.”

“I love you.”

“Love you, too, Rach. I know what I'm doing.”

“I'm praying for you.”

“Thanks. And thanks for calling. I know it wasn't easy to tell me that.”

“No problem. Good night.”

When the connection is broken, I send up a prayer that God would make the truth known in this situation. So easy to pray for Lark.

But what if Jenn is praying the same prayer in her quest?

Fourth of July morning, the sweet aroma of cinnamon prods me to consciousness. In that little space between sleep and awake, I'm back at my parents' house, about to get up and eat some of Tammy's specialty—cinnamon toast.

I stretch and smile as Jenn pops her head into my room.

“Breakfast is served, Aunt Rachel!” Jenn has one of my aprons tied around her small waist.

I throw on my favorite hot pink robe and slide my feet into some slippers.

“It smells delicious. Cinnamon toast, right?”

She nods, her eyes sparkling.

“Just like your mom used to make.”

A few minutes later, I pour myself some orange juice and plop down at the kitchen table.

“I used real sugar on the cinnamon toast.” Jenn grins. “Hope it still tastes okay to you. I hated to ruin perfectly good cinnamon toast with your fake sugar.”

I grab a slice from the plate. “I think once in a while, and in moderation, real sugar is fine.” I take a bite and savor the taste. “And I don't use ‘fake' sugar. What I use is an herbal supplement that happens to sweeten things.”

“That's a matter of opinion.” Jenn sits down beside me and heaps her plate with toast. “So what time should we leave for the lake? What kind of stuff does Shady Grove do for the Fourth of July?”

“Well, let's see. The community picnic starts at five, and then there will be games, music, and, a little while before sundown, the annual canoe race. I think the guys are coming to get us around four so we can get to the park in time to get a
good table.” I wipe my mouth. I won't admit it to Jennifer, but the real sugar tastes delicious. The Pinkies would have a fit if they saw me right now. “Then they'll set off a fireworks display over the lake as soon as it's dark.”

“Are you gonna make me and Dirk stay with you and Jack the whole day?” Jenn finishes one of her slices and looks at me expectantly.

I laugh. According to everyone and his brother, it's time I cut her a little slack where Dirk is concerned. Today might be a good day to try giving her some room. Alone in a crowd, so to speak. “Maybe not the
whole
day. But it would be nice if you guys would at least eat with us, and I think if the four of us team up, we might just win the canoe race.”

The expression on Jenn's face tells me I've just won a million cool points. Now if only I can put my money where my mouth is and let her spend some time with Dirk today without freaking out.

“Besides, you probably want some time alone with Jack anyway, right?”

Oh, now
that
was subtle. Not.

I narrow my eyes. “I don't really consider a community-wide picnic and fireworks display ‘time alone,' but, yes, I am looking forward to our afternoon at the lake.”

Surely the news of my date with Jack at Chez Pierre has blown over by now and people won't think much of seeing us together. Of course, the way things have gone lately, Blair will probably pop up from the bed of the pickup on our way to the lake, microphone in hand, wanting to question us about our rodeo budget. Maybe I should invite Alma to go with us as insurance.

“I guess you're right.” Jenn smirks a little. “Although I'm sure if you wanted to, you could find a way for some time alone.”
Now she looks at me curiously. “Aunt Rachel, how old were you when you had your first kiss?”

Uh-oh. Where did that come from? This conversation is heading in a direction I don't want to go, but I'm not sure there's a good way out of it. At least not one that I can see right now.

“I was a little older than you. Why?” Maybe I'm right to panic at the thought of Jenn and Dirk spending time together.

“No reason, really. I just wondered.” She looks embarrassed. “I'm the only girl in my class who hasn't kissed a boy. I just wondered if I'm normal.”

I reach over and touch her hand. “There's no need to rush into grown-up stuff. You'll have plenty of time for that later.” Like when you're thirty.

“I guess.”

“I think the barrel racing is really coming along well.” There—how's that for a natural segue? Kissing. . .barrel racing. Well, okay, maybe not natural, but we're not talking about kissing anymore, are we? Mission accomplished. I take one last sip of juice and carry my dishes to the sink. “The rodeo's just a month away. Anything in particular you want to work on today?”

She shakes her head. “It's all so much fun! And I think I'm getting pretty good at it. Dirk even thinks I have a chance of winning my category.”

Guess my change of subject wasn't so brilliant after all. At the mention of Dirk so soon after Jenn's curiosity about kissing, I feel myself stiffen. The thought of her falling for a cowboy still makes me sick to my stomach, even if everyone who knows him thinks he's a nice guy.

“We
all
think you have a great chance.” I look at her over my shoulder as I rinse my plate and glass. “Your form is good, and you certainly have the skills. You just need to keep your mind on it. Don't get distracted,” I say pointedly.

“I know, I know.” Jenn rolls her eyes and starts clearing the table. “You've said it a million times.”

I put my juice glass in the dishwasher. “Let's get ready. I know Sweetie will be happy to see you.”

L
ater that afternoon, I lay out a pair of khaki walking shorts and a green polo shirt on my bed. At the last second, I grab a navy shirt and swap it for the green. I don't want Jack to think I'm wearing his favorite color, do I? Wait a minute. Strike that thought. I don't care what Jack thinks.