Bucking the Rules (17 page)

She shrugged. “I don't know. I didn't follow him.”

“He also says, you plied him with beer, encouraging him to drink. Made him believe he was less intoxicated than he was.”

“Say what?” She shot off the cooler, causing the beer bottles to rattle. “What, like I funneled his beer while he was fighting me off?”

“Nothing so dramatic, ma'am.” The officers glanced at each other, as if silently asking each other how to approach the bear, and how long a stick they should use when poking.

“Just tell me how nondramatic it was, please.”

Officer Nelson tried again. “It simply appears as though his story and yours don't quite . . . match.”

Officer White added, “He says you served him several beers—he doesn't remember how many. Then he got in his car and drove off.”

The little piece of shit. “Do you want his receipt? He paid cash but—”

“That'd help, yes. But he also mentioned the beer was on the house, as you two were close friends. And when he asked if you would call a cab, you encouraged him to drive home, as he was”—the officer glanced at the pad—“just fine to drive.”

The
big
piece of shit. Drinks on the house wouldn't show up anywhere. “All I can say is, that's not true. He had one beer, a Bud, which I served him and he paid for, and that was it. I stepped into the kitchen as his meal was being served, and when I came back out, he was gone, his pint glass was empty and his meal was untouched. What he did after leaving here, I don't know. But I do not over-serve my customers. I never have, and I never will.”

When Officer Nelson pulled back a little, she realized she'd advanced until her palms were slapped down on the bar. Great way to uphold the image of respectable business owner. Charge cops just doing their job like a bull seeing red.

Relaxing her stance, she gave them an easy smile. “Is there anything else I can help you gentlemen with?”

White looked up and around a little. “Any cameras inside?”

“I've got two inside, but they're focused on the front and back door. Nothing trained on the dining area or bar.”

“Hmm.” He drummed his fingers on the bar, then scooted the stool back and stood. His partner did the same. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Tallen.”

“Jo, please.” The formality worried her. People around here didn't
do
formal.

She showed the officers out the door, then locked it. There was nobody else in the bar, and it was only a little before nine.

“Bad news bears?” Amanda poked her head around the corner of the kitchen door.

“I wouldn't say that. Not great news, either.” Her hand curled into a fist against her heart. “That little rat bastard tried to blame me for his drunk-driving problem. I can't believe it.”

“I can.” Amanda shrugged. “Sorry, I didn't think you wanted to hear anything negative about the guy. You seemed like you were getting along with him. And not in the sexy, giddy up cowboy way you are with Trace.”

Jo rolled her eyes and headed toward the bar, then froze. “Why is it so quiet in here?”

“Because we're closed?” Amanda said slowly.

Stu peeked around. “Because Amanda sent the other servers home an hour ago.”

“Oh. Okay then.” She would have given Amanda a small lecture on taking such action when she wasn't technically a manager . . . but tonight her decision was fortunate. Fewer people to see her talking to the cops. Even though she was innocent, it never did any good for business to be associated with the po-po.

“So now what?” Amanda grabbed a take home cup and filled it with ice and diet soda. “Are we going to court?”

“What? No. Calm down, Judge Judy. We gave our side of the story. And our side includes a receipt that shows he ordered exactly one beer.”

“Or, shows we only charged him for one beer.” Stu followed in Amanda's footsteps, getting a diet soda for himself as well. Apparently, he was watching his liquid calories. “Which could look just as bad, if not worse.”

“Mary Sunshine, not helping.” She reached for a take home cup herself, filled it with ice, a little soda, then stepped on a stool to find the good stuff on the top shelf, Jack Daniels. “Hello, Jack. I've missed you.”

“Ditto.” Amanda held up a cup, but Jo shook her head.

“Hell, no. You're getting in your car soon and there is no way I'm giving you a drop.”

“One shot won't . . . ah. Right. Well, sucks to be me.” She tipped her cup in acknowledgment. “But you can't keep everyone who comes in here from drinking. How are you going to play this?”

“Play what?”

“The nasty ju-ju. Negative press. The bad rap. The—”

Stu nudged her with an elbow. “She gets it.”

“Yes, she does,” Jo said sullenly. “I thought being an outsider was bad enough. People still aren't sure what to make of me. Now I have to add in
I don't over-serve immature twenty-two-year-old man-children
to the list of things to make clear?”

“Afraid so.” Amanda sipped. “I'll vouch for you, but that might not be enough. I've got a financial stake in seeing you pull through this. You're my meal ticket.”

“Same here,” Stu put in. “You could look back at the receipts of anyone who was here eating dinner when he was. See if the cops would talk to them and get their take. It's usually memorable when idiots drink too much. If other customers can at least acknowledge he looked no worse for the wear, it couldn't hurt your side.”

“No, it couldn't. Good call.” Though she remembered just how empty the bar had been at that point in the day. Witnesses would be few and far between. But few was a better number than zero. “I'll look into it.”

“Now on to the good stuff.” Amanda leaned in, elbows on the bar, chin in her hands. “Has Trace talked to you yet?”

“You're relentless.” Might as well get it over with. “Okay, fine. Yes, he talked to me. Yes, we worked it out, sort of. And yes, we're still an item. But I don't want to share more. We are what we are, and I'm comfortable with that. We're not pushing to be more, and we're not going to make a big deal about it. Right?” She shot Amanda a hard look.

Unfazed, the other woman smiled, catlike. “Did he convince you in bed? Was it a wrestle to the death?”

“Let's pretend you didn't ask that, and we can move on.”

“Thank you,” Stu grumbled.

“How are you going to handle the baby?”

Jo's eyes closed at the reminder. Ugh. “Yeah, I'm not sure yet. We're sort of... ignoring that elephant in the room. At least for now. That won't last forever, but I'm hoping things will be clearer when we reach that stage.”

“Good idea.” Stu nodded. “Single parent dating can't be easy. Don't wanna introduce the kid to every woman who comes by. If you're taking time to get to that point, it can't be anything but good.”

“Yeah.” She didn't know how to explain the whole
wait and see
thing wasn't just for the kid's benefit, but hers as well. But hey, if this approach made her look mature and capable, then she'd grab it.

“Oh!” Amanda's eyes lit up. “Oh, my God, I totally just remembered! This is perfect. Now you can find out who the mystery mama is.”

“The . . . no. I'm not even going to ask.” Jo sipped her doctored soda and sighed. Jack Daniels, the best man of all.

“I'll tell you anyway. Trace went off to do the rodeo thing, and we all watched from a distance. Marshall is very proud of our local cowboys when they go off and do their own thing, you know.” She puffed up a little with town pride. “But he didn't come back all that often, so any news we got about Trace was either through the circuit, or from Peyton. And then one day, poof. He's just back, seemingly for good. Only now, he's got a kid. Which is so weird, because he did not at all seem like the type to play doting daddy.” Her eyes went a little soft. “But from the few reports I've heard, they say he's actually really good at it.”

“None of that sounds mysterious,” Stu pointed out.

“Shush, I'm building. So anyway, we expected to see some buxom blonde trailing behind him any day. But a week went by, then two, and no sign of the kid's mom. So delicate inquiries were made, and it appears nobody knows who the kid's mother is. Not even his family. Or if they do, they're completely quiet about it.”

“Does it matter who the mother is?” All this intrigue over one man and his son. It boggled her big city mind.

“Well, no,” Amanda conceded. “But I'd just like to be the first—or second, or even third—to know. Spill.”

Jo smiled a little wicked smile. “My lips are sealed.”

“So unfair!” Amanda posed with a pout, then shrugged one shoulder. “Oh, well. If you need someone to unload your burdens to, my phone is always with me.”

“Uh-huh,” Jo said dryly. “I'll remember that. Now scoot. I'm closing up.” Amanda stood, and Jo gave Stu a pointed look. “You, too, big guy. I appreciate the support, but as Semisonic said, it's closing time.”

Amanda started humming the tune as she grabbed her purse and walked out the door. “See ya later!”

Stu waited a moment more, then bent down to buss her cheek. “Call me if you need some muscle. Or call Trace. He's a cocky son of a bitch, but he'll watch out for you.”

“Thanks.” She patted his arm and followed him to the door. “But I'm a big girl. I can watch out for myself.”

“I know you can, but nobody's got panoramic vision. Having someone there to watch your back isn't a weakness, it's a strength.” With a wink, he left her alone in the bar.

A strength . . . to depend on someone? She just couldn't wrap her mind around that one. If you needed anyone but yourself, you were that much weaker, weren't you?

Jo scrunched her eyes shut and massaged her temples. The end of a long day was definitely not the time to get philosophical. It was the time to get drunk.

She reached for the best man in her life, Jack Daniels. Jack could watch her back any day.

T
race 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.”