Night Thunder (6 page)

“Thanks. Actually, though, the house is the least of my worries at the moment. I’m about to get married without a wedding gown.” A sweep of forceful May wind danced around them. “I swear if I don’t have a nervous breakdown before this wedding, it’ll be a miracle. I honestly think Roberta’s going to kill me if I don’t get her my list for the shower.”

“She does sound pretty desperate.”

“I’ve got to get caught up—I don’t mean to make it hard on her. I really appreciate her throwing the shower for me. Actually Roberta and Ada are hosting it together—it’s going to be at Ada’s house. Sweet of them.”

Josy stopped walking.
Ada’s house.
Ada Scott? She shifted, trying to relax her suddenly tense shoulders. “Who’s Ada?” she asked, trying to sound no more than casual. But she held her breath as Corinne replied.

“Oh, sorry. Ada’s the woman I told you about—she works the cash register at Bessie’s Diner. Bessie Templeton owns the place and Ada—Ada Scott—is her best friend. Roberta works with both of them, and with Bessie’s granddaughter, Katy Brent, who helps out once in a while and does the books. They’ve all become really good friends of mine in the past year or so.”

“So . . . it’s Ada and Bessie who are away in Las Vegas?” Josy asked slowly. “Roberta told me they were away, but she didn’t mention their names.”

“Yes, that’s right. Actually, they’re coming home tomorrow. And if I don’t have the invitation list ready by then, Ada will be on my case too.” She laughed. “I’d better get my act together. Look, I don’t know if this working vacation of yours includes socializing or not, but my boss, Elam Lowell, over at the Tumbleweed Bar and Grill, is throwing a good-bye party for me there tonight. I’ve been waitressing there for years, but now that Roy and I are getting married, I want a day job, so he and I can spend all of our evenings together. So I’ll be working weekdays at Roy’s real estate office. Tonight’s my last night at the Tumbleweed. Want to come?”

“Oh . . . thanks . . . but . . .”

“Think about it.” Corinne smiled, and gave a small shrug. “No big deal. If you want to get out, have a few drinks, meet some people, come on by. I’ve got to run over and meet Roy at the office real quick, but . . . maybe I’ll see you later.”

“Yes, maybe. Thanks.” Josy stared after her as Corinne stamped out her cigarette and hurried down the street.

So. Corinne’s Ada is my Ada. Ada Scott. And she’ll be
home from Las Vegas tomorrow,
Josy mused as she walked slowly back up Main Street.
If she hadn’t been
away, I might have met her today in Bessie’s Diner. Right
off the bat . . .

The imminent prospect of coming face-to-face with her grandmother filled her with a strange mix of emotions—excitement, curiosity, and . . . reserve. Once she did meet Ada, she’d need to decide if she should tell the woman who she was—or if she should just keep her distance and eventually leave Thunder Creek as her mother apparently had years ago, never having reached out to make contact.

After I meet her, I’ll decide,
she told herself. Right now, with Ada away, all she could do was take things one step at a time.

Today she needed to buy groceries and toiletries and linens for the apartment. And she had to find a library.

She walked along Thunder Creek’s main street until she reached Lucy’s Grocery and Drugs, where she stocked up on crackers, peanut butter, Rice Krispies, and other essentials. While checking out, she asked the gangly young boy working the cash register where the nearest Wal-Mart might be found. “Casper,” he told her without hesitation.

“And is there a library in Thunder Creek?”

Sure, but it was only open three days a week—Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

“How do I find it?” she asked as he handed over the second bag of her groceries.

“Uh, Miller Road, a quarter mile west of town, near the high school,” he mumbled, his gaze shifting to the two teenage girls in halter tops and shorts who’d just entered the store, giggling.

“Does it have a computer?”

“Yep. A computer and a printer. Wood and Tammie Morgan donated ’em both last year.”

She breathed an inward sigh of relief. She’d be able to get in touch with Ricky easily after all. Tomorrow was Wednesday—she’d go to the library and send him an e-mail. With any luck, he’d read it within a few days and let her know when he’d be coming to get the package.

Ever since she’d landed in Salt Lake City, a part of her had itched to rip open the package and see what was inside. But that impulse wasn’t nearly as powerful as the part of her that didn’t want to know. The part that hoped Ricky would show up and take it off her hands before she had to know—and deal with—whatever was inside— whatever had cost Archie his life.

She pushed away the unspoken worry in her mind— that something could have happened to Ricky already. That he hadn’t gotten away as she had. That there’d be no answer to her e-mail. And that he wasn’t coming for the package at all . . .

Those thoughts made her throat tighten and the muscles of her neck clench, but she did her best to ignore them and decided to concentrate on the positive.

Thunder Creek had a library. And a computer. And very friendly people. So far, so good.

She’d just take it one step at a time.

She was hugging both bags of groceries to her chest as she headed back to the gas station, when a red pickup cruising past suddenly braked against the curb and a lean, sandy-haired young cowboy wearing a broad smile, a green polo shirt, and worn jeans jumped out.

“Those bags look heavy. Can I give you a hand?”

He looked like he was in his early twenties, with hazel eyes, a lean jaw, and the fresh-off-the-range handsome-ness of a model in a Ralph Lauren ad.

“No thanks, I’m good.” She strolled past him without slowing her steps. “My car’s at the gas station, right over there—”

“All the way over there? Then, c’mon, let me help you.”

“I don’t think so.”

He was following her, his muscular arms spread wide. “I promise not to run off with your groceries. And if I do, we have a crackerjack sheriff here in Thunder Creek and he’ll get them back for you. You can give him my description.”

She had to laugh. He had a killer grin and a Western drawl and his words brought a reluctant smile to her lips.

Her arms
were
aching a bit. Oh hell, why not?

“All right, but I have your face memorized. If you hightail it out of town with my Rice Krispies, the law will be after you before you can say snap, crackle, pop.”

A crack of laughter boomed from his chest as she passed him the bags. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, ma’am. I’m a Wheaties kind of guy.”

Obviously,
she thought, as he snaked those muscled arms around the grocery bags. Only a blind woman wouldn’t have noticed biceps that impressive.

“I’m Chance Roper,” he said easily as he fell into step alongside her. “I’m a ranch hand at the Crystal Horseshoe Ranch. Let me guess—you’re one of our guests staying out at the private cabins, right? If you were staying in the main house, I’d definitely remember you.”

“I’m afraid you’re wrong on both counts. Here we are.”

“This bucket of bolts is yours?” He was eyeing the Blazer as if it had just crawled out of the junk heap on one cylinder. His glance immediately flipped back to her and she almost laughed, knowing he was trying to reconcile her fancy sandals and cool jeans with the beat-up, semi-rusted car.

“She’s mine all right. Good old Nellie.” She reached out for the bags with an amused smile. “I’ll take those now. Thanks—”

“Hold on, let me put ’em in for you.”

When the groceries were stored in the backseat of the Blazer, Chance Roper stood there another minute, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “You’re not a tourist, then? Just driving through?”

“I’m staying on a bit. But not at the Crystal Horseshoe.”

“A mystery woman, huh?” He grinned. “Maybe I could buy you a drink sometime? Like tonight?”

“I don’t think so.” He was persistent, she had to give him that much. Charming, sweet, and persistent. But she wasn’t here to date cowboys, or anyone else for that matter. Of course he had no way of knowing that, she told herself. Or of knowing that for her, right now,
date
was a four-letter word.

“How long are you staying around?”

“I’m not sure.” She met his gaze squarely. “Look, thanks for the help, but I have to go pay for my new tire and I have a lot of settling in to do—”

He held up a hand good-naturedly. “Sure. Don’t say another word. I’m outta here.” He tipped his wide-brimmed cowboy hat at her. “See you around . . . uh . . . what did you say your name was?”

She did laugh then. She couldn’t help it. You had to admire—or despise—a guy who wouldn’t give up. But Chance Roper seemed too genuinely nice for anyone to despise.

She caved.

“Josy. Josy Warner.”

His smile was nearly as wide as his hat brim. “I’ll see you around, Miz Warner.”

As he swung off toward his pickup, whistling, Josy could only wonder if all the men in Thunder Creek were as charmingly skillful at hitting on newcomers. Then she remembered the man she’d encountered on the stairway of the Pine Hills apartments last night. Nothing charming about him. And obviously no interest in hitting on newcomers. At least not this newcomer.

Which was fine with her. Unlike Chance, who, apart from his cowboy hat and boots and his cute twang, was not so different from any number of smooth, confident guys she could meet in any club in New York, the man on the stairwell had struck her as a dark, cool-eyed loner. That was hardly her type and never had been.

Of course, Doug Fifer was exactly her type and look how that had turned out.

With a sigh, Josy went in search of the gas station attendant, deciding that thinking about men—any man— was a waste of valuable time and energy. What she needed to do now was go back to the apartment to put her groceries away, then drive to Wal-Mart for some bed linens and towels and cleaning supplies and then back to the apartment for the rest of the day, to concentrate on work.

Which was a great plan in theory, but in reality, she realized by eight o’clock that night, it just plain sucked.

Sitting on her rented sofa in her tiny Pine Hills living room after the sun went down, she stared morosely at the doodles occuping the bottom quarter of her sketchbook.

A cat. She’d doodled a cat. And a mountain. Like one of those she could see from her balcony. And she’d doodled the name Ada Scott. In print, in cursive. In rounded letters, and slanted letters. Ada Scott . . . Ada Scott . . . Ada Scott . . .

She obviously wasn’t going to get any work done tonight. Maybe it was too soon, she reflected, pushing the sketches away. Maybe she needed to settle into her new environment and let the muse return at her own pace. It never paid to rush the muse. She always rebelled.

Josy didn’t want to think about how for years, her muse had never left her side, had been a part of her soul. What had happened to that girl, the one who’d lived and breathed and dreamed of beautiful clothes, whose creative thoughts had flowed so easily and vibrantly onto the page, who had only to envision a hot new red dress, a flowy skirt or elegant jacket, and she could see it in luxe living color and practically feel the silk of it caressing her skin? The girl who’d once visualized an entire formal ball gown and all the accessories and sketched it all in rapid detail while listening to a lecture on textile variations at the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York?

She’s still here,
she told herself.
She’s merely gone on a
sabbatical—given the creativity a break—focused on
other things. Like staying alive. Hiding out. Going
crazy . . .

She glanced around at the generic walls of the apartment, feeling stifled. It was Tuesday night. If she were home right now, she’d be meeting Jane and Reese for drinks at the Plaza. They went out every Tuesday night for drinks and then dinner, usually for sushi or Thai food.

She suddenly missed them, missed New York, with a painful lurch of her heart.
Okay,
she thought, jumping up, throwing her pencil down on the coffee table beside the worthless doodle-sketches.

You’re stuck here for a while, but you don’t have to sit
here alone in this suffocating apartment. You had two invitations for tonight, right? So don’t just sit here like a
scared little kid—do what Ricky taught you to do—stand
up for yourself and fight. Fight for your own life, your own
wants. Fight the urge to be silent and afraid. And alone.
Fight that urge to retreat into a mute, silent shell, a pathetic child like you were before. Get yourself out there
and into the game.

She knew Ricky’s way was right. Since she’d found out the truth about Doug and his lies she’d been less social than ever, more withdrawn than she’d been since her first foster home.

Ricky had taught her how to cope with the urge to retreat. And she needed to remember those lessons now.

She unzipped her suitcase, which she hadn’t yet unpacked, and tore through it for something to wear.

She was going to a party.

Chapter 5

GARTH BROOKS WAS CROONING FROM THE JUKEBOX over the din of laughter and chatter when Josy slipped through the double doors of the Tumbleweed Bar and Grill and paused for a moment to scan the packed, smoky room.

It was fairly dark, but she could see that the booths against the back wall were mostly full of people, as were the dozen or so small tables scattered around a big wooden dance floor. To the right of the entrance a group of men played pool, and in the low, smoky light of the room she spotted Candy Merck and some other women at the bar, chatting up the bartender.

Suddenly she noticed Corinne, waving at her from one of the tables off the dance floor.

“Josy! We’re over here!”

“Who’s that?” Roy Hewett asked his fiancée as the willowy blonde he’d never seen before smiled and started toward them. She was more than pretty, with a pale sweep of hair that didn’t quite touch her shoulders, sexy green cat eyes, and a walk that would have stirred the blood of a monk. In fact, her lithe figure encased in low-slung jeans, boots, and a silky, low-necked ruby-colored blouse drew more than one stare, he noted.

And if he hadn’t been happily engaged to Corinne, he’d have damn sure stared too.

“That’s the girl I met today in Bessie’s Diner. I told you—I invited her to come tonight, but I didn’t really think she would.” Corinne flashed a grin as Josy reached the table.

“Glad you could make it,” she exclaimed. “This is Roy, my honey.” Grinning, Corinne glanced up at the tall man who had risen to his feet beside her. He had dark hair and friendly brown puppy dog eyes. “Sweetie, this is Josy Warner.”

“Glad to meet you, Josy. All the way from Chicago, right? That’s a long way from home. What can I get you to drink?”

“White wine sounds good.”

“That’s exactly what I would have guessed.” His eyes twinkled. “Be right back,” he said easily and sauntered off toward the bar.

“Here, take a seat, Josy. I want you to meet Katy and Jackson Brent, good friends of ours,” Corinne continued. “Katy’s grandmother, Bessie, owns Bessie’s Diner—Katy works there too sometimes, but she couldn’t make it in today because her little girl was sick.”

“Yes, Roberta told me that.” Josy offered a smile to the slim, beautiful woman seated across from her. “I hope she’s feeling better now.”

“Mattie’s fever is down, thanks.” Katy Brent set down her wineglass and gave her head a shake, sending the honey-colored strands swinging around her shoulders. “The poor baby had an ear infection and it turned into a cold. Thank God it was nothing really serious.”

“That’s the only reason why we’re putting in an appearance tonight. But we can’t stay too long,” Jackson Brent said meaningfully, with a sideways glance at his wife.

Katy laughed. “Jackson worries if Mattie has a hiccup,” she explained, and threw her husband a look of pure love. “We left her with my parents tonight, and I had to promise him we wouldn’t stay here more than half an hour.”

“And it’s twenty-four minutes and counting,” Jackson Brent retorted. “If Corinne and Roy weren’t two of our best friends, we’d be home hovering over the crib where we belong,” he grinned.

Josy joined in laughing along with Katy and Corinne. As Roberta came over and joined the group, taking a seat and tipping back a bottle of Budweiser, she couldn’t help thinking what a stunning couple the Brents made.

Katy Brent glowed with beauty and it was clear she was madly in love with her husband. And Jackson was not only tall, dark, and handsome, he had one of the sexiest, gentlest smiles she’d ever seen. By the time Roy returned with her wine, Jackson was shepherding his wife toward the door and Katy was calling over her shoulder, “See you in town, Josy. Come into Bessie’s and have a slice of pie on me!”

She called out her thanks, but wasn’t sure Katy Brent heard her, because the din in the Tumbleweed seemed to be rising by the second. All around her, men and women were dancing, drinking, playing darts, or engrossed in group conversations. Just about everyone there seemed to know everyone else.

The atmosphere was warm and loud and welcoming. She didn’t care much for the smoke clogging the air, mixing with the scent of beer, sawdust, and perfume, but the country music touched a chord in her as she watched a few couples swaying together on the dance floor, their arms entwined.

“Okay, everybody—get off your butts and dance!” the bartender, a big burly guy with stringy brown hair and a beard, shouted. “This one’s for Corinne, for being the best damned waitress we’ve had in this place in years. No offense, ladies,” he added in his gravelly voice, glancing at the two working waitresses striding from table to bar and back again, carrying trays of beer bottles, bowls of nuts, and glasses. “But we’re sure going to miss our very own A-1 waitress, Miz Corinne Thomas. Everybody shaking their tail out on that dance floor’s going to get a drink on the house!” he yelled, and there was a roar of approval and laughing applause that shook the rafters of the bar.

“Corinne and Roy—you two lead it off.”

Corinne and Roy stood up, grinning.

“That’s Elam, my boss,” Corinne told Josy. “He’s just buttering me up, hoping I’ll stay on after all.”

“Not a chance in hell of that.” From behind her, Roy wrapped his arms around her waist, just as a bowlegged older man in a plaid shirt and string tie hustled up, grabbed Roberta’s hand, and pulled her toward the dance floor. She was doing a jitterbug as she allowed herself to be swept away.

Throughout the Tumbleweed Bar and Grill, couples were swarming toward the dance floor.

Josy noticed Corinne glancing at her, hesitating.

“Go on, you two. I’m fine here.”

But Roy was shaking his head. “No way, Josy. A beautiful woman like you sitting here all alone? Corinne and me won’t hear of it. Besides, you heard what Elam said— everybody on the dance floor.” A slow grin spread across his face. “And damned if I don’t have the perfect dancing partner for you.”

He turned around before she could speak and cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Hey! Ty!” he called in the direction of the men still playing pool near the double doors. “Come on over here!”

“Roy—no!” Josy murmured, her stomach sinking. Corinne placed a hand on his arm.

“Honey, this isn’t such a good idea.” But Roy wasn’t about to be deterred. He waved his hat over his head as the group of men playing pool all turned and glanced at him.

Josy turned sharply back to the table, caught between amusement and mortification.
That’s what you get for
coming tonight,
she thought.
You should have just stayed
in and plugged away at the fall line.

“I don’t want to dance with anyone, Roy. Seriously.” She tried her most charming smile. “I’m antisocial— always have been. It’s a chronic condition. All my friends will tell you. Please, just go dance with Corinne. I have my wine, I’m perfectly happy to—”

But she broke off as she heard the unmistakeable sound of a man’s boots thumping against the floor behind her, moving closer.

“Ty, this is your lucky night. This lady needs a dance partner. Meet Josy Warner—from Chicago,” Roy said cheerfully.

The footsteps halted right behind her chair.

“Josy, this is my cousin, Ty Barclay.” Grinning from ear to ear, as if well pleased with himself, Roy clapped a hand on the shoulder of the man behind her. Resignedly, Josy craned her neck up and sideways to see who she was about to be stuck with.

Oh, no.

It was him. Mr. Not-So-Prince-Charming from the Pine Hills apartment stairwell. The tall, powerfully built man with the hard features and the wavy blue-black hair. And those cold, gun-smoke-blue eyes. Tonight instead of sweats he was wearing an open-necked dark blue shirt and well-tailored gray slacks—but the same scowl he’d worn last night.

He looked even less pleased to see her than he had when he’d nearly knocked her down the stairs.

“You’d be doing my cousin a big favor by dancing with him,” Roy informed Josy, seemingly oblivious to the tense silence that had dragged on several seconds too long.

“He’s done nothing but play pool and talk business since he got here, and Ed Flanagan over there could bend his ear all night about rustled cows and damned incompetent brand inspectors. Ty, I know you’d much rather be dancing with this beautiful woman than thinking about rustlers. You’ll even get a free beer,” he added, grinning, and Josy wished she could sink through the floor.

“Roy!” Corinne gasped, but he just pulled her toward the dance floor with a chuckle.

For a moment the silence continued. The man standing behind her chair didn’t move, didn’t speak.

“It’s all right. I don’t want to dance,” Josy said firmly, turning slightly, throwing him a quick cool glance. “Not with you, not with anyone. So thank you anyway, but—”

“Great.” Ty Barclay gave a curt nod, not even letting her finish. “If you’re sure.”

“Oh, I’m sure. I’m positive.”

That penetrating blue gaze fixed itself on her face for a full ten seconds. His eyes were as dark and unfathomable as tinted glass but she sensed anger coming off him in waves.

“Great,” he said again. “Thanks for the reprieve.”

He strode toward the bar without giving her a second glance and Josy found herself tightly gripping the stem of her wineglass, her face and fingers frozen.

Asshole,
Josy thought, and took a deep breath. She forced her fingers to relax and to ease their grip on the glass before she cracked it. After having lived in New York for the past ten years she considered herself sophisticated and fairly worldly, but she was still stunned by Ty Barclay’s rudeness—and yes, by his instant and complete rejection.

Damn it. She might not be movie star material, but she wasn’t exactly a dog. She hadn’t been turned down for a dance or a drink or a date or anything else by a man since she was fourteen and sprouted boobs. What the hell was the matter with him?

Congenital rudeness,
she thought, and took a gulp of her wine. He might be drop-dead gorgeous but he had the manners of an iguana. The charm of a mackerel. The arrogance of a . . .

Uh-oh. He had stopped just short of the bar and turned around. He was looking at her, she realized, her heartbeat quickening. And now, he was . . . coming back.

She set the wineglass down carefully, trying to control the anger surging through her.

“Look, that was rude—even for me.” He stopped beside her chair and his mouth twisted ruefully. “You’re not the one I’m mad at. Roy keeps trying to—oh, hell, never mind. It has nothing to do with you.” He cleared his throat and started again.

“I don’t suppose one dance will kill us—either one of us. What do you say?”

“I say maybe we’re better off not finding out.”

A hint of a grin touched the corners of his lips. “I had that coming. But you know, sometimes it’s good to live dangerously.”

As her eyebrows shot up, he said in a reasonable tone, “Besides, if Roy finds out I gave you the brush-off he’ll be on my case for a week. He’ll probably even call my mother and tell her she raised a rude son-of-a-bitch and then she’s likely to cry. So what do you say?”

He held out a hand and she stared at it. His hand was big and it looked strong, capable. Like him. But he didn’t strike her as a man who’d have a mother who would cry over his being rude. Or like a man who’d care what anyone else thought of him. He looked tough and selfsufficient, like a man whose emotions were always under control, who did what he pleased and didn’t much care who didn’t like it.

But the funny thing was, he did sound sorry. And he was standing there with his hand out, patiently waiting for her answer. The languid thrum of the music caressed her senses. Everyone in the place was dancing. “What do you say?” Ty Barclay asked again.

“I wouldn’t want to upset anybody’s mother,” she muttered. She rose to her feet but ignored his outstretched hand, hurrying ahead of him toward the dance floor, wondering why she was even bothering to go through with this.

A slow country song flowed from the jukebox and the floor was packed with couples dancing closely together. As his arms went around her waist, drawing her to him, Josy couldn’t help but be aware of the rock-hard strength packed into his six-foot-two-inch frame, and of the whip-cord tension she felt in those broad, sloping shoulders. Maybe it was her imagination, but a hot jolt of fire seemed to quiver through her when the fingers of his right hand closed around hers.

It means nothing,
she told herself as they began to sway to the music.
Except that I haven’t gotten out much
lately.

She’d danced with men she didn’t know in Manhattan clubs a hundred times or more, but here in the Tumbleweed Bar and Grill in the middle of Wyoming, it felt different. Maybe it was the country song playing in the darkness, or the sultry night, or the clean scent of soap and the sage-scented outdoors on the man whose arm encircled her waist, but somehow there was an intimacy here that felt completely unlike the typical scene at Suede or Nocturne.

“Did you get that flat tire fixed all right?”

His words yanked her out of her thoughts. “Oh . . . yes. I did.” She forced herself to say the word. “Thanks.”