On Lone Star Trail (15 page)

“Do you have a minute?” TJ asked as she exited her car. A ride would take more than a minute, but he was going to do this one step at a time. He hadn't forgotten that she'd never ridden
a bike and that she'd claimed she never would, but surely he could convince her otherwise. “I want to show you something.”

Gillian nodded. Though she'd seemed unusually somber when she'd stepped away from her car, her face brightened as she looked at him. He took a quick glance at her clothing. The skirt and knit top were pretty, but she'd need something different for the bike. Though others might ride with their arms and legs unprotected, TJ did not, and he most definitely would not let Gillian run the risk of road rash on that soft skin. Once he explained where they were going, he'd suggest jeans and a jacket.

Gillian's smile made him wonder whether she knew what he had in store for her. “You look like you've had a good day.”

“I have,” TJ said as he led the way to the garage, “and this is part of the reason why.” He flung the door open, letting daylight stream into the closest bay. “My bike is done.” He patted the engine. “Eric did a great job. It's good as new now.”

“That's nice.” Surely it was TJ's imagination that her voice held no enthusiasm. Perhaps she was tired. A quick ride would take care of that. There was nothing like being on a bike to chase away fatigue. That was one of the things he wanted to show her.

TJ stepped back from the bike. “I'm glad you're back, because I was hoping you'd take a ride with me to celebrate.” He'd even bought a second helmet for her to wear.

The blood drained from Gillian's face, and she looked as if he'd suggested a free fall from the top of the Empire State Building.

“Me, ride a bike?” She shook her head vehemently as she backed toward the door. “I will never, ever, ever get on one of those things.”

He'd expected a little resistance, but not this much. TJ stared at Gillian, wondering why she'd had such an over-the-top response to his invitation. Although, thinking back, he remembered that she'd been almost this upset when they'd met. At the time he'd thought it was because she feared he'd been seriously
injured, but perhaps he'd been wrong. Perhaps the bike was the cause.

“Why don't you like motorcycles?” he asked as calmly as he could.

Gillian took another step backward, as if she feared the bike might somehow propel itself toward her. “I don't just dislike motorcycles.” Blood had returned to her face, and now she appeared flushed rather than pale. “I hate them.” The venom in her voice left no doubt that she meant every word.

“Help me, Gillian,” TJ said, joining her outside the garage and closing the door so she wouldn't have to look at his bike. “I'm trying to understand. Why would you hate an inanimate object?”

“Because a motorcycle—a bright red motorcycle, to be precise—is the reason I'm no longer a concert pianist.”

The pieces were starting to come together. “A motorcycle was involved in your accident?”

“‘Involved' is one way to describe it. ‘Caused' is another.” She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly before she continued. “I was coming out of a recording studio when the rider lost control. He skidded on a patch of oil, jumped the curb, knocked me down, and rode over my hand,” she said, shuddering slightly as she recounted the events of that day. “He wasn't hurt, but my hand was shattered. The doctors say it's a miracle that I've regained this much mobility.” Gillian stared at her right hand with its tracery of scars.

“I'm sorry.” When she'd said those words, they'd comforted him, but they didn't seem to be having the same effect on Gillian. Her color was still high, her breathing ragged.

“It wasn't your fault.” The words sounded perfunctory, as if she knew she was expected to say them.

“It wasn't the motorcycle's fault, either.” Perhaps it was foolish, but TJ felt the need to convince her that a motorcycle was more than an instrument of destruction. He'd spent many, many pleasurable hours on his, and he wanted to share that pleasure with her.

Gillian sighed. “My head knows that, but that doesn't mean my heart does. I know it's irrational, TJ, but I don't want to so much as touch a motorcycle. As for riding one, that'll never happen.”

She sounded so determined that TJ knew better than to try to persuade her. It was obvious Gillian needed more time to heal. Still, he couldn't stop himself from saying, “I wish there were something I could do to change your mind.”

“Believe me, there isn't.”

“I'm starting to believe the male of the species is trying to drive me crazy.”

Kate raised an eyebrow as she tossed a bottle of sparkling water to Gillian. “Take a deep breath and a sip of water. Then tell me what happened.” She paused as Gillian opened the bottle. “I hope this doesn't mean Mike cancelled your date.”

“Not so far.” Gillian took a long drink. “It's my dad and TJ.”

When she told Kate about the email, her friend nodded. “Your dad's always been that way. Sally said he was a little more mellow before your mom died. Her theory is that he didn't know the first thing about raising girls and was afraid of making a mistake.” Kate rubbed her baby bump, her expression serious. “I can identify with that. I don't know how I'd raise this baby alone, especially if it turns out to be a boy. I don't know anything about little boys.”

“But you wouldn't tell them something they really wanted to do was a bad idea.”

“I sure hope I wouldn't, but there are no guarantees. Did you tell your dad how excited you were about the project?”

Gillian thought back to the email she'd sent and shook her head. “I don't think I did. I was in a hurry that day.” She frowned, wondering if Dad's response might have been different if he'd known how dear to her heart the center was. Now she'd never know.

“So, what did TJ do to get you all hot and bothered?”

“He thought I'd ride his motorcycle. I know he's right that the bike wasn't responsible for the accident, that it was the rider, but I can't help it. Every time I even think about a motorcycle, I start to relive that day. I can't do it, Kate. I can't ride one.”

Kate reached over to squeeze Gillian's hand. “You don't have to.” After a quick glance at the clock, she said, “What you have to do is get ready for your date with Mike. I can pretty much guarantee he won't be riding a motorcycle.”

So that was why she didn't come to supper. TJ watched as Gillian, decked out in a fancy dress and some of those mile-high shoes that women seemed to like, climbed into a long, low sports car. TJ frowned as he recognized the dancing horse on the hood. A Ferrari. A red Ferrari. It figured.

At first he'd thought Gillian was skipping supper because she'd been upset about the bike, but now he knew the real reason. She had a date with Mike Tarkett. No wonder she'd appeared relieved yesterday when he'd told the teens they wouldn't have a campfire meeting tonight. She wouldn't have been there anyway. Instead, she was off with Mr. Rich Guy.

Gillian was going in style, in an expensive sports car instead of on a bike with more than its share of miles. Instead of a ride to who knows where and a possible ice-cream cone along the way, she'd be having dinner at some fancy restaurant. Instead of being with a schoolteacher who just managed to survive, she was with one of the wealthiest men in the area.

Mike Tarkett could offer her things TJ had never even dreamt of. Mike could . . .
Stop it, TJ
, he admonished himself. Those were foolish thoughts, the thoughts of a man who still believed in love, romance, and happily-ever-after. Those days were over.

I
t was a night to remember, a welcome respite after the turmoil of the afternoon. From the moment she'd settled into the Ferrari, Gillian had felt as if she had slipped back into her old life. For a few hours she could pretend that the accident had never happened, that she was still Gillian Hodge, concert pianist. And it was all because of Mike.

Gillian had ridden in luxury cars before. She'd been to elegant restaurants before. She'd dated eligible men before. But never before had she done those things with Mike Tarkett.

She smiled as she gazed at him across the table. He was so handsome in his jacket and tie, looking like the successful young entrepreneur he was. But Mike's appeal was more than his good looks and worldly success. There was something special about him, something that warmed Gillian's heart and made her grateful they were spending this time together.

Mike would never challenge her the way TJ did. He would never suggest much less insist that she ride a motorcycle. Mike was a gentleman, and a gentleman would never make a lady feel uncomfortable, while TJ . . . Gillian forced thoughts of
TJ aside. Mike was her date for the evening. Mike was the one who'd brought her to this beautiful restaurant.

Strawberry Chantilly couldn't have been nicer. With formally clad waiters, fine linens and china, and tables set far enough apart to ensure privacy, it was the perfect spot for either a romantic evening or an important business meeting. Plush carpet and heavy draperies muffled the other guests' conversations, while soft music added to the atmosphere.

As Gillian had expected since Mike's family owned Strawberry Chantilly, they'd been given the best table in the house, and the service was superb. The waitstaff anticipated their needs, filling water goblets before they were empty, replenishing the basket of rolls well before they needed more, and bringing fresh plates of the restaurant's signature butter pats, carefully pressed into the shape of strawberries.

The service and setting were enough to make Gillian relax, but what she enjoyed most was Mike's company. It felt so good—so right—to be with him. They'd talked about everything from wildflowers to Mike's plan to run for mayor, and throughout it, Gillian had felt comfortable.

She wouldn't use the tired analogy of “as comfortable as an old shoe.” Mike was more like a custom-made shoe, or since this was Texas, a custom-made boot like the ones Samantha Dexter and her father created. TJ, on the other hand, was a running shoe, one that had seen many miles but still had more to go. He was . . . Gillian bit the inside of her cheek, trying to halt her errant thoughts. She would not, would not, would not think about TJ tonight.

“Are you sure it's what you want to do?” she asked when Mike finished explaining his plans for the mayoral campaign. Though he'd appeared animated when he'd described the process, Gillian still wondered whether this was his decision or the result of parental pressure.

He took a sip of water before he answered. “I gave it a lot of
soul-searching—a lot of prayer too—and I believe it's the right move.” His gaze met hers, and this time Gillian had no doubt of his sincerity. “My parents are happy, of course, but what's important is that I feel it's what God has in mind for me.”

Gillian smiled, her heart leaping at the realization that Mike had a good relationship with God. Unlike TJ.
Stop it
.
She gave herself a mental shake. She needed to stop thinking about TJ. It wasn't fair to Mike. This was his evening, not TJ's.

“What will your platform be?” she asked, determined to keep her thoughts firmly focused on Mike.

“Wooden?” He gave her a look that was meant to be angelic but failed. “I suspect that wasn't the kind of platform you meant. And, yes, I have thought about the other kind.”

He cut a piece of his steak, then looked up. “I believe Blytheville needs sustainable growth. I've seen a number of cities expand too rapidly. It's easy to build houses, but the infrastructure is much harder. That needs to be planned before the expansion occurs.”

Gillian nodded her approval. “I'm a firm believer in plans.” She had spent the afternoon putting together detailed plans for tomorrow's work party, everything from lists of the materials she needed and the tasks that had to be done to the order they should tackle those tasks. There was no point in mopping the floor until the ceiling, walls, and windows were done.

“As for infrastructure, believe it or not, I learned about that as a kid.” When Mike lifted an eyebrow, as if he thought she was exaggerating, Gillian continued. “My father was in real estate. He was one of those people who said the three most important things in real estate were location, location, and location. I don't think I was more than six or seven when I heard him say that for the first time, but I remember asking him what it meant.”

Gillian suspected the reason the memory of that particular conversation was still fresh was that it was one of the few times she could remember her father talking to her for more than a few
minutes when she was a child. That afternoon he'd taken her into his home office and shown her plans for a condo complex.

“Dad didn't use the word
infrastructure
, but that's what he meant: schools, shops, roads, public transportation.”

Mike speared another piece of meat. “It's funny you should mention public transportation. The man who's going to run against me wants to start a bus line in Blytheville.”

“And you don't agree.” It was an ordinary conversation, nothing earthshaking, and yet Gillian found herself enjoying it more than she would have expected. Perhaps it was because of the warmth she saw in Mike's eyes. He was looking at her as if he cared—really cared—about her. Was Kate right that he was interested in her romantically? Whatever the reason, Mike's approval made Gillian's heart beat a little faster.

“A fleet of busses wouldn't be cost effective. My opponent is right that we need some form of public transportation, especially for seniors who no longer drive and are still living in their homes, but a bus that seats fifty would be major overkill.”

Though Mike hadn't said so, Gillian suspected this was one of the subjects that had kept him working late each night. “So, what are you proposing?”

“Minivans. They're a lot less expensive than busses.”

As she savored the lobster tail portion of her surf and turf, Gillian wondered whether Dupree needed something similar. It would be foolish to create a senior center if people couldn't get there. She made a mental note to find out how many seniors might need transportation.

“I see what you mean by sensible growth,” Gillian said as she dipped another piece of lobster into the drawn butter. “You'd have my vote if I lived here.”

“Thanks.” Mike grinned as the waiter replenished their glasses. “Enough about me,” he said when they were once again alone. “Tell me about your job.”

“Which one?”

He blinked, his surprise obvious. “Now you've done it. You've shocked me. What's going on? I knew that you were helping out at the bookstore, but this sounds like you're doing something else too.”

“I am. It actually came as a result of working at Hill Country Pages.” Gillian finished her explanation by saying, “The next month or so will be hectic, but then everything will slow down. Marisa has teenagers scheduled to work at the bookstore, and once the center opens, I won't be needed there. After Kate's baby arrives, I expect to leave.”

Simply pronouncing the words made Gillian's heart sink. She'd been in Texas less than three weeks, and it had already begun to feel more like home than her apartment in Chicago ever had.

“Unless I convince you to stay,” Mike countered as he leaned across the table, laying his hand on hers. “I'm giving you fair warning that I plan to do exactly that. And in case you haven't figured it out, I'm not used to losing.”

It was a heady sensation, having a man like Mike Tarkett so obviously interested in her. Gillian put down her knife and fork, signifying she had finished eating.

“I hope you're not planning to refuse dessert,” Mike said with another of his irresistible smiles. “I've had the pastry chef working all day on a sampler platter for you.”

Gillian raised her eyebrows, not believing what she'd heard. “A dessert made just for me?”

Mike nodded. “I was hoping you'd share it with me, but it's your decision. Everything on the platter was prepared specifically for you.”

Gillian felt the way she had the day she received her first standing ovation: honored, overwhelmed, and undeserving. “I don't know what to say. You're making me feel like a pampered princess.”

Mike smiled and squeezed her hand. “That was the idea.”