The First Law of Love (10 page)

Wy nodded, smiling, navigating to a table near the stage, actually a pair of tables, placed aside each other like pool balls, surrounded by the Rawleys, their girlfriends, Case's brother Gus (who looked so much like Case that I almost stared openly), and another older man, chatting comfortably with Clark. Clark caught sight of me and tipped his hat brim.

Yes, a girl could get used to that.

“Hi, guys,” I said to the table at large, thankful that there was a chair yet facing the stage. Damned if I was going to miss even one second of watching Case play. Clark introduced me to the older man, who ran the hardware store where Wy worked afternoons.

“Something to drink, hon?” asked a server in sassy red cowgirl boots.

“Just a water to start,” I said, planning to pace myself this evening.

“Tish, this is Lacy,” Sean said, leaning over the table to be heard. He indicated Gus's girlfriend, who flashed me a smile. “Lacy, Tish.”

“Hi,” I said, and then to Gus, as I hadn't seen him yet around town (actually hadn't seen him since Camille's wedding, back when he'd been a teenager), “How are you doing?”

“Good,” he said, smiling too. He had the same coloring as Case, though Gus seemed a little stockier; I would bet he was shorter than Case. He added, “Welcome to town.”

Sean's girlfriend Jessie leaned towards me too, setting her beer aside to do so, and asked, “How was the first week with Al? Grandpa said he heard you've been kicking some ass already.”

I flushed a little, with pleasure. I said, “Well, that's very kind of him to say so. I've been doing my best.”

“I heard you met Derrick Yancy,” Sean added.

I nodded at this; I'd told Clark and Wy at dinner on Monday, but it had just been the three of us that evening.

“What did you think?” Sean pressed.

“He's a dick,” I said with every confidence. “Smooth talker. Everything is an opportunity.”

There was a burst of applause then, and people were suddenly scrambling to take seats, and we all turned to see Marshall and Case, cowboy hats in place and carrying their instruments, coming from the back of The Spoke. My heart seemed to be on a trampoline, energetically leaping, and then leaping again. The guys mounted the steps to the little stage with the ease of familiarity; there was a set of drums, a stool, two microphones on stands, and shrill whistles greeted them.

I couldn't pull my eyes from Case, who was grinning under the yellow-red glow of the neon lights, totally comfortable, totally sexy. I could not deny this any more than I could deny that I noticed. A lot. He claimed the stool, setting his fiddle in its case upon the stage, his guitar on a thick leather strap that diagonally bisected his chest. He took a second to lower the mic stand so that it was nearer his mouth, while Marsh settled with a grin behind the drums and skimmed a quick riff, earning more whistles.

“Evening, everyone,” Case said then, in his deep voice that I felt low in my belly.

“Hi, Case!” called a woman, over the rest of the crowd, her voice excited and eager, and Case laughed, joined by about half the bar.

He said easily, “Hi there. It's been a while since Marsh and I played here.”

People clapped and cheered; beside me, Wy hooked his pinkies in his mouth and let loose with a whistle.

“We thought we'd start off with a couple of old favorites, if that's all right with all of you,” Case said, and I wanted him to look our way,
my way
, towards the table to the right of the stage. He collected his guitar closer and strummed a few notes, and my eyes dropped to his hands, his strong hands that curved so knowingly around the instrument. He turned to Marsh and asked away from the mic, “You want to join me for this one?”

Marsh nodded twice, collecting his own guitar from its stand near the drums, and dragged his stool beside Case. The two of them exchanged a look, timing their first notes, and then Case leaned into the mic and took up the song. I knew they were into old-school country, and this song was no exception, an old Willie Nelson standard.

Case closed his eyes as he sang. I had clasped my hands beneath my chin before I realized, just watching him, caught up in the beauty of his rich, true voice. The melody was so sweet, almost haunting; there was an instrumental measure in the middle, both men strumming their guitars lovingly, so obviously into the music. And then, just before Case took up the final verse, his eyes flickered briefly to me, right to my eyes, sending a hot, deep jolt through my center.

It struck me, as Marshall joined in harmony.

No, it
'
s just a coincidence.

This is not about you
.

But the song was called “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.”

When it ended, there was raucous applause. Case strummed a straight G-chord and grinned out towards the crowd. He asked, “Are we mellow tonight, people? Mellow out there?”

Whistles and more cheering, and the two of them laughed. Marshall asked, “Should we keep some Waylon and Willie going?”

They did, and people began dancing by the third song, “Luckenbach, Texas.” I sat as one entranced, just watching Case on stage, where he so clearly belonged. He enjoyed every second of it, as I could plainly see and hear, was so completely natural, sitting with his shoulders relaxed, one boot heel caught on the bottom rung of the stool.

His voice rippled over my skin, his beautiful voice, his effortless grace with his guitar. I hadn't so much as removed my eyes from him, feeling drunk, though I had not sipped a drop of alcohol. I knew the number of times his gaze had flashed to me – twice now, counting the first song, and only for an instant each time. But again I felt those looks as tangibly as if he'd come and cupped his strong, sexy hands around my face.

He was singing “Neon Moon” right now, about an hour into the show, while Marsh did impressive duty on the drums. Couples were whirling and waltzing, and just about everyone wore a cowboy hat. I tore my eyes from Case to observe, rather surprised, that I was nearly alone at our table; everyone else was dancing, even Clark. Wy was sneaking the last of an abandoned beer but I didn't even have the wherewithal to stop him, because just as Case sang the line about “your one and only,” our eyes held for a full two seconds, or, if I was keeping time with my heart, the equivalent of about twenty beats.

I swallowed hard.

He closed his eyes as he continued singing.

Wy said, “Tish, you wanna dance?”

I shook my head, unwilling to do anything but sit here and watch.

Wy said, “But I feel guilty if you're here alone.”

I looked at the boy then, asking, “Huh?”

He explained, “I wanna dance, but if you're here alone I feel bad.”

I almost giggled at his earnest expression. I told him, “You go and dance, buddy. I'm just fine.”

He stood, then immediately stooped to kiss my cheek. He said, “Thanks, Tish.”

Alone, I leaned on my forearms, resting my breasts atop them, just watching. I didn't care if Case realized I was staring at him as though hypnotized. He sang the next two songs without directly looking my way again; was I imagining that he was still watching me from the corner of his eye, or was I just flattering myself?

“Casey, do some of yours!” someone called from the dance floor, and he grinned at this, resettling his hat over his red-gold hair. I could see the sweat trickling down his temples. He grabbed his bottle of water from the stage and took a long drink, tipping back his head. I watched his throat move as he swallowed. He blew out a breath and then nodded acceptance of this request. Marsh tapped the drum sticks together before setting them aside and rejoining Case up front. Case shifted his wide shoulders, lifting the guitar strap over his head and placing the instrument on its stand; then he caught up the fiddle, to loud whistles.

“Maybe one,” he agreed, and I shivered as he lifted the fiddle to his chin, poising the bow over the strings. And then I felt my heart aching for reasons I could never begin to explain as he drew the first notes. I felt bruised, suddenly thinking of everything he had said to me at my sister's wedding, nearly seven long years ago.

I wrote a song about you.

The thing is, I know you
'
re the one for me. I know this with all my heart.

I don
'
t understand how I know we belong together, but we do. I
know
this.

Oh God, oh Case
…

I knew all of that, all those words, were in the past, I knew it; I knew he had more than moved on from anything he'd said back then…

Case played with eyes closed. Marshall joined in on guitar; the music reminded me of something from the original era of the fiddle, sweet and achingly lovely. My hands were again clasped beneath my chin as I listened, staring without letup at Case. Then I realized I did recognize this song; it had been playing at the Rawleys' on Saturday night, when I'd first arrived in Jalesville, when I'd gotten drunk on their porch.

Case wrote this.

It
'
s beautiful.

The song ended much too soon, and I felt as though someone had kicked me in the heart. The crowd surged with cheers and whistles, begging for more, but Case shook his head, smiling, good-natured.

Look at me, oh God, Case, look at me
…

But he kept his eyes away. He lifted his hat to swipe the back of his wrist over his forehead. Everyone wanted his attention, and Marshall's; there were three women in particular, good-looking and clutching drinks, crowding close, and one of them actually reached and tugged at Case's jeans, just behind his knee as he collected his guitar, making him laugh.

I didn't even say good-bye to the Rawleys, I realized after I was out in the parking lot no more than fifteen seconds later, where it was dark and I could hide the flames that had overtaken my face. I felt all shaky and weak-kneed, suddenly terrified that I hadn't remembered my purse, with my keys in it, meaning I would have to go back inside; but no, there it was bumping along on my hip.

Thank God.

Go home, Tish, you
'
re just tired.

And so I let myself believe that and made my way slowly back to Stone Creek, leaving the windows down so I could hear the crickets as I drove.

I threw myself into work the next day, more than usual, determined to impress Al on this last work day of my first week in town. Never mind that I could hardly think of anything but the fact that it was Friday and that tonight Case would be at the Rawleys' house for supper. But I did a good job keeping that thought basically unacknowledged, working over my research, calling people to come to the meeting next Tuesday, looking through back stories from the local news affiliate that served the Jalesville area, thinking of what I'd heard about the power plant closing and Derrick Yancy's company sweeping in, vulture-like, not long after.

There was a connection, I was certain.

It was after four when Al got back from court and said in surprise, as the bell above the door tingled, “Tish? What are you still doing here? It's Friday.”

I looked up from my desk. My neck was a little cramped, along with my right hand; Mary had left over an hour and a half ago. I lied, “I didn't realize it was so late in the day.”

Al came over to the far side of the hip-high counter where Case had stood on Monday. He set his briefcase atop it and regarded me with a fondness that reminded me of my dad. He said, “All work and no play…might I remind you? I heard you were at the show at The Spoke last night. How was that?”

“Good,” I said briefly, not meeting his eyes. I added quickly, “I promise to get outside this weekend. I'll hike around the foothills, or something.”

“I'm holding you to that,” Al said.

I sat on my porch for a good half hour when I got home, just staring, watching the sun strike the mountains in the distance. Listening to the sounds of people through the open windows of other apartments, the ringing of a phone, a mother calling to her kids, a distant radio. I pressed the base of both palms to my eyes. Pressed hard, until all I could see were patterns of swirling color against the backs of my eyelids.

An hour later I parked in the yard at the Rawleys' place, determined to bury away my more vulnerable and uncontrollable emotions. Instead I let myself feel the tug of this place, which welcomed me the same way that Shore Leave did, back home. Warm with light and laughter, crowded with people who talked over one another, food lining every horizontal surface. I felt the immediate pull of family, though they weren't exactly mine. But I pretended a little, indulging myself, missing my own. It was a gorgeous time of night. I climbed out of the car and stared westward for a minute, just appreciating. Case's truck was not in sight, as I was one hundred percent aware, and so my heart had calmed, at least fractionally.

I had tried really damn hard to look good without appearing to have tried hard, if that made sense. I was wearing a sundress of the palest blue imaginable, casual but really pretty, one that fit like a tank top with an ankle-length skirt. I left my hair pinned up high, added silver hoops and a single silver bracelet. A little make-up, some mascara and my favorite raspberry lip gloss, and that was that. I studied the sunset, wondering when he would get here, breathing deeply of the herbal scent in the air, distinctly different than the lakeshores of Landon.

“Pretty out here, isn't it? I haven't gotten tired of it yet,” he said from behind me, and I started as though punched in the kidney, spinning to see him approaching with the sun gilding him.

Oh God, oh my God. Holy shit.

I was a fool to think I could be around him without experiencing this tidal-waving of desire. Case kept his eyes on the sunset, as though he hardly realized I was staring speechlessly at him. He joined me at the side of my car, where I was standing still enough to put roots into the ground, and rested both hands on top of his head, linking his fingers. He may or may not have been aware that this defined his biceps really, really well. He was wearing faded jeans and a faded red t-shirt, his bone-colored cowboy hat, boots and a belt with a fancy silver buckle, the same belt from last night.

“I didn't see your truck,” I babbled, then cringed internally. I wanted to tell him that I had absolutely loved watching him play last night, that I was sorry I hadn't stuck around to say good-bye, because I was chicken and madly jealous, and I had no right to be jealous over him.

“Gus stopped by and we rode over on the horses,” he explained, still not meeting my eyes. I stared up at his profile, crisp against the blue of the sky. He had a stubborn-looking chin, a straight-edged nose that could probably take a punch or two. The sun shone in his irises, its beams angled low enough to sneak beneath his hat brim, creating a color I'd never seen in someone's eyes, a rich auburn. His lashes were as red-gold as his hair.

Oh
, I said, without saying the word, still ridiculously tongue-tied.

“You want to meet them?” he asked, at last looking over at me.

I swallowed and managed to say, thinking he meant the Rawleys, “I've met them plenty of times.”

That half-grin again, just like last night. He said, “The horses, I mean, you want to meet them?”

Oh for the love, Tish.
This time he was openly amused at my stupidity, I could tell.

You are a graduate of Northwestern Law School. Pull it together!

I straightened my shoulders and said, as though it didn't matter much one way or the other, “Sure.”

He led me to the split-rail corral that surrounded one of the barns; there were two barns on the property, but I favored this one, which looked like something out of an old-time western. As we walked, he kept a very appropriate distance between us; he hardly afforded me a spare glance. I felt foolish and vain, vain as a peacock as Gran, my dear great-grandmother, would have said, over the fact that I had been hoping he just might compliment how I looked.

At the fence he leaned on his forearms; I was just a hair too short, even in heeled sandals, to do the same, so I climbed up on the bottom rung to mimic him. A light breeze kicked up my skirt and I sucked in a quick breath, but Case didn't seem to be paying me overt attention, if any at all, as he made a low whistling sound in the direction of a cluster of horses. One, a delicious caramel color, nosed away from the group and clumped over to us.

“This,” he said, with fondness ripe in his deep voice, “Is Cider.”

I reached, not without caution, and patted the horse's sleek neck. She was warm and solid beneath my hand, and I felt a smile, a genuine smile, moving across my lips. I rubbed my palm over her more firmly, stroking her hide. There was a small white patch just between her nostrils, and I wanted to put my fingers upon it but held back, uncertain if this would be all right.

“She's beautiful,” I said. “She's a girl, right?”

He laughed a little; we were in the shade afforded by the house now, and I studied him again, my heart stuttering along much faster than normal. I told myself I was just flustered by memories of things he'd said in the past, by how many times I'd repeated those long-ago words to myself last night, as I'd lain alone in bed, restless and tossing half the night. He met my eyes then, still smiling, and nodded affirmation, scratching her neck on the opposite side. He said, “I've had her since she was just a few weeks old.”

“How old is she now?” I asked, dragging my eyes away from him.

“Close to five years,” he said, stroking the backs of his curled fingers along her jaw, with clear affection. My hand stalled on her neck, motionless as I watched his hand move. He looked back over at me, though just for an instant.

“Is that old for a horse?” I asked, clearing my throat a little.

“Not at all,” he said easily. “Her brother Buck is a little older. I've had him from the time he was a foal too.”

“Is he with the other horses?” I asked, wanting to linger out here on the fence, with him.

“Right over there,” he said, nodding. “Gus rode him over. He's the one on the right there.”

“Is he a buckskin?” I asked. “Not that I'm an expert or anything…the name was my first clue…”

Case affirmed, “He is. Cider is what you'd call a sorrel.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” I asked.

“It has to do with her coloring, just like a buckskin,” he explained patiently. He laid his hand flat against her neck and said, “Usually sorrels have a reddish-yellow undertone.”

Behind us I heard the door to the house open.

“Thanks for introducing me to her,” I told him.

“Evening, Tish!” Clark called. “You were in an all-fired hurry last night!”

Unsure how to answer, I stepped down from the fence, not quite as nimbly as I intended because of my shoes, and sensed more than saw Case reach as though to assist me. His hand didn't quite make contact and in any event, Clark took my arm in a gentlemanly gesture, tucking my hand around his elbow.

“I was just tired last night,” I said lamely, very aware that Case was listening.

“Understandable,” Clark reassured, leading me towards the house, patting my hand. “As soon as Garth and Becky get here we'll eat. I've got drinks out already,” and then he looked down at me, teasing, “But maybe you better not go there this evening.”

“Ha, ha,” I said gamely.

“We're out back, you guys!” Marshall called as Case and I came through the front door and they caught sight of us. “Tish, you gonna get bombed again?”

“I haven't the past few nights I've been here, have I?” I grumbled at Marsh as I stepped out onto the porch, even though he hadn't been here either of those nights to know this was true. Marshall blinked a couple of times at the sight of me; I saw his eyes flash to Case, who was, as I was completely and vividly aware, just behind me.

“You look nice,” Marshall said to me, almost wickedly. “
Real
nice, Tish.”

I rolled my eyes at him, all fluttery that he was saying so in front of Case; I just wished that Case would notice. Would say something.

But why?

To what end?

I was so confused.

“Hi, Tish!” Wy heralded from the picnic table, where he was loading a plate with appetizers. “Where'd you go last night?”

“Can I get you a drink?” Marshall asked me. Everyone was already probably on their second round; Sean and Quinn and their girlfriends, Gus with his, all of them in chairs close to each other. Gus had his hand on Lacy's thigh as she said something that was making him laugh, and he looked so much like Case that I felt a lump of jealousy lodge itself in my throat – I wanted to be sitting here on this same porch with Case touching my leg that way, with such tender intimacy.

That can never happen
, I thought fiercely.

Gus called over, “Casey, you gotta come tell us about that one time…” but then he was laughing too hard to continue, as Lacy pinched at his ribs.

“Sure, a gin and tonic would be great,” I said, suffering Marshall's knowing look. I defended, “I'll just have one.”

“Coming right up,” Marsh said, winking at me; he had a good wink, and I could tell he knew it, which almost made me giggle. He asked Case, “How about you?”

“I got it, little bro,” Case replied, delivering what seemed like a playful little punch to Marshall's midsection as he walked past him, though Marsh released a surprised
whoosh
of breath.

Wy caught my elbow and hauled me to a seat near the fire, then immediately claimed the chair on my right. I tried to pretend I wasn't watching, observant as a spider, for Case to grab a drink and come sit down. There was a chair just to my left that was yet unoccupied.

“Tish, wasn't that fun last night?” Wy leaned forward eagerly to claim my attention. He continued to remind me a great deal of Clinty, once upon a time. He had the same earnest expression at all times.

“It sure was,” I said, peeking at Case from the corner of my eye. I saw him take my drink from Marshall and my heart went all crazy again. Marshall muttered something to him that it was far too noisy for me to hear, but Case ignored this and paused near my chair to hand me the drink, over ice and with a lime wedge. He had a can of cola in the other hand.

“Thank you,” I told him. The sun was in my eyes, backlighting him so that he appeared haloed in a golden glow.

Case sat just where I'd been hoping he would as Wy went on, “Tish, for real, Dad says you're calling up everybody in town to get rid of Capital Overland. That everyone is saying that you're gonna run them out of town!”

“People love to make things larger than life,” I reminded Wy.

“No, really!” Wy insisted. He said, “Super Tish!” and then I giggled, unable to help myself, almost spitting out a mouthful of gin in the process.

I shook my head at Wy, aware of Case subtly watching me, from the corner of his eye, too.

“They know something they aren't letting on,” Case said then, sitting forward as though restless, curving both hands around his can of soda. His words were just what I had been speculating. He added, “And I'm worried the offers might prove too tempting for some people.”

“Not all the sales are final,” I confirmed, feeling comfortable in this knowledge after my week of research. “Unfortunately Derrick Yancy is a good salesman, I'll give him that.”

“You've met him then?” Case asked, looking intently at me. I felt such a splash of heat whenever his eyes touched mine, as they were now, but I didn't let any of that show on my face.

I nodded, saying, “He reminds me of about half the spoiled rich kids I went to law school with. That entitled attitude. The arrogance. But he's also smart. I'm considering him a mortal enemy at this point.”

Sean said, “He doesn't give two fucks about our town.”

“Language!” Jessie scolded.

“Well, he's right,” Marshall said, shoving at his brother to gain a seat on the glider. Sean obligingly scooted over.

“I agree with Case. I think that Yancy knows something he's not letting on,” Quinn said. “I think he's a criminal.”