What the Heart Wants (14 page)

“Alive and well. I hear it used to be sort of dull, but it's picked up steam lately. Good place to do networking—Mayor Traylor's a longtime member. Great guy, very forward-looking.”

Jase looked at the card, a plan formulating in his mind. “Thanks.” He smiled. “I'll be sure and take advantage of this.” Rising from his chair, he held out his hand. “And, remember, if you get wind of any land you think I'd be interested in, give me a call.”

Craig walked Jase to the door of his office, shaking hands with him again. “I'm your guy.”

Jase headed for the car, his step buoyant. The prodigal son had come home, not with slop on his face, but with his head held high.

The bank visit had been his first official public appearance, and he'd half wondered if the armed guard would check him out on some sort of Bosque Bend shit list and throw him out on his ear. So far he hadn't run into anyone who recognized him except Ray and Sarah, but he was bound to run into old acquaintances at some point. He looked a lot like Growler, he knew, which irritated him, but he'd learned to live with it.

He pulled away from the curb. Now to find a place to get a cartridge for that ink-jet printer he'd discovered under a dust cover in Laurel's den. He thought he'd spotted an Office Depot down Fourth Street. Might as well buy a cheap fax machine for good measure. Laurel's computer needed replacing too, but that could wait for now. She'd probably insist on paying for it herself, and he wasn't about to rouse that sleeping dog again.

He turned right and picked up a parking space in front of the store. As he got out of his car, a huge pickup with an extended cab and four wheels on the rear came to a sudden stop on the street behind him. The driver lowered his window, and a deep voice rumbled at him.

“Jase, Jase Redlander!”

Jase grinned in recognition. Damned if it wasn't Rafe McAllister.

Rafe had been a junior partner in the Dallas architectural firm that designed Jase's house in North Plano. The two of them had hit it off right from the start, but he'd lost track of the genial redhead after the house was finished.

What the hell was he doing in Bosque Bend?

Rafe glanced behind him at the oncoming traffic. “If you got a couple of minutes, I'll treat you to coffee at Starbucks. It's a block down, on the corner.”

Jase widened his smile. “You go get parked and I'll be waiting for you.”

The barista brought their coffee to the table, a service Jase had never before enjoyed at Starbucks. The woman, a pretty brunette about thirty, kept her gaze trained on Rafe as she set their coffee down and provided them with napkins.

Jase snorted. Rafe usually had that effect on women—he'd seen it before. Probably had to do with the redhead's eyes, which were actually a little unnerving. His irises sparkled like they were composed of shards of multicolored glass.

Rafe gave her a lazy grin. “Thanks, honey.”

She blushed, stared at him one last time, and scurried back behind the counter.

Rafe took a healthy gulp of his coffee and looked across the table at Jase. “How's it goin'? Still buyin' and sellin'?”

Jase grinned. That lazy-talking cowpoke accent got him every time. “That's my life.”

“Anythin' local?”

“A few possibilities, but Ray Espinoza's subdivision has made everyone all too aware of property values.”

“Yeah—taxes been goin' up like crazy on account of all the activity in the area.”

“Sorta lost track of you in Dallas, Rafe. What happened?”

“I had to come home and take over the ranch. My dad passed on a while back.”

“Sorry about that, man.” His brow clouded. “You're one of the McAllisters from C Bar M Ranch? What about the architecture?”

Rafe nodded and gave him an easy smile. “I keep my architecture iron in the fire too. Ol' Ray's hired me to design homes for the new section of Lynnwood, and Art Sawyer wants me to submit a plan to the city council to repurpose old Bosque Bend High as a city museum.”

“Think the museum idea will pan out?”

“Why not? You remember what Sawyer's like. He'll ride that cayuse till it drops.”

“How's Beth like living in this area?”

Rafe's smile vanished. “Beth died last New Year's.” He glanced at the gold band on his left ring finger, and his face turned somber. “We'd been together since we were eighteen, then one day she's gone. And it was so damn random—a stray shot from some cowboy across the road celebrating New Year's Eve.”

Jase shuddered as a cold chill passed through him. What if something like that happened to Laurel, something he couldn't control? What if the only time they had left was right now? He glanced at Rafe's wedding ring.
Maybe I should move up my timetable.

“The only thing that keeps me going is our little girl,” Rafe continued. “She's about to turn two. Delilah won't even remember her mother. I never thought—”

Rafe's shirt pocket rang with “The Eyes of Texas.”

“That's my brother. Must be trouble at the ranch.”

Jase finished off his coffee as Rafe exchanged a series of terse “yeps” and “nopes,” ending with, “That cow's crazy. Leave her be till I get there.”

Rising from the table, Rafe handed him a card. “Gotta go now, but call me if you get any spare time, and I'll take you out to my uncle's honky-tonk for some good ribs and great music.”

Jase slipped the card in his pocket. If he stayed in town long enough, he'd take Rafe up on his invitation.
Wonder if Laurel would like honky-tonk.

But in the meantime, he'd better hotfoot it over to Office Depot.

Twenty minutes later, he walked out of the store with his purchases under his arm and was immediately accosted by a snaggletoothed little girl about eight years old with her hair plaited in tight corn rows. The bright yellow sundress she had on reminded him of a dress Lolly had loved so much that she'd insisted on keeping it in her closet long after she'd outgrown it. Might be there still, for all he knew. Lolly did tend to hang on to things.

“Mister, you want to buy some cookies? We're having a bake sale to raise money for new playground equipment for Westside Elementary.”

Westside Elementary? That was his old alma mater.

Going into the store, he'd noticed a card table set up against the storefront but hadn't registered what it was for. Sure enough, taped to the front of the table was a hand-printed sign:
SUMMER BAKE SALE, WESTSIDE PTA
.

“I'm feeling really hungry for cookies,” he announced, walking over to look at the display. He had warm memories of the Westside PTA. Those kind women had fed and clothed him all through elementary school. He owed them.

The table was heavily laden with cakes, specialty breads, and bags of cookies. While one of the women behind the table made change for a customer, the other was keeping an anxious eye on their little salesperson. The child danced around him as he approached the table, pointing proudly at a pile of bags labeled
oatmeal cookies
.

“My mom made those. They're real good.”

Jase smiled. “I'll take two bags, and—let's see—how about that marble pound cake too.”

The mothers thanked him profusely, especially when he gave them a hundred-dollar donation. It was the least he could do.

After stowing the Office Depot bags in the trunk of the car, he put the cookies and cake on the seat beside him. The cake, he'd take back to Laurel for dessert this evening, but the cookies, he'd unload on the first street beggar he saw. However, despite slowing down at every intersection and looking up and down the cross streets, he couldn't spot anyone displaying a
GOD BLESS
sign. Bosque Bend must still be too small a town for panhandlers as of yet.

He cast a darkling glance at the cookies. Looked like he was stuck with them. Oh well—maybe Laurel liked oatmeal.

Laurel…just one more block and he'd be with her again. He smiled as his mind wandered idly over the past few days. It was going to be hard to leave when he had to go back to Dallas.

He slowed down to turn into Laurel's driveway, then caught sight of Sarah throwing a ball back and forth with the older boy in the front yard again. On impulse, he turned the big Cadillac into the Bridgeses' drive.

Sarah, softball in hand, walked over to him with a welcoming smile. Rolling down his window, he proffered the offending bags of cookies.

“I got my arm twisted by some nice PTA ladies outside Office Depot and thought your kids might like these.” He jiggled the bags. “They're oatmeal.”

Sarah took the cookies from him. “Thanks. The boys will love them.” She positively glowed at him, which made him feel guilty.

“Well, actually, I'm just trying to get rid of them,” he confessed. “I can't stand oatmeal.”

She laughed and winked. “Jase Redlander, you are a sly dog, but I like your style. Just keep plying me with cookies, and Laurel will have some competition.”

“I should be so lucky,” he said, waving good-bye. Backing out, he zipped across the street, where he belonged.

This was getting to be quite a day. He'd been welcomed with open arms at First Bosque Bend National, been given a guest card for the Bosque Club, run into an old friend, and been winked at by Sarah Bridges, head cheerleader. She was talking to him too—just light, harmless banter, but it was more conversation than he'd ever had with her in high school.

As soon as Jase was out the door, Laurel started leafing through the vintage cookbook she'd found in the pantry. This afternoon she would learn how to cook. She couldn't depend on being treated to a SuperBurger again tonight, especially now that the refrigerator and pantry were stuffed with groceries, but Chicken Maryland looked easy enough, and she did have a bird in the refrigerator, though God only knows why she'd bought it.

After tying on Mama's apron, she laid the slippery fowl on a towel and lopped off its wings and legs the best she could, then hacked at the rest of the carcass until she'd separated it into four somewhat equal pieces. They'd probably look okay with breading on them.

The dipping and shaking were sort of fun, but making bread crumbs to roll the chicken pieces in seemed too labor-intensive, so she used crushed crackers instead.

She paused to clean up the counter. All of this would have been a lot easier if she'd seen anyone cooking when she was growing up, but the kitchen had always been the private domain of the housekeeper, first Mrs. January, then Mrs. Claypool.

Mrs. January retired when Laurel was twelve, and Mrs. Claypool left right after Mama died. Loyalty could only stretch so far when there wasn't any money left for paychecks.

Now the pieces of chicken had to dry for more than half an hour. The recipe implied they would be safe sitting out, but the temperature in the kitchen must be over eighty now. It was the hottest room in the house, whether the oven was on or not, and, while she may not know anything about cooking, she did know one shouldn't leave raw meat out for any length of time.

It would probably be safer to “dry” the chicken in the oven on low heat for a while, then “brown” it at what—maybe 400 degrees?

The doorbell rang. Who now? Lolly was in Dallas and Jase had a key. This couldn't be good. Laurel washed her hands and hurried down the hall. She opened the door cautiously, prepared to slam it shut at the first sign of trouble, but the stranger on the porch stepped back a pace, smiled, and ducked his head deferentially.

“Ms. Harlow? My name's Kel. K-E-L. Pendleton Swaim thought you might be able to help me.”

So this was Pen's house guest. He was younger than she'd thought he would be and seemed somewhat unsure of himself. Her brows drew together. He didn't look like showbiz—no flashy clothes, no big-toothed smile, no leathery tan, no overenunciated bell-like tones. Instead, his jeans were worn, his white tee looked like a Walmart special, his voice was soft, his tone deferential, and he had the clearest blue eyes, the longest eyelashes, and the sweetest smile she'd ever seen.

But she had dinner in the oven and needed to tend to it.

“I can't talk now. I'll probably be free tomorrow morning, but call me first. Pen has my number.” Although Lord only knows how he got it.

Kel nodded his head and smiled again. “Thanks. That would be just fine.” He looked back for a second and lifted hand as he stepped off the porch. “See ya.”

Laurel stood in the entryway for a moment before closing the door and hurrying back to the kitchen.
What a lamb.
Was he Pendleton's latest lover? Seemed awfully young for him. She'd never been able to tell gay from straight, but the gentlemen who'd lodged with Pen over the years were usually older and more dapper.

She opened the oven door to check on the chicken.

Rats.
It had cooked a lot faster than she'd thought. She'd better reduce the heat. If all went well, it should be ready in thirty or forty minutes, which meant she'd better stick in the potatoes to bake. Then just before they sat down, she'd warm up a can of French-cut green beans. Jase had taken a big helping of them at dinner Saturday, which seemed a century ago.

But what about dessert? She wasn't about to attempt a pie, and they hadn't bought any cake mixes at the store.

Jell-O!
She'd make lime Jell-O for Jase! She'd better start it now so it would be set by dinnertime.

Satisfied that the meal was under control and she wouldn't make a liar out of Lolly's extravagant boast about her cooking skills, Laurel decided to check on the plants in the drawing room, but instead she ended up pulling the drapes aside to watch Sarah and Eric play ball in the Bridgeses' front yard again.

A big black Cadillac turned into Sarah's driveway.

It was Jase—and Sarah, she noted, was acting very friendly, walking over to the car right away like she and Jase were old friends. After a couple of minutes of conversation, Jase waved, backed out of the driveway, and turned around. Laurel raced to the kitchen, arriving just seconds before he came in the door.