Wife for a Day (11 page)

“I don't think so. We're from two different worlds, and I don't want to go somewhere that I don't fit in.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a sapphire bracelet and earrings. “I've been carrying these around for two days now, scared to death someone would know I was carting around a few thousand dollars' worth of jewelry. Lauren insisted I buy them.” Sam laughed, a sound that made him feel good, a sound he wanted to keep on hearing. “Your sister's got great taste, but they're not my style. I kind of go for plastic and thrift-store hand-me-downs, you know, things I can keep in my purse or the bug, things no one would bother to steal.”

Jack slipped his hand over her upturned palm. “Keep them,” he told her, but she shook her head as she pulled away, leaving only the sapphires in his grasp.

Pushing back the cuff on his shirt, she looked at his watch, and the simple brush of her fingers over the hair on his arms made him ache.

“My break's over,” she said in a rush. “I've got to get back to work.”

“Dinner's not a long-term commitment, Sam. Are you sure you won't reconsider?”

“No.”

Rising, she took the check from her apron pocket and set it on the table.

“Waitress!”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Looks like duty calls.”

Her words rang with finality, but he wasn't ready to give up. “You can push me away, Sam, but I'll come back. I let someone important get away from me once. I won't let it happen so easily this time.”

“Those are pretty words, Jack. But they're only words. Actions speak so much louder. If you want to impress me, I need something more.”

“Such as?”

She laughed, and blew him a parting kiss. “For starters, you could leave a big tip.”

“H
ey, Sam, there's
a phone call for you.”

“Be there in a minute,” Sam grumbled, when Tyrone called out to her from the kitchen. She cleared the table where Jack had been sitting a few minutes before, slapped down four new place settings, and stormed behind the counter, ready to do battle with anyone who got in her way.

What a fool she'd been! For the first time in her whole entire life a good man, someone downright decent—even though he'd inconveniently forgotten to leave a tip—had been interested in getting to know her better, and she'd pushed him away.

You're crazy, Sam! Absolutely out of your mind
.

She dumped Jack's dirty dishes in a nearly full tub and stared at the peach pie he'd barely touched.

Maybe she wasn't so crazy. She remem
bered her mama and the rich man who'd promised her fancy things. She also remembered her mama saying that women from the wrong side of the tracks were the forbidden fruit rich men craved. They'd take one bite, maybe two, then drop the remains in the gutter and go away.

Jack Remington might have wanted more than a one-night stand. He might have treated her to three or four nights of his time, maybe even days, but in the end, he'd go back to his mansion in Wyoming and she'd still be waiting tables at Denny's.

She didn't want to be the girl he loved and left behind. She didn't want to get hurt by the only man who'd ever made the soles of her feet tingle. Her heart had wanted more, but self-preservation had won out in the end.

“Are you ever gonna take this call?” Tyrone growled.

She pushed through the swinging kitchen doors and grabbed the phone out of his hand, tossing him an apologetic smile. “Hello.”

“Good morning, Samantha.”

Johnnie Russo had picked the wrong moment to call. She'd made a habit of being polite and obedient to Johnnie in the past five and a half months. This morning, tired, cranky, and totally confused about her feelings for Jack Remington, she couldn't be bothered with
Johnnie and one of his all-too-frequent calls.

“What do you want?”

“Is that any way to talk to your benefactor?”

“It's late, I'm exhausted, a millionaire just stiffed me on a tip, and no, I don't have any money to send you.”

“You're running out of time, sweetheart.”

“Don't you think I know it? I told you I needed a few more weeks.”

“And I told you when you signed the contract that I don't give extensions, no matter what the reason.”

“I'm working two jobs. I'm living in my car.”

“I know all that. I know about the Espresso Nook. I know about Denny's. And I know about the KOA. By the way, I hear you play a mean game of volleyball.”

Sam leaned against the wall, almost ready to give in to defeat. She'd thought that putting three thousand miles between herself and Johnnie would keep her safe until the contract expired. Obviously, she'd thought wrong. “Are you having me followed?”

Johnnie sounded like a hyena when he laughed. “Just keeping tabs on you.”

“I'm not going anywhere. I told you I'd pay you back, and I meant it. So why don't you get off my case.”

“Actually, all I want to do right now is de
liver a message from an old friend of yours.”

Sam didn't have to ask who. She knew perfectly well.

“Graham Welles said to tell you hello. He also said he'd be willing to pay off the contract if you'd be willing to come back to Hollywood.”

The mere thought of seeing either Graham Welles or Johnnie Russo again sickened her. “Tell him to go take a flying leap off the Hollywood sign.”

“He won't be pleased.”

“I'm not worried about pleasing him, I'm worried about paying you. Now, if you don't mind, I can't make money if I'm talking on the phone.”

She hung up. Her insides began to shake as she started to think of the mistakes she'd made five months ago. She'd sought out Graham Welles when she should have known better. Mama had told her not to trust him, not to believe any rich man who promised the world. Yet she'd gone to him when her mama needed help. Gone to him and pleaded for his aid, only to have him ask for her body first. She'd made a promise to herself that she'd never sell her soul, and she'd come so close that night. So very close. But she couldn't—not even for her mother.

She'd trusted Johnnie Russo, too. During a
time of desperation she'd let down her defenses, fallen for big talk and a fancy smile, and gotten herself so deeply in debt to him that she now feared that in two weeks he'd claim her life as the balance she still owed.

And now Jack. There was a possibility that he might be more ruthless than either Graham or Johnnie. Jack Remington could easily steal her heart and, when he was through with it, toss it away.

Of all the worries in her life, that one seemed to bother her most.

“You got a problem?” Tyrone asked, staring at her as he cleaned the grill.

“Several,” she tossed back, trying to hide her fears behind a smile. “Thanks for asking.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

Tyrone stood a good six-foot-six. He must have weighed close to three hundred pounds and had arms the size of palm trees, but he was a pussycat at heart, and Johnnie Russo's goons would chop him down in no time at all if he got in their way. Jack Remington might not appreciate his interference, either.

“It's sweet of you to ask, Tyrone, but unless you have thirty-seven hundred dollars you can lend me, I guess I'll have to take a rain check.” She grinned as she shoved away from the wall and left Tyrone's kitchen.

By 3:30 the restaurant was virtually empty.
This was the time of morning she usually asked Tyrone to fix her a big plate of biscuits and gravy, but she wasn't hungry.

Grabbing the vacuum cleaner from the back room, she plugged it in and mindlessly pushed it over the carpet. She touched the scar on her jaw, and thought of Graham Welles. He'd ripped her blouse the night she'd gone to him, asking for money to help save her mama's life. He'd laughed at her and called her a bitch. He'd hit her, and told Sam a whore like her mother was better off dead.

Graham's opinions didn't matter. Felicity Jones never talked about what drove her to the life she'd lived, and Sam had never asked. She'd never talked of the man who'd gotten her pregnant. She'd never complained about her lot in life. She'd just lived it.

And she'd loved her daughter.

Sam couldn't have asked for a better mother, and her opinion was the only one that mattered.

She'd given her mother the finest funeral money could buy. She'd given her a granite headstone that would last an eternity and a plot of ground Felicity Jones could always claim as her own.

Going to Johnnie Russo for money had been foolish; he'd even told her so after the funeral. But she didn't regret it at all.

Foolishness seemed to be part of her life.

Pushing Jack Remington away might have been her most foolish mistake so far.

Don't think about it
, she told herself.
What's done is done, so move on
.

She continued to vacuum, moving chairs and tables, and pouring an occasional cup of coffee for the one or two people who straggled in and out.

At five till four she put the vacuum cleaner away. She was so darn tired, but she still had to go to the KOA and clean bathrooms. Taking her tote bag from her locker, she said good-bye to Tyrone, to the other waitress crazy enough to work this shift, and headed for the door.

It was dark outside. At the far end of the parking lot, right next to her bug, she could see someone rummaging through the Dumpster, and she waited in the light of the Denny's sign for the man with the shopping cart to disappear.

She hated being out in the middle of the night. It made her feel vulnerable and alone.

A white van pulled to a stop in front of her, and the man behind the wheel stuck his head out the window. “Are you Samantha Jones?”

She grabbed the handle of the door and started to go back inside. She still had two
weeks to pay off her loan, but maybe Johnnie had decided not to wait.

“Hey, don't run away. You look like the lady I was told to deliver something to.”

As if that was supposed to make her feel better
.

The guy looked at a white piece of paper fastened to a clipboard. “You
are
Samantha Jones, aren't you?”

“Yes,” she said hesitantly.

“I thought so.” He climbed out of the van and slid open the side door. “I was told to deliver these to you and you only. The guy who bought them said you had long red hair and a killer body. You fit the bill.”

“Thanks,” she said, feeling a sudden blush touching her cheeks as she wondered who, besides Johnnie Russo, would send an unmarked delivery van out in the middle of the night with a driver who'd been ordered to give her something.

The man, who'd been leaning into the van, faced her, holding a bottle of Chivas Regal and a bouquet of roses. “These are for you. I told the guy he was crazy sending flowers and a bottle of booze at four in the morning, but he told me actions speak louder than words. Personally, I think he might have been drunk.”

Sam's throat tightened as she took the whis
key and flowers. She made a valiant attempt to smile, but tears were already threatening.

“There's a card, too.” The deliveryman dug an envelope out of his shirt pocket, handed it to Sam, then stuck the clipboard in front of her. “Could you sign this. I need to show I delivered everything.”

Sam's fingers trembled as she set the gifts on the concrete. She kept the card clutched in one hand, and with the young man holding the board, signed her name.

He checked out the signature. “That ought to do it.” He climbed into the cab and slammed the door. “That cowboy sure went to a lot of trouble to have this delivered to you. Enjoy,” he said through the open window, and drove away.

With shaking fingers she drew a plain white note card from the envelope. A piece of paper was folded inside, and she opened it. One of Jack's checks stared up at her. She angled it so she could see the writing in the light from the streetlamp. Her name was plainly written on the check, and a tear slid down her cheek when she saw
one thousand dollars
on the line below.

Her vision was blurred by the buildup of tears in her eyes, but she managed to read the note.

She sat down on the pavement next to the whiskey and flowers, not bothering to hold back her tears. They dripped right off her face and splattered on Jack's note. He'd given her two dozen beautiful roses. He'd given her the finest Scotch whiskey. He'd given her a thousand dollars.

Best of all, he'd given her hope that she'd see him again.

And he hadn't asked for anything in return.

J
ack sat in
the saddle, hands folded on the horn, and watched his son mend a stretch of downed barbed wire. A Norther had blown in after he'd gotten home from Florida last night, and he turned the collar up on his jacket to keep the icy air from hitting the back of his neck. Beau didn't have the luxury of a jacket, but it was his own damn fault, and Jack wasn't going to coddle him now.

They'd been riding fence all morning, and the boy's knuckles and palms were raw, bleeding from too many scrapes. He was shivering and wet, but Jack wasn't going to bend. He'd reminded the kid once to take a jacket and gloves, but his words had gone in one ear and out the other. Damn, if he wasn't exactly like Jack himself had been at that age.

“Can I borrow your gloves?” Beau had asked a few hours ago.

“What about yours?”

“I forgot them.”

Jack remembered shaking his head at the boy's irresponsibility. He remembered pulling on the finger of one of his gloves so he could give them to Beau, then he stopped. “I won't always be around to loan you a pair of gloves,” he'd said. “See how it feels to stretch that wire with your bare hands. Maybe you'll remember the next time.”

The kid had struggled with the wire, stretching, twisting, doing exactly what Jack had shown him when they'd come across the first section of downed fence. The job wasn't easy. Nothing out here was easy, but in Jack's opinion it was the best life a man could have.

He wanted Beau to love being a cowboy for what it was, not because he was attracted to some romantic vision of home on the range.

They checked a few more miles of fence. If Jack was alone, he'd probably ride till sundown instead of noon, but he'd watched Beau shiver, watched the way his face twisted in pain when he stretched the last piece of wire. Heading for home seemed a wise idea. He'd always considered himself a hard man. But he was human, too.

They rode in near silence back to the ranch. Jack couldn't think of anything to say, and Beau looked as if he were in too much agony
to speak. Maybe he'd gone overboard teaching him a lesson.

“Your hands hurt?” Jack asked.

“Some.”

“Crosby's got a cure for just about everything that could ever ail a man. He'll take care of them when we get back.”

“Did Crosby take care of you when you were growing up?”

“Sometimes. Most of the time my dad did.”

The boy looked at him sideways. “Must have been nice having a dad who cared about you.”

“Yeah.”

“You don't like having me around, do you?”

“What makes you say that?”

Beau shrugged. “Doesn't matter.” He put his spurs into the gelding's flanks and took off at a gallop. Jack would have stopped him, but the kid needed to let off steam, and Jack needed to think about the question.

Did he like having Beau around? Hell, he felt like a mustang being saddled for the first time. The only difference, a mustang kicked and jumped until the saddle started feeling comfortable.

Beau didn't feel comfortable, and Jack didn't know if he ever would. But that didn't keep those damned lumps from forming in his
throat every time he thought of the boy, didn't keep his chest from expanding with pride every time his son learned something new.

Beau was walking Diablo around the yard when Jack rode in. The boy had learned quickly that he couldn't run his horse and not cool it off afterward. The horse came first; his wounds came second. He didn't complain, and he did his job.

His grandparents had raised him well. Letting them take Beau after Beth was killed in the car accident had probably been the best thing after all. Jack could have fought for custody. His dad could have hired a dozen lawyers and spent endless amounts of money so Jack could keep his child, but he'd felt so damn guilty after Beth's death that he'd signed away all his rights.

One impulsive act on his part had changed so many lives, had hurt so many people. He shouldn't have begged Beth to run away with him that night. No one in his right mind would have married two sixteen-year-olds, but they were in love. They wanted to raise their baby together.

The accident had ended their dreams, had torn the girl he'd loved away from him forever—and he hadn't been able really to love anyone since.

Until Beau. But hell if he knew how to show him.

Sam had wisely said that actions speak louder than words. He, unfortunately, was failing miserably at both.

Rufus barked at the boy, nipping at his heels, wanting nothing more than to have Beau reach down and ruffle his fur, but the boy ignored him, in much the same way Jack had been with Beau most of the day.

He swung down from his mount, removed the saddle, blanket, and bridle, took hold of the lead rein and matched his steps with Beau's.

“Are you getting tired of being a cowboy?” he asked.

“No.”

“Mending fences is a big part of the job.”

“You think I can't handle it?”

“I think you can handle anything, if you put your mind to it.”

Beau shrugged, refusing to cut Jack any slack. He'd been a pretty poor excuse for a man sixteen years ago, and figured a cold shoulder was a small price to pay.

When the silence didn't end, he asked Beau about school. “How do you like your math and English tutor?”

“She's okay.”

“Home school's not quite the same as going
to classes with a bunch of other kids.”

“I don't mind.” Beau frowned, and angled his head toward Jack. “If I'm still here during the summer, I was thinking it might be fun to have a friend come up and visit.”

“I think that could be arranged. What's his name?”

“Sean. We grew up together.”

God, he'd missed so much. He didn't even know his son's friends.

Beau shifted the lead rein from one hand to the other, and Jack watched him wince.

“Want me to doctor those hands for you?” he asked.

Beau glanced at Jack, a questioning frown narrowing his eyes. “I thought you wanted Crosby to do it.”

“No need to disturb him.”

They turned the horses loose in the corral and walked silently toward the house. Rufus, tired of being ignored, had curled up on the back porch, and out of the corner of his eye, Jack caught Beau reaching down to scratch the top of the dog's head with swollen and scraped fingertips.

A smile touched Jack's lips, and something reached inside him and squeezed his heart.

“Get the water good and hot,” Jack said, when they entered the kitchen, “and wash up with lots of soap.”

While the boy was at the sink, Jack rummaged through the cabinet where they kept bandages and other first-aid supplies, pulled out antiseptic, some of Crosby's special salve, a pair of scissors, cotton balls, and bandages, and set everything on the table.

“Want a Coke?” he asked Beau.

“Could I have a beer?”

“No.”

“I figure I did a man's work today.”

“You did, but that doesn't have anything to do with beer.”

He set a Coke on the table, popped the top, then twisted the cap off his Bud and took a swallow.

Beau pulled a chair out with his boot and sat, then picked up the Coke and took a drink.

Without speaking, Jack lifted the boy's empty hand, inspected the abrasions on his knuckles, the blisters on his palms, and the cuts that seemed to appear in every fold of skin. Then he poured the antiseptic on a cotton ball and went to work.

“I heard you were made captain of the baseball team right before you left home,” Jack said, keeping his eyes on the wounds.

“No big deal.”

“You told me you'd been kicked out of school.”

“Seemed like a good thing to say at the time.”

“Why's that?”

“I figured if I was a failure, it would make you feel guilty about never being part of my life.”

“I carry around my own guilt,” Jack said, glancing at his son. “Your statement didn't add much to it.”

Jack put a bandage around Beau's thumb, then took a swallow of his beer. Setting the bottle back on the table, he pushed it toward Beau. “I suppose a swallow or two wouldn't hurt. Just don't go telling Mike. He doesn't approve of cussing, drinking, or smoking. Hell if I know how we ever became friends.”

Beau laughed, and God it sounded good.

Beau picked up the beer with the hand Jack had cleaned and bandaged. “Did you ever play baseball?” he asked, holding the bottle to his mouth.

Jack looked up from the palm he held. “We didn't have a baseball team where I went to school.”

“Why not?”

“There were only three guys and two girls in the school, and we ranged in age from six to seventeen. Would have made a pretty sorry team.”

“Was my mother one of the girls in the school?”

“No.”

Beau took another sip of beer and handed it back to Jack. “Where'd you meet her?”

“At a rodeo in Sheridan. I was fifteen and got thrown from a bronc. Broke my shoulder, and her dad—your grandpa—patched me up.”

“I don't think my grandfather liked you much.”

Jack lifted his eyes from Beau's hands. The boy was staring at him, looking for answers Jack didn't want to give.

He'd stretched the last bandage over Beau's palm. Pushing up from his chair, he grabbed his beer, and went to the window. “You've got schoolwork to do. Might as well get busy.”

“You ever going to tell me about you and my mom?”

“Nothing much to tell.”

He needed fresh air, needed to get out of the house and away from Beau. He dumped the rest of the beer down the sink and went outside.

The past was crowding in on him, and he didn't like it at all.

Rufus followed him across the yard, his tail wagging, his nose turned up waiting for a
friendly pat, a chance to nuzzle. But Jack wasn't in the mood.

“Go on back to the house,” he told the dog, and Jack watched Rufus turn around and run. Beau was waiting for him, kneeling just outside the kitchen door, staring at Jack with way too many questions in his eyes.

When he reached the old cottonwood, he stopped, leaned against the tree, and pulled a cigar and lighter from his pocket. He'd quit smoking in front of Beau. He'd given up the quiet of his home, the sheer pleasure of riding out alone whenever he wanted, and his peace of mind. He'd be damned if he'd give up the cigars entirely.

He'd forgotten his coat, and it was getting cold. The wind blew the cigar smoke away before he could enjoy the smell, and it shook the old wooden swing that hung by ancient rope. Seventeen years ago he'd pushed Beth in that swing. He'd had only one good arm at the time, but she was as light as the summer breeze, and he'd pushed and pushed, listening to her laugh as she soared high into the sky.

When she settled down on earth, he'd wrapped his arm around her and kissed her. It was early summer. Wildflowers were blooming, and they'd smelled so damn good mixed with her perfume. They'd found a spot near the stream where the grass was high and
the ground was smooth. Man could never have made such a perfect bed.

Beth was the first girl he'd ever loved—emotionally as well as physically. And Beau was right. Her father had despised him. He was a spoiled, wild kid who got whatever he wanted. And that day, down by the river, he'd wanted Beth.

The sound of a car coming up the road tore his attention from the past, from one of the best days in his life, from the memory of the girl he'd loved.

He pushed away from the tree, shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked off to the west. The rear wheels of a blue Explorer kicked up mud. The unfamiliar vehicle swerved and slid on the slick dirt road, as if someone was in a hurry to get to the ranch.

Jack took a puff on the cigar as he headed down the slope, taking his time getting back to the house. At the pace he was going, he'd get there about the same time as the speeding car.

He pictured Beth at his side, walking hand in hand over the grassy slope. He heard her laughter, realizing that Beau's laugh had sounded just the same. He remembered that day over sixteen years ago when she'd lovingly held a newborn in her arms, then held him out to Jack. He'd been scared to death of
that little bundle, but had felt damn proud holding the child he'd helped create. He remembered touching the tiny hand, running the tip of his callused finger over the soft pink palm.

He'd walked around the hospital room, telling his son about the pony he'd get him when he turned two. He'd talked about fishing together, going hunting, and riding the property that would someday be his.

But all his hopes and dreams had been shattered three weeks later—when Beth died, when he'd allowed Beau's grandparents to take him away.

He hadn't seen that little palm grow and mature into the hand he'd doctored this afternoon. He hadn't seen the boy take his first steps, hadn't held him when he fell down and scraped his knees. He'd missed so much—and he had no one to blame but himself.

How could he make Beau believe that even though he hadn't been part of his life, not one day had gone by when he hadn't thought about his son—or loved him?

For a man who'd easily turned a million-dollar ranch into a nearly billion-dollar empire, he'd sure made a mess of his personal life. First Beth. Now Beau. And, of course, there was Sam.

He thought about her smile, her laugh. He
detested Florida, especially the superficially rich trappings of Palm Beach, but he wanted to hop a plane right now and see Sam again.

The timing was all wrong, though. He had to focus on Beau, to build something strong and lasting between them. When that was accomplished, he'd go after the redhead. Maybe she'd know what she wanted by then, maybe she wouldn't push him away.

He stubbed the cigar out in the dirt just before he reached the house. Beau was sitting on the front porch, his boots perched on the railing. Mike was walking out of the barn with two of the hands who lived a few miles up the road, and the screen door slammed as Crosby hobbled out the front door.