Sunflower Lane Page 8

  “Great. Happy hunting.” Wes couldn’t hold back a smile at their enthusiasm. He stood to his full height, glancing down again at the mutt. “See you later, guys. I’d better get him over to the vet, and see he gets some food and water in him.”

  “Jimmy! Ethan!” A woman’s voice rang out from across the park. “Come on, boys. Time to go home!” A fortyish female in jeans and a tucked-in white shirt was motioning for the boys to join her.

  “That’s my mom.” Jimmy sighed. “We gotta go. See ya.” He took off running toward his mother, and Ethan raced after him.

  “Bye, Treasure,” he called over his shoulder. “Bye, Mr. McPhee.”

  Wes bent and lifted the dog into his arms. The mutt licked his chin.

  “No slobbering,” he ordered as he headed for the vet’s office.

  The dog merely licked him again.

  “No getting attached, either.”

  It was the way he lived his own life. Not everyone’s style. But it suited him. It had for the past twelve years. Hell, in the DEA, you’d better not get too attached to anyone because everyone you knew, everyone you worked with and socialized with, could be dead in an instant. And often were.

  It had worked for him. He’d absorbed the losses the way he’d absorbed all the other blows in his life. His father’s stinging criticism, sharp reprimands, and brutal sarcasm. He hadn’t minded so much what Hoot said to him. But when he’d started in on his mother and on Sophie—even when Sophie was still just a little kid . . .

  Wes had been filled with anger. Swift, hard, ugly anger.

  And then, one time, when Sophie had run sobbing up to her room, and his mother was in town buying groceries, he’d had it out with the old man. Told Hoot if he ever caught him tearing into Sophie that way again, he’d knock his teeth out.

  The words of an angry, frustrated eighteen-year-old trying to protect his sister had ignited a white-hot rage in Hoot that burned like rocket fuel on takeoff. His father had hit him in the face, sending him crashing into the armchair in the living room. Before he could get up, Hoot had come after him again and tried to kick him, but Wes grabbed his foot and yanked.

  Hoot went down, and Wes surged to his feet.

  What happened after that was ugly. Not as ugly as some of the fights for his life Wes had engaged in during his career, fights against drug lords and mob bosses and thugs of all ilk and nationality and color.

  But ugly because the man was his father. Up until that day.

  The day after, Wes decided he had no father. And no place anymore in Lonesome Way. He’d packed up, struck out on his own, found work on a construction crew, and put himself through college and law school without a dime from home.

  It had taken him eight years. Eight years of scraping by, eating peanut butter sandwiches and potato chips for supper, wearing his jeans until they were falling apart, only going out for a beer with the guys every other week. Studying and working nonstop.

  And it had been worth it never to have to see Hoot again.

  Never to be beholden to him.

  He’d wanted to come back and beat the crap out of him again when he heard that his father had been cheating on his mother, having affairs with several women in Lonesome Way—including Lorelei Hardin, the mayor’s wife.

  But then he learned that Diana had thrown him out of the house, off the ranch that her grandfather had built, and wanted nothing more to do with him.

  And Wes had forced himself to be satisfied with that. If he’d come home and confronted Hoot again at that point, given all the hell the bastard had put everyone through over the years, including his mother and Sophie, not to mention Wes himself—Wes just might have killed him.

  That was what he was afraid of.

  So he’d stayed away. Focused on the life and career he’d begun building for himself. He hadn’t come home, even for Hoot’s funeral.

  He had to admit, the town felt different now that Hoot was gone.

  It had always been a friendly town—Wes had almost forgotten that—but even as he walked to the vet’s office, people smiled at him, some reached out to pat the dog’s head as he passed, and just as he reached the building, his old girlfriend Marissa walked out of the drugstore and immediately came toward him.

  “Made a new friend, I see.” She smiled—that slightly mysterious, suggestive little smile he remembered from high school. Marissa was still as pretty as she’d been in the twelfth grade. And apparently she wasn’t furious at him anymore for breaking up with her and leaving town without a word the day before the big senior blowout party following graduation.

  “You want him?” he offered as she reached out to stroke the dog’s head.

  “I have a cat; sorry. That’s all the responsibility I can handle right now. But you and me . . .” Her head tilted to one side. “We should catch up.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” The dog was wriggling in his arms, and Wes set him down, saying, “Stay.” He looked at Marissa. “I’m not hanging around for too long.”

  “Funny, I heard you’ll be in town until the Fourth of July. Darby and I got all the scoop at A Bun in the Oven a little while ago.”

  “Always knew there was a reason I didn’t like small towns.”

  “We’re not so bad. And . . . it’s good to see you, Wes.”

  “You, too, Riss.”

  “Darby and I are headed over to the Double Cross tonight. If you’re not busy, stop by, have a drink with us. We’ll catch up.”

  “So happens I’ll be there, but it’s for a business meeting.”

  “Perfect. Come on over and hang out when you’re done. But just so you know, Big Billy still doesn’t allow dogs.” She smiled, catlike, over her shoulder as she sauntered past him toward Spring Street.

  “By tonight he’ll be someone else’s problem,” Wes assured her.

  She glanced back at him, still smiling. “Then I’ll see you later.”

  He watched her walk away. Oh yeah, he remembered that walk. It had turned him on back then, and now it still did, a little.

  But an image of Annabelle Harper from this morning, looking luscious and rushed and in charge, her toenails painted hot pink, riotous blond curls swinging over her shoulders, a faint trace of freckles on her delicate nose as she rustled those kids out of the house, suddenly popped into his head, extinguishing Marissa from his brain. Annabelle was hot and gorgeous without even trying. There was something unaffected, determined, and honest about her that was very different from the deliberately sensual vibe he’d always picked up from Riss.

  With Annabelle, there was no hidden agenda, no subtle come-on. The only thing Annabelle Harper was focused on doing was taking care of her nieces and nephew.

  Refreshing, he thought, then deliberately pushed away the memory of how her wildly sexy curves filled out her jeans and T-shirt. Of how those golden brown eyes had warily searched his face.

  Steer clear, if you know what’s good for you, he reminded himself grimly as he herded the dog into the vet’s office. That way trouble lies.

  The animal trembled like an autumn leaf caught in a gale storm during Doc Weatherby’s quick once-over.

  Weatherby checked for a microchip, but found none. Fortunately the mutt didn’t have fleas or ticks or anything else that might pose a problem. On the other hand, he was nervous, underweight, and shaking.

  “He seems pretty hungry and scared,” Wes said after the exam. “You’ll feed him soon, won’t you?”

  “Oh, I can’t keep him here, Wes. You’ll have to take him over to the shelter. They’ll see to him.”

  “Shelter?”

  “It’s a new one. Real nice facility, modern, clean, and good people run it,” the vet said. “Don’t feel bad about taking him there.”

  “I don’t.” Wes glanced at the dog, who stared beseechingly into his eyes. “But I may just keep him for tonight, so I see
he gets a good meal. Tomorrow I’ll bring him in for a full exam—shots, whatever he needs. Then he can go to the shelter.”

  “I have surgeries scheduled at nine A.M. and ten A.M. Bring him in at eleven thirty and I’ll perform a thorough exam. Angie from the shelter will be here assisting me tomorrow, so she can always take him over there afterward, if you don’t want to stick around. Thanks for bringing him in, Wes. We’ll take good care of him.”

  Wes shook the vet’s hand, then strode to the door. The dog bounded after him like a shot. He can’t wait to get out of here, poor guy.

  Wes couldn’t blame him.

  “Okay, here’s the deal. I’m bringing you home for one night,” he told the mutt as they headed toward his truck. “One night only, then you go to the shelter. Got it? But we’ll pick up some burgers at the drive-through first.” He glanced down at the dog trotting eagerly at his side. “Don’t get any ideas, though. It’s only because I’m hungry, too.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Okay, you two. It’s time to make a decision.”

  Annabelle regarded her friends over the giant dessert menu at the Double Cross Bar and Grill. “What’s it going to be?”

  She was seated at a big square table across from Charlotte and Tess, enveloped by the blast of lively country music, rowdy laughter, and the incessant click of pool cues.

  Tess was still peering at the menu. She finally looked up and took a sip of her decaf iced tea before answering. “First we need to narrow it down to the top three.”

  “That works for me.” Annabelle glanced at the menu again. There were too many tantalizing choices, but she finally made a decision.

  “My picks are the double-fudge marshmallow cake, the fresh peach cobbler, and a peanut butter sundae.” Her eyes danced with anticipation. “All in favor, speak now.”

  The three women had polished off a large salad and a pizza, while the guys had devoured steaks and double-baked potatoes. As usual, the Double Cross was packed, nearly every seat taken, the cavernous room alive with laughter and chatter, accentuated by the excellent sound system and Jason Aldean’s voice crooning from the jukebox.

  “Help me out here, guys,” Annabelle demanded over the music. “I refuse to make such a big decision all on my own.”

  “All of those sound awesome. Let’s split them three ways.” Tess’s dark auburn hair glowed in the bright light of the bar as she glanced at Charlotte for confirmation.

  But Charlotte bit her lip. “Sorry to be a downer, but I vote no on the sundae. Let’s split the cake and the cobbler between us and call it a night.”

  “What? No sundae?” Tess questioned, her eyebrows shooting up.

  “Not for me. Tomorrow I’m shopping for a wedding gown with my mom. I need to cut back—way back—on desserts, on everything—at least until after I walk down the aisle.”

  “That’s so not fair,” Tess protested. “I’m eating for two.”

  “That means you get to order as many desserts as you want,” Annabelle said soothingly. “And chances are, the guys will want some, too.”

  Her gaze flitted to Tim and John, still totally immersed in shooting pool.

  “Oh, never mind them.” Tess waved a dismissive hand toward her husband’s broad back. “By the time they drag themselves away from that pool table and come over here for dessert, I’ll be ready for seconds.”

  It was a good thing Big Billy—the Double Cross’s owner and bartender—had a huge space here, complete with a dartboard and plenty of pool tables, along with a big dance floor, because nearly every inch of the place was packed. The giant, noisy bar was a sea of men in cowboy hats, jeans, and boots, and an ocean of women wearing short skirts and skimpy tops, or jeans with glittery tees or silk blouses, and boots or high heels.

  Annabelle sipped her wine, taking in the tourists swarming around the long, curving mahogany bar. Lonesome Way had become an increasingly popular destination for tourists over the past few years, and her gaze swept from an obvious Easterner wearing stiff new designer jeans and a polo shirt to a woman with a haircut that looked way too sophisticated for the Cuttin’ Loose Salon.

  She also caught sight of Darby and Marissa on the opposite side of the dance floor, seated on barstools at a tall table, and surrounded by local ranch hands—guys they’d all gone to school with. Some of them were men Annabelle had gone out with when she’d returned to Lonesome Way—her “one-timers,” as Charlotte called them.

  Annabelle had gone out on a date only one time with each of them. Though they’d all asked her for a second date, she’d said no, explaining that it wasn’t easy getting a sitter, and she didn’t like leaving the kids too often at night.

  Especially so soon after their parents’ deaths.

  Of course, if she’d met someone who knocked her socks off, things might have been different. But she hadn’t.

  And that was a good thing, she’d told herself more than once. Because the last man who’d knocked her socks off was Zack—and he’d also knocked her into a wall when she gave directions to a lost tourist in Philly—a young man simply trying to find the Liberty Bell Museum.

  Zack, who’d been looking out the window of their apartment, happened to see her talking to the man—smiling, standing close to him as she gave him directions.

  And he’d flipped out.

  When she’d come up to their loft, he’d thrown her against the foyer wall. Hard. Pinned her there, shouted in her face . . .

  She swallowed now, closed her eyes a moment.

  No more men. No more mistakes.

  She hadn’t gone out on a second date with any man in Lonesome Way. Her friends knew everything that had happened with Zack, but they simply didn’t believe she was serious about being done with men.

  Oh, they were sympathetic. They were horrified by what she’d gone through. And protective.

  But they hadn’t been there. Not in the loft where she and Zack had lived, or in the building’s elevator, when he’d accused her of flirting with the new tenant on the sixth floor. They hadn’t been in the hotel, either, the time she and Zack had gone to Atlantic City, when the doorman had complimented her new silk dress as she passed by.

  They hadn’t felt the fear, the pain, the shock of Zack’s hands crushing her wrists, of his fist slamming into the bones of her face the moment they reached their room.

  Men weren’t worth the trouble, the letdown, or the heartache.

  Sounds like a country song, she thought to herself, even as her glance skimmed past Dick Tyson, owner of a ranch on Mule Road, who’d taken her out to a fancy dinner in Livingston. He was nice enough, but he had beer breath, and talked endlessly about his ex-wife, who’d cheated on him with a stockman from Laramie.

  She didn’t need a man. She had three young children to care for, and friends to celebrate good times with, and a cabin she might be able to rent out soon. . . .

  And maybe, just maybe, a little chocolate business that she might get going one of these days . . .

  I’ll make dark chocolate truffles for Charlotte’s bridal shower favors, she decided, her heart lightening. And maybe caramel chews and milk chocolate mint hearts—plus some mini chocolate wedding bells. Wrap them in delicate little gilt bags tied with silver ribbon and . . .

  At that moment, the door of the Double Cross opened and Wes McPhee strode in, all six foot four inches of magnificent, hunky male.

  Oh God, give me a break. Her pulse pumped faster at the sight of him. Honestly, why did he have to look so . . . so . . .

  Hot.

  There was just no other word for it.

  Those sharp green eyes swept the entire place in the space of an instant, sizing up the room like a boxer sizing up any opponent who could possibly step into the ring.

  When he saw her, he gave a brief nod of acknowledgment, a slight quirk of his lips, then nonchalantly strode toward the rows of tables
and booths on the opposite side of the dance floor. Annabelle didn’t want to do it, but she couldn’t help herself from craning her neck to see where he was headed.

  A flicker of surprise rippled through her when she saw him shake hands with Jake Tanner, then slide into a chair opposite him at a small table.

  Now, what’s that all about?

  Not that it was any of her business. Nothing about her temporary new tenant was her business.

  “Wow, can you feel it?” Charlotte murmured in awe.

  “Feel what?” Annabelle asked.

  “The electricity.”

  Tess grinned, and waved her hand over her face as if she was fanning herself. “Oh, yeah. I think every single woman in the place is tingling right now. And a few married ones. Even me. But don’t tell John,” she added quickly, with a blush.

  “Honestly, Annabelle, your life is going to be so interesting, what with Wes living so close by. Right down the lane, really,” Charlotte murmured. She studied Annabelle from beneath her dark lashes. “I can tell you, if I wasn’t engaged and madly in love—”

  “Not another word, either one of you.”

  Thankfully, their waitress, Christy, a mother of four, interrupted, skidding up to the table to take their dessert orders. As soon as Christy strode off, Annabelle changed the subject.

  “Let’s talk about something important. Like your wedding shower.”

  That got Charlotte’s full attention, and she trained her gaze on her friends, apparently forgetting all about Wes.

  “Tess and I need to start planning ASAP,” Annabelle continued. “You should go dance with Tim while we work out a few preliminary details.”

  “But—here’s the thing.” Charlotte drew a breath. “Don’t be mad, but . . . I . . . I still don’t even know if I want a wedding shower. First I have to do a little more research and make sure it isn’t bad luck—”

  Suddenly, though, she broke off, her eyes brightening as her gaze fell upon her fiancé, slapping high fives at the close of a game of pool. “Well, all right,” she declared, pushing back her chair. “If you insist, I’ll go dance with that handsome man over there. Talk amongst yourselves.”