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Lone Star Rising
Darlene Graham


Another man's babyAfter her husband is killed in a barn fire, Robbie McBride Tellchick is left alone to raise three boys–and the baby on the way. With the fire still under investigation, she can't even depend on the insurance money. She can, however, depend on Zack Trueblood, a firefighter who claims he wants to help Robbie through her pregnancy–and beyond.It's well-known in the town of Five Points, Texas, that Zack's ambition is to be a landowner. His growing feelings for Robbie seem more than sincere, but she has to wonder what kind of man wants to raise someone else's child. Does he want the land she can no longer afford to keep?Or does he want Robbie?









Zack was amazed how everything he’d ever learned was coming back to him in a rush


He sent up a silent prayer to just keep it coming, keep it coming.

Then things seemed to go into slow motion.

The next pain gripped Robbie even more intensely than the others. To Zack she seemed like an angel under his hands, spreading her wings in silent, intent submission, as a tiny dark head steadily slid out against his cupped palm. With his free hand he grabbed a corner of the receiving blanket to steady the slippery baby. The head rotated, revealing a darling pinched little face, then easily, slowly, powerfully, the shoulders, one then the other, followed. The rest of the tiny body appeared as if materializing from heaven.

Perfect! She was perfect!


Dear Reader,

At the start of THE BABY DIARIES series, I observed that babies seldom arrive when it is convenient. To prove my point, I decided to have the baby in this story arrive on Zack Trueblood and Robbie Tellchick’s first date!

This couple seems to have everything kind of backward. People usually fall in love, get married and then experience labor and delivery together. But Zack and Robbie are the kind of people who forge ahead with courage and do whatever they have to do, even if that means facing down a murderer.

By the time the two of them finally admit they can’t live without each other, they’ve caught the murderer, and eventually they get the marrying part done, too.

So here we are again, traveling the remote winding roads of the beautiful Texas Hill Country to the historic town I’ve named Five Points.

And while I’m sure there are real arsonists and thugs and corrupt politicians in this world, this small town and these quirky characters are pure fiction.

As always, my best to you,

Darlene Graham

P.S. I love to hear from my readers! Drop me a line at P.O. Box 72024, Norman, OK 73070 or visit www.darlenegraham. com and send an e-mail. While you’re there take a peek at the third book in THE BABY DIARIES trilogy, Lone Star Diary, coming July 2006 from Signature Select Saga.




Lone Star Rising

Darlene Graham





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This book is for Ray, the whistling carpenter, the original “man from Texas” in my life.

No daughter could ask for a better father!




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN




CHAPTER ONE


DEAR DIARY,

I feel like a fool for even writing the words Dear Diary—a woman my age (37!), a pregnant mother of three who definitely has better things to do with her time than scribbling in a diary like some teenager.

But I promised my sister Markie that I would start a diary again, just like the three of us did when we were young. Markie said to call it a journal if it made me feel better. Whatever I call it, she claims writing out my feelings will help me, heal me, give me focus, put me in touch with my deepest desires and blah, blah, blah. I don’t know about all that, but God knows I could use a little diversion.

So here goes.

Dear journal, or diary or whatever, allow me to introduce myself. Roberta McBride Tellchick. Bankrupt widow. Mother of three boys with yet another on the way. Freckle-faced, redheaded middle sister. The one sandwiched in between two smart, vivid brunettes like a piece of pale cheese.

What can I possibly have to write about here? My sister has no concept of what it is like to walk in my low-heeled shoes. She’s caught up in an exciting, glamorous life in Austin and has recently gotten herself blissfully married to the gorgeous man of her dreams.

Okay. That’s not fair. Markie’s had some serious pain to deal with in her life, and I have to say, I’m very proud of the way she handled herself. I mean, giving a baby up for adoption when she was only seventeen! And then seeing him again out of the blue when he’s all grown up. Markie claims writing in her baby diary kept her sane while she endured all that pain so long ago. She says it’s in our blood, this urge to write everything down. She says I’m not supposed to censor my feelings on these pages or worry about what anybody else thinks.

Okay. I have just had the day from hell.

I look like I’ve got a beach ball stuck under my shirt and I didn’t have time to wash my hair before I went to work. I’m exhausted because I have to go to work at dark-thirty, which is the way of it when you’re a lowly waitress in a diner that specializes in the monster Texas breakfast. We have to get in there and help Parson—that’s been old Virgil’s “real” name ever since he was in the Navy—roll out the biscuits and chop up the home fries.

Nattie Rose, the other waitress at the Hungry Aggie, told me I don’t have to come in early if I don’t want to. She is too kind, that Nattie Rose. Has a real heart of gold, even if she does cake on the eye makeup worse than Tammy Faye Bakker. I told her that I am grateful for the job, and I am not going to start slacking off my very first week. Especially since I’ll be taking off to have the baby in only five short weeks. It’s ridiculous for me to be working at all in my condition. I know that. But Danny left me and the boys with nothing, and I do mean not a thing. It looks like the farm is gone for good now, not that I’m sorry to be away from that place, away from the terrible memories.

I try my best not to relive the fire, but sometimes your mind just insists on rolling the video anyway, you know? It’s been almost four months now and I still don’t have the report from the local fire marshal. What’s the holdup?

At least I finally started getting the social security checks, thank the Lord, but that money barely covers groceries and rent. It’s not enough for those new Nike tennis shoes my oldest is suddenly needing. Not enough for the extras I’ll be needing for this baby. I’m still holding out hope for the insurance money on the barn.

I don’t want to waste paper and ink on my problems. I find it’s actually easier to focus on something trivial like my hair. When I woke up and looked at the clock this morning, I had no choice but to twist the mess up on top of my head and clip it up into a treetop. But since my hair’s the kind that has a mind of its own, by noon I’d developed a frizzy little orange halo around my face. Very, very cute.

But what does it matter how I look when—now who on earth could be ringing my doorbell? The boys know it’s too late to be having any kids over.



WHEN ROBBIE opened the door, the first thing that registered were Zack Trueblood’s dark eyes, traveling over her face, then widening with what she imagined to be involuntary shock—or was it disgust?—when he came to her hair. But he rearranged his expression quickly enough. “Hello, Mrs. Tellchick.”

“Hello, Zack.”

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” Again his gaze slid to her hair, then slammed back down to the porch boards, then flicked up to her face, once again composed and polite. Robbie thought it was decent of him to skip her pumpkin-shaped midsection.

But when he looked once more at her hideous hair, she gave him a level gaze and patted it. “It’s easy, you know. I just stick a fork in the toaster and I’m done.”

The corner of his mouth lifted a little then, but he didn’t actually smile. His expression said he was here on serious business. Oh, Lord help me, Robbie thought. She was in no mood for this. But a bad feeling in her gut told her this was some kind of follow-up visit about the fire.

“May I come in?” The way he said it was almost apologetic. Zack, she remembered from high school, had always been famously polite.

“Sure.” The door of the old house Robbie had recently moved into creaked like something out of a horror movie as she opened it wider for him.

Robbie imagined a grossly pregnant widow was so not supposed to think thoughts like, Damn, that man is hot. But boy, was he ever. Deep-set black eyes, bronze complexion, heavy black hair. As he ambled past she couldn’t help a quick glance at his muscular backside, and she caught a whiff of the most delicious aftershave she’d ever smelled.

As for herself, Robbie imagined the oniony odor of the home fries over at the Hungry Aggie mixed with the lingering aroma of the spaghetti sauce she’d made for the boys was enough to make any man retch.

She had seen Zack at the diner several times this past week with a couple of his firefighter buddies. Booth six. She suspected those big tips under the saltshaker were from him. Was that out of guilt? Pity? Robbie figured she was the one who should be feeling the guilt. It was her pleas, her screams that drove this man into that burning barn. Her hysteria could have cost him his life, and it had certainly done nothing to save Danny’s.

These were her jumbled thoughts as Zack walked past her. That she was a mess, and that his shoulders were to die for. That his whole physique, in fact, was most impressive. He positively dwarfed her, even now, when she was fatter than a cow. Her guess was he spent a lot of time pumping iron over at that fire station.

No sooner had he stepped foot in her house than there came a scary crash from the kitchen. It sounded like glass breaking, followed by a stunningly abnormal silence, followed by the dogs’ wild barking, followed by the high-pitched changeling voice of Robbie’s twelve-year-old. “Now look what you’ve done!” he screamed. “Mom’s gonna kill you!”

“Shut the hell up!” That clever retort came from Robbie’s eight-year-old, who recently acquired that delightful word, along with some others she didn’t want to hear in her house. If Danny were alive he’d box his son’s ears for talking that way.

The pandemonium that followed—three boys yelling and two dogs barking—made Robbie wince.

“Would you excuse me?” she said sweetly to Zack. “Oh—” She turned back to him. “Please. Come on in. That is, if you think you can stand it.”

This time the corners of Zack’s mouth tipped up into a full-fledged grin.



ZACK TRUEBLOOD followed Robbie Tellchick down a narrow corridor that ran parallel to the stairway and ended at a high-ceilinged kitchen at the back of the house. He watched her tangled thatch of hair bounce around on the crown of her head, and wondered if this was the new style or something. Curls upon curls upon curls, and his guess was that none of it had seen a comb today.

She had always been a true redhead, he recalled. He remembered how pretty her hair was in high school, strands of spun copper mixed with streaks of blond. The rest of her looked equally disheveled. What was with the perpetual overalls? She even wore them at the diner, as if she didn’t care what anybody thought of her.

The last time he’d been to her home she’d looked even frumpier, if that were possible, standing in the shadows behind the screened door of her mudporch out on the farm, cinched up in a faded pink bathrobe that looked to have seen better days. She’d grown even rounder, too. Was the poor woman having twins? He dared not let his eyes travel down to her gently swishing backside. Wouldn’t that be some kind of sin against nature, to check out a pregnant woman’s behind? He guessed it was those deviling memories of how cute her bottom had been in high school that made his eyes flick down there anyway.

He immediately wished they hadn’t.

Despite the deterioration of her looks, he had found himself as drawn to Robbie Tellchick as ever. What was it about her? Her cheery determination to please even the grumpiest customer? Her laugh? Surely that. He could pick up the sound of it from all the way across the diner. Was it the way she’d taken hold with her boys, valiantly trying to be both mother and father? He’d seen her at a T-ball game last summer, pregnant and hot, but cheering on her youngest with all her might. And now here Zack was, about to add to her problems.

Whatever his fascination with the woman, he didn’t have long to dwell on it, or his guilt, because two mutts came hurtling out of the kitchen and bumped into Robbie’s legs, knocking her off balance and backward into Zack.

“Whoa!” Zack said as the dogs shot out the open front door while Zack grabbed for Robbie in several awkward places as she stumbled against him. He’d never felt anything so soft! All women were soft and, yes, he delighted in that softness, but this was a kind of softness that was unearthly, so buoyant as to be angelic, almost as if she herself were the baby. She pushed off of him like he was a brick wall and yelled, “Those dang dogs!”

Then she barreled onward into the kitchen.

The three Tellchick boys froze like little statues when they saw Zack coming up behind her. He hoped it wasn’t because their young minds were flashing back to the one and only time they’d seen him before. But Zack had been in full firefighting regalia that night—turnouts, helmet, asbestos mask. Covered in black soot. Eyebrows and hair singed to brittle little filaments of scorched beige. Surely they didn’t recognize him, standing here in a clean and pressed day uniform. He hoped they didn’t connect him with his failure in the event that had shattered their young lives. He wondered if their mother had told them who Zack Trueblood was—the man who hadn’t saved their father.

“Get away from that glass!” the mother shrieked.

And who could blame her? The kitchen was dim—illuminated only by a single bulb over the sink—but Zack could see shards of glass spread in a glittering array on the windowsill. In the sink, on the counter, the floor. Zack was already looking for a light switch…and for blood. “Everybody okay, fellas?” He found the switch and flipped it. No result.

They nodded mutely, these three cute kids, all obviously stamped from the same mold. Wiry and muscular the way their dad had once been, handsome and even-featured like their mother, but each distinct in coloring. Two redheads and a lone brunette. The big one looked like one giant freckle. His hands dripped suds, and he clutched a dish rag as if he were strangling it. The middle one, nearly as dark-haired as Zack, had turned white as a sheet. The younger one had the kind of red hair that was so pale as to be almost blond. He stood hunch-shouldered like a scared little squirrel. For one second, Zack tried to remember what it felt like to be a boy, to find yourself in trouble with a stressed-out single mother. Didn’t he have plenty of experience in this situation?

“What happened?” Robbie demanded as she charged forward.

“He did it!” the two younger ones said simultaneously, pointing at each other.

The older boy stepped up, careful of the glass. “Mom, these two hawnyawks were playing baseball instead of drying the dishes.”

Zack had to smile. He hadn’t heard anyone use the word hawnyawk since his grandfather died.

“Baseball?” Robbie’s reddish mop of hair bobbled as her raised palms indicated the smallish room. “In the kitchen?”

“Not real baseball,” the littlest one protested. “Mark had a golf ball and I was hittin’ at it with the broomstick.”

“We wasn’t hurtin’ anything, Mom,” the middle one said. His little face was painfully sincere. “Until stupid here forgot how to bunt.”

“I’m only five years old!” his little brother yelled. “I don’t even get to punt yet. I just barely started T-ball!”

“It’s bunt, twerp, not punt,” the middle one yelled back. “And ya don’t swing like you’re hittin’ a homer in the house!”

“Do not call your brother a twerp.” Robbie shot Zack an embarrassed glance. He shrugged. “Or stupid for that matter.” She shoved the child’s dark bangs up and zeroed in on a tiny nick above his brow. “This could have been your eye, young man. Is everything else okay?” she demanded.

The kids nodded solemnly.

“Mom, I’m sorry about the window.” The older one moved to stand beside his brother. “But honest, I was just doing the dishes, and next thing I know a golf ball comes flying right past my head.”

Robbie shoved at the boys’ shoulders. “You two could have hurt your brother. Now get over by the door. Go on.” Robbie’s voice echoed sharply in the bare-walled kitchen. When the boys moved, she snapped open a paper bag she had snatched from under the sink and started flicking glass off the edge of the counter into it. Not carefully enough, Zack thought.

There was a right way and a wrong way to do most things. The right way being, take all necessary safety precautions.

“I’ll take care of that,” he said, reaching for the sack. “I have some leather work gloves out in my truck. You tend to your boys.” The kids had clotted up over by the door, holding themselves in the defensive poses of boys in trouble.

She whirled on him. “Tend to them? Tend to them?” Her voice rose. “I ought to tend to their backsides. These little incidents,” she said as she plucked up some larger pieces of glass and sent them crashing into the sack with too much force, “are happening with alarming regularity around this house. A broken window, a burning dish towel.” She stopped tossing glass and gave her sons a withering look. “A flooded bathroom. This nonsense has got to stop!” Her voice rose, threatening hysteria and tears. “Because in case nobody’s noticed I’ve got a baby on the way in exactly five weeks!”

The younger boys cringed in guilt. The older one was blushing clear to the roots of his red hair.

“Yes, ma’am,” Zack agreed quietly. Which sounded totally lame, but he didn’t know what else to say. He’d given up on getting the sack out of her hands. He turned his attention to the boys. “Guys. Why don’t you, uh, go in the living room while I help your mother clean this up?” He was thinking maybe it’d be better if they didn’t see their mother cry.

The two younger kids seized the opportunity and shot off faster than the dogs. But the oldest one hung back. “Who are you anyway?” He was eyeing Zack’s new Gall’s jacket—black leather with the department shield stitched over the breast pocket.

Zack figured the kid had maybe put two and two together by now.

“I’m a, uh, a friend of your mother’s. I came to talk to her about…business.” Not business. Bad news.

“Were you one of the firemen that put out the fire that killed my dad?” Hearing a twelve-year-old talk about the tragedy so matter of factly nearly broke Zack’s heart. No kid should be saying words like the fire that killed my dad.

Robbie Tellchick’s eyes widened, moist with tears. Zack had already decided that maybe this was not the night to share his news. He did not want to do anything to bring this family one more iota of pain. In fact, he had vowed to do anything in his power to help them. But in this case he didn’t know how to spare them the hurt. The truth was going to come out, eventually. The fire had been determined to be arson, and the arsonist, it turned out, was the boys’ father.

“Yes, I was there,” he said calmly, “but that’s nothing for you to worry about.” He took two steps across the gritty wood floorboards, his boots clumping too loudly in the cramped space. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and was glad that the kid didn’t immediately shrug him off. “I’ll help your mother clean up this mess. Why don’t you go on in there with your brothers.”

But the boy stood his ground, squinting at Zack with alert brown eyes. Zack dropped his hand and tried not to look guilty, though the discomfort he felt was acute.

“I’m going to learn CPR,” the boy stated with conviction.

“That’s good. Everybody should.” Zack said it neutrally, not sure where the kid was going with this, still not sure if the kid recognized him. It occurred to Zack that he must get his grit from his mother, because he certainly hadn’t gotten it from that worthless drip of a father. Zack knew he shouldn’t think about a dead man with such contempt, but as far as he was concerned, Danny Tellchick had always been a goombah of the first stripe, a guy who never appreciated or deserved a woman like Robbie McBride.

All three of the McBride sisters had been smart as whips, and beautiful to boot. Robbie’s intelligence was only one of many things Zack had admired about her back when he was four grades behind her in high school.

“I expect you know CPR and all that stuff.” The kid was still looking Zack up and down, his head tilting now, his gaze growing more wary.

“Yeah. I’m a firefighter.” Zack stood violently still, hardly breathing, because out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Robbie’s lips were pressing together, tighter and tighter.

“You’re the one. Aren’t you?” The kid sounded almost angry. “The one who went in and pulled my dad out of the fire and did CPR on him?”

“Yes.” Zack Trueblood was indeed the one. The one who had performed pointless CPR on their father’s scorched lifeless body right before these children’s eyes. The one who had intensified their horror a hundred fold.

The one who had loved their mother from afar for nearly eighteen years.




CHAPTER TWO


ZACH LOOKED AT the wiry kid standing before him and felt unsure of himself for the first time in a very long time. Unsure of what the boy must be thinking. Unsure of what to say. He looked at Robbie Tellchick. Her arms were folded above her bulging tummy in a stance as closed and tight as a straight jacket. Her compressed lips indicated that she had no intention of breaking the uneasy silence.

“What’s your name, son?” Zack asked the boy.

“Mark.”

“Mark, would it be okay if we talked about this later? For now, why don’t you go on in there with your brothers?”

The boy left quietly and Robbie proceeded to attack her task with angry purpose.

“Ma’am.” Zack had to grab her arms to make her let up with the glass. “Let me do that. Really. Let me get those heavy-duty gloves from my truck. And a hammer. It would be best to break these larger pieces out.” With a nod of his head he indicated the ridges of glass sticking out of the windowpane like a silhouette of the Swiss Alps. He felt her muscles tense with resistance for one second, then her arms went limp in his grip.

“I still can’t talk about that night,” she whispered.

“I understand. I really do,” Zack assured her quietly. He still had trouble with it himself. And now he’d come with news that would only complicate the healing even further. But right now they couldn’t afford to wallow in the past. There was glass to clean up and three hurting and confused children in the next room.

“Why don’t you go see about your boys,” he urged her again as he released her wrists.

Robbie blew out a frustrated breath and brushed back her frizzy hair. For a second, it looked like she might cry again. “Okay,” she finally said. “But be careful with that glass.”

“I always am,” Zack said flatly. He always was. But sometimes being careful wasn’t enough. Sometimes, like the night Danny Tellchick died, it was simply too late.

She turned and slowly went through a swinging door at the side of the room where he caught a glimpse of a small, dim dining room beyond.

He went back out the main doorway of the kitchen to the narrow corridor that led to the front door, which still stood open, swaying on creaky hinges in the October wind. The thing was nice and heavy, he noticed now. Solid oak. Beveled glass oval window. Probably dated back to the nineteenth century and some prosperous German immigrant who had settled in this part of Texas. He noted, too, the scarred hardwood flooring in the entry hall, the finely detailed newel post at the foot of the stairs, the weakly lit miniature chandelier overhead.

He’d never paid much attention to this house from the street. It was one of many Victorian-era relics in Five Points, barely visible behind mounds of overgrown arbor vitae bushes. But he could see now that the place certainly had potential. Who was renting it out to Robbie Tellchick? Old man Mestor, most likely. He owned several in this part of town, all in disrepair like this one.

The living room opened off the narrow hallway with a set of double pocket doors, which stood open a crack. Walking past, he caught a glimpse of Robbie’s round tummy and heard her irritated voice interrogating the boys. “Where on earth did you get a golf ball?”

A childish voice gave a defensive reply, but he couldn’t make out the words.

“All right.” Robbie’s voice came back high and sharp. “I want you guys to go upstairs and do your homework and get your baths and put on your pajamas.”

“Even me?” Zack heard Mark protest.

Zack dug the necessary items out of a toolbox mounted in the truck bed under the rear window. He’d have to ask Robbie if she had a spare cardboard box. Since she’d just moved that seemed likely.

He went back to the kitchen, and she came trundling in on his heels.

“You really don’t have to do that,” she said.

Of course he didn’t, but he wasn’t going to argue the point. “Have you got a broom and a dustpan? And a cardboard box? And maybe some duct tape?”

“I think so.” She went to a door that opened to a cramped utility room, where Zack could see a washer-dryer set beyond. Thank God, Zack thought, she at least had that, with a baby coming and all. He’d never caught himself having such a purely domestic thought before. It flat out startled him.

She disappeared and flipped on a light. The room was apparently a converted porch, with a crooked old wood floor and a bank of bare windows rattling in the wind. Piles of dirty laundry and other clutter were scattered everywhere. After she rummaged around for a minute, she came back with the broom and dustpan and a sizeable cardboard box, wrestling it into the kitchen on her front like an out-of-control boat.

“Let me.” He dashed to her side and took hold of it, levering the carton flat in one swift motion. At her quizzical look he said, “It’s for the window.”

“Ah. Good idea.” She blew out a frustrated puff of air that made her frizzy bangs lift. “I guess it’s too late to get anything done about replacing it tonight. The glass shop’ll be closed.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said as he jerked on the gloves.

She rubbed her arms, clad in the sleeves of a clingy little white T-shirt under the overalls. “The temperature’s supposed to drop tonight.”

He squatted to the floor and started scooping up glass with the dustpan. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You know, every time you call me ma’am, it just makes everything ten times worse.”

He gave her a grin over his shoulder.

“I hope you don’t think that this—” she made a wild, frustrated gesture at the chaos around her “—is the way I usually live. I’m normally very organized, but it seems like it’s taking me forever to get settled.” She stuck out her bottom lip and huffed, making her bangs fly up again.

“And to top it all off, I’m cranky and pregnant. That ‘ma’am’ bit makes me feel like a little old lady or something. Oh, I know I’m four years older than you. I remember you from high school, at least I did once my sister reminded me about you. She claimed you got the Eagle when you were only a freshman.” She gave him an assessing look. “Did you really?”

The Eagle. Zack had forgotten about it. The award stood for leadership. Integrity. Strength. Invariably the honor went to a senior, a top athlete who excelled in academics and inspired his teammates. Part of getting the Eagle entailed bench-pressing more weight than any of the other guys during football training. Even at the age of 33, Zack could still press 300.

It was that physical discipline that had enabled him to carry a heavy man like Danny Tellchick out of a burning barn with no air. Not that putting his air mask on Danny’s face had done any good. The man was already dead. The fire marshal had finally confirmed that to Zack yesterday. Roy Graves had blamed the coroner for the delay. Zack just wanted to know the truth, whatever that was. When they’d held the critical stress-management session after the fire, Zack had made sure everybody clearly understood that he was the one, the only one, who would be taking any bad news to Robbie Tellchick.

Zack covered all these thoughts with another engaging grin. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Cut it out. I’m not that much older than you, even if I do look it at the moment.” She raked the frizzed hair back from her forehead. “So you can just stop the ‘ma’am’ stuff, okay?”

“Whatever you say…ma’am.”

That got a perturbed little laugh out of her and Zack’s heart lifted. He hadn’t seen her smile, really smile, once in all the times he’d been in her presence or glimpsed her from afar in the months since her husband’s death. She smiled at her customers at the diner, of course, but it was the glazed charm of a girl whose feet hurt. If they asked him, he could tell a person exactly the when, where and how of every instance when he’d seen Robbie Tellchick since the night of her husband’s death. He could tell a person what she had been wearing, how her face had looked, the vivid color of her wounded green eyes.

She seemed suddenly lighter in spirit now. “Well, get busy.” She flapped a hand at him as if she were bossing the boys.

He laughed and they chatted while he swept up the rest of the glass.

The house was interesting, he allowed. It had possibilities.

She agreed, filling him in on some of its odd little features.

“Your boys are sure cute kids,” he said.

“A handful,” she countered. “Do you have kids?”

“No,” he said, “not even married.”

When he’d finished duct-taping the cardboard securely over the window opening, he said, “Okay. Have you got a flashlight?”

“Omigosh.” She jerked open a drawer. “The dogs! They could get hurt. They stay out there in their doghouse at night. We’d better check for glass outside the window, too, hadn’t we?”

He realized he had liked the sound of what she’d just said. She’d said we. There hadn’t been any we in Zack’s life in quite a while. Dates, yes. Plenty of dates. But nothing deep. Nothing lasting.

“You know, that’s a good thing,” Zack said as he followed her back down the hall.

She gave him a puzzled look over her shoulder.

“I mean, that you’ve got those dogs out there. They’ll act as protection tonight—” He bit off the sentence, wishing he hadn’t drawn attention to the fact that she’d be sleeping alone upstairs with nothing between her family and the outside world but a flimsy piece of cardboard.

The dogs were curled up on the porch, which was also rotting in places.

They stood up and trotted over when Robbie murmured to them. One, a fat little blond pup with sawed-off legs, looked part corgi. The other, slender of build with a long black-and-white coat, looked like he had a lot of Border collie in him.

Robbie petted them, talking baby talk as she did so, and Zack was inordinately fascinated with her long fingers as they ruffled the dogs’ silky coats, and with a glimpse of maternally lush cleavage. She straightened, pushed at her back with a palm, stretching and groaning as she did, and he found himself inordinately fascinated by that, too.

“Angus, Awgie,” Robbie commanded the animals, “stay.”

“Angus and Awgie?” Zack grinned. “Scottish dogs, now are they?”

“McBrides.” She gave her red hair a little toss that Zack found wholly endearing. “And proud of it.”

Leading with the flashlight, she took Zack around to the tall side gate. It scraped pathetically on the concrete walk and Zack had to give it a shove with his shoulder to force it open.

“This place is a wreck,” Robbie muttered, and led on.

The night was rapidly cooling and mist was beginning to swirl on the frost-bitten air as they made their way down a waffled and cracked sidewalk encroached by overgrown weeds and shrubs. Somewhere back in the tall trees lining the alley an owl hooted. The only other sound was the slap of Robbie’s tennis shoes and the clump of Zack’s boots until their steps crunched into the fallen leaves, twigs and bramble that formed drifts against the side of the house.

Outside the window in a weedy patch of mud, they found more glass, the golf ball and a cracked plastic gallon-container of ice cream—the cheap kind.

“Something tells me I didn’t get the whole story.” Robbie frowned at the evidence as the wind whipped tendrils of pale hair over her mouth. She brushed them away with irritation just before Zack saw a grin playing at the corners of her mouth.

“Boys will be boys,” he said, trying to coax that grin upward.

“Yeah. And girls will be girls. I’m nearly as p.o.’d about the ice cream as I am about the window.” Her grin materialized fully then. “I was going to have some after they went to bed.”

“Ah. So you’re that kind of girl.” He grinned.

She giggled, then shivered. Without hesitating, Zack removed the new jacket he’d only recently ordered from Gall’s supply. He admitted the thing was an extravagance. He had actually been glad to see the cold weather blowing in today so he had an excuse to wear it. “Here.” He draped it around her shoulders.

“Thanks.” She accepted his kindness without self-consciousness, he supposed on account of the baby. “Nice jacket.”

“Yeah. Can I make a suggestion?” Zack didn’t know why he was sticking his nose in her business. “Can you maybe let all of this go for tonight?” Maybe it was because he’d been in these boys’ shoes, once. A kid that could use a little mercy.

Her eyes rose up to meet his, illuminated by a thin bar of light shining between the unbroken glass above the cardboard and the ratty window shade. She studied him briefly with a defensive look, as if to say, What concern is it of yours? Then her face softened, looking sad again. He felt a tightening in his chest, staring into those pretty green eyes. He’d first looked into them when he was fourteen years old and they hadn’t changed a bit.

The two of them had been standing outside a school bus on a misty autumn night much like this one.

The cheerleaders and the football team had ridden the long highway home from a trouncing at the hands of the Kerrville Wolves. Throughout the whole trip, Zack had sat and studied the back of Robbie McBride’s fluffy, bright hair from his seat several rows behind her, had listened to every note of her laughter as it drifted back to him in the darkened bus. Robbie McBride, the beautiful redhead, the popular senior, a girl way out of his league. In the parking lot, the kids had dispersed to their cars quickly, not wanting to linger in the atmosphere of defeat, and when Zack found himself standing alone with her, he saw his chance.

“Uh, Robbie. Are you planning on going to the dance next week?” To this day, he didn’t know how he’d ever gotten up the nerve to say this.

She turned and smiled up at him. “Me? Are you talking to me?” It struck him then that she had hardly been aware of him standing there, that she was waiting on someone else, her ride most likely.

He recalled trying to be cool, glancing around the dark parking lot, up at the soft channel of light filtering down from one of the windows of the bus. He noted some of the other guys waiting for him over by Spike Porter’s Mustang. “Nah. I was talking to Spike over there.”

She laughed lightly. “Okay. Yeah, I’m going. I never miss a dance.”

“Oh. Cool. Have you got a date?” He had never asked a girl out before.

She looked up at him, clearly astonished, as her expression grew first wide-eyed, then amused, as if some unbidden thought had caught her by surprise. That’s the first time those eyes of hers had truly mesmerized him, standing there beside the bus, with the fog of their breaths mixing for one long moment. She frowned, then blinked, as if coming out of a trance. “I’m sorry. What’s your name?”

“Zack. Zack Trueblood.” He tilted one shoulder forward so she could see the number on his letter jacket. “Number eleven?” He arched one eyebrow at her. “And you’re Robbie McBride. So now that we officially know each other, how about it? The dance?” Not only had he never asked a girl out on a date, he’d never even acted this cocky in the presence of a female before. Well, hell. He never had to do anything but stand there around most girls. Most girls got so giggly in his presence it was pathetic. Except for Jenna, his best friend Mason’s little sister. But Jenna didn’t count. She was a husky little imp who could land a punch to his six-pack as solidly as Mason could.

But this was Robbie McBride, senior girl extraordinaire. A real woman, who was probably used to guys acting a little more smooth.

Those beautiful eyes narrowed slightly, and the beginnings of a smile played at the corners of her gorgeous mouth. “Are you a junior? A sophomore? Or what?”

“Or what,” he said with a shrug as if it didn’t matter. It didn’t, to him. “I’m a freshman,” he finally admitted.

Her smile widened. “Well, Zack Trueblood, I am flattered. I really am. For a freshman, you really are kind of a cute, but you know—” her voice brightened “—I’ve got a boyfriend.”

As if said boyfriend had been summoned right out of the mist, Danny Tellchick came ambling up, wearing a blue corduroy FFA jacket and stiff boot-cut jeans that swallowed his rangy frame. What does she see in this guy? Zack had wondered. Even back then, before Danny had gained fifty beer-belly pounds and managed to fail miserably at life, Zack had thought he was a tad short for the likes of Robbie McBride.

Now he wondered if Robbie Tellchick remembered that night at all.

“I think your oldest boy, especially, could use a break, don’t you?” he said quietly, bringing his thoughts back to what was important in the present. The idea of a twelve-year-old being told to put on his pajamas made Zack cringe. “Maybe seeing me, when he wasn’t expecting it, kind of bothered him, you know?”

She looked down at the white circle the flashlight made on the ground. After a moment she nodded.

“Mrs. Tellchick?” He swallowed. “Robbie?”

She turned her face up to him again.

“I told you this once, but I want to be sure you understand that I really meant it. I want to help you and the boys in any way I can.”

She looked back down to the ground. After a long silence, without looking up at him, she said, “It wasn’t your fault, you know that, don’t you?”

He did know that. And he also now knew some things she didn’t. But that wasn’t the point. Danny Tellchick had died a horrible death, possibly a suspicious one, and now his defenseless family was thrown into turmoil and suffering through no fault of their own. If Zack could only push a giant “undo” button on the whole thing, he would. But he couldn’t change anything. All he could do now was step in, be of some assistance somehow, in some way.

“Could I…would you let me come and fix this window? Tomorrow?” He wanted to add, no strings attached. He wanted to say, I don’t mean anything by offering. No pressure. It has nothing to do with the fact that I had a wild crush on you in high school. I just want to help. But saying all that, with her so recently bereaved and being in her condition, might seem foolish—insulting, even.

Her eyes darted around, obviously tempted by the offer. “I go to work really early. The boys get themselves off to school.”

“What time do you get home?”

“Around two. Then I usually try to get a little something done around here before I feed the boys supper. Sometimes I have to go back for the dinner shift if Nattie Rose needs help.”

“Why don’t I come over here at say, about two thirty? Tomorrow’s my day off from the fire station. I’ll have plenty of time to drop by and measure earlier—I can do that from the outside—and then I can have the glass all ready, so it won’t take much time. I have all the other materials. I own my own carpentry and remodeling business.”

“I…I don’t know when I’d be able to pay you. I mean, we are finally getting a little social security income now, but…” She bit her lip and glanced at the window. “I sure don’t want my landlord to see this.”

Her admission tore at his heart so much that he made an involuntary move toward her and reached out to comfort with his open palm. But she shifted sideways, out of range of his touch, bringing her hands up to grasp the lapels of his jacket, clutching it tightly around her shoulders. She looked so vulnerable with her tummy protruding and her messy hair reflecting the misty yellowed light from the window that it was all Zack could do to keep from turning her toward him and wrapping his arms around her.

“Don’t worry about paying me. A guy like me clears plenty in a town full of historical houses.”

She nodded, then sighed dejectedly. “Okay. I think this time I’m going to just have to accept your kindness. I really appreciate it, Zack.” Clutching the jacket, she bent awkwardly to retrieve the flattened carton of ice cream.

“I’ll finish this. You’d better get out of the wind.”

He hoped his offers of help hadn’t hurt her pride. It occurred to him then that he hadn’t told her what he came to say. Until now, Danny Tellchick’s death certificate had read “under investigation,” but soon the young widow would receive a supplementary certificate of death that revealed the truth. But for now Zack decided that bad news could just wait until a better time. Those boys weren’t the only ones who needed a little mercy around here.




CHAPTER THREE


I WOKE UP at 2 a.m and couldn’t go back to sleep. The wind is rattling the creaky windows of this old house worse than a hurricane.

I switched on the lamp and prowled around this room like a cranky mamma bear who’d been jolted out of hibernation, until I found this journal on the dresser. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to follow my sister’s advice and scribble down a few of my black little thoughts.

Markie wants me to seek counseling. But what’s a counselor going to tell me? Mrs. Tellchick, you’re sad? You have some very bad memories to deal with here? You’ve got another baby on the way, and you get to raise this one by yourself?

All summer Markie kept reminding me that this baby may seem like a burden now, but that he is a real person, who is probably going to grow up to be absolutely wonderful, a blessing. I know that. And that’s not the point.

Markie is all idealistic about having children because she’s recently met her beautiful all-grownup and well-behaved son, Brandon. She forgets I’ve got three that I’ve been raising from scratch, out on a dryland farm where Danny and I barely eked out a living. I don’t have any idealistic illusions about raising babies. Sleepless nights. Health worries. A steady stream of bills.

And then they become little boys, with all their antics. Like that broken window!

I have absolutely no hope of producing a girl. I’m convinced Danny didn’t have any girl genes in him. None. Nada. Zip. He used to joke that we were raising our own little home-grown football team.

I just got tears in my eyes when I wrote that last part. Part of me feels like all of my hopes and dreams died with Danny in that barn. My husband wasn’t perfect, but I’ve been with him since junior high and I don’t know how to be any other way. I sure don’t know how to raise these boys alone!

Seeing Zack Trueblood has got me picturing the fire in my mind all over again. It seemed like it just exploded at one point. One minute I was standing at the kitchen window, thinking I smelled smoke, and the next I was outside staring up at a whole wall of the barn engulfed in flames. I knew when I ran out there, even as I was punching 9-1-1 on the cell phone, that there was no way the fire trucks could make it from town in time. It only took me a couple of minutes to figure out where all the boys were, and that Danny was nowhere to be found.

I feel so guilty now because now I’m thinking about Zack again.

I’m thinking about him following me into the kitchen last night. (Brave man!) That sounded a little sarcastic, even to myself, but I mean that literally. Zack Trueblood is the bravest man I know, bar none. He’s so brave it takes my breath away. I’ll never forget what he tried to do for me and my boys. The man plunged into a burning barn to pull out my husband’s body. I get tears in my eyes every time I think about it. And here they come, right on cue. These late-night weeping sessions have got to stop. My sister’s right. I am exhausting myself. I don’t think I can write any more right now.



THE NEXT DAY a blast of cold Canadian air howled down from the north, making Zack’s job on the window much more of a hassle than it should have been.

“You want something hot to drink?” Robbie called through the pane to him when she could see that he was almost done.

“Sounds good.” His fingers were getting stiff with cold as he smoothed a seam of glazing around the glass. For more than one reason, he was glad he hadn’t delayed getting this window fixed for Robbie. A stiff norther was swooping down off the Edwards plateau. The gray clouds gathering on the northwest horizon promised a cold rain later. The beginning of the fall rains was both a curse and a blessing for local firefighters.

It signaled the end of the grass fire season, but it also gave rise to the inevitable auto incidents in which folks who didn’t understand how to drive the treacherous Hill Country roads after a flash flood got swept off one of the many low water bridges in the area.

While he’d been walking the perimeter of Robbie’s house earlier this afternoon, he’d noticed quite a few more things that needed repair: loose shingles, broken porch rails, a badly bent gutter spout. He was going to have a word with old man Mestor about all of that. In Zack’s opinion, that old boy needed to spend more time over here fixing up his rentals and less time gabbing with his cronies over at the Hungry Aggie.

Zack knew Mestor employed pick-up loads of Mexicans out on his farm, and he could dern well put some of them to work on his shabby rental properties in town.

Zack was all about civic pride. Five Points had all the historical significance and charm of the Hill Country towns surrounding it and capitalizing on its potential was just a matter of getting old guys like Mestor to have a little more vision. Flag waving and decorating Main Street for the odd summer barbecue wasn’t enough. In Zack’s mind, the town’s charm would have to come from more permanent improvements. But sometimes it was like pulling eyeteeth to get people to do things right.

“I hope you don’t mind chamomile tea,” Robbie explained when he poked his head inside the kitchen door and said, “All done.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have any coffee,” she went on as she poured steaming water into a teapot. “Ixnay on the caffeine.” She patted her tummy. “Pregnant and paranoid, that’s me,” she said as Zack stepped into the kitchen. “I see a potential threat to my fetus in practically everything I eat, drink, drive, breathe or even think about.” She shot him an arch-browed glance as if he were in the “think about” category.

He chuckled. “Tea will be fine.” He’d never cared for the herbal stuff, but he’d drink kerosene if it meant he got to sit in Robbie Tellchick’s kitchen and listen to her banter—and look at her—while he sipped it.

He held forth the bag he’d forgotten about earlier. “Uh, hope this isn’t too toxic. I guess it’s a good thing this norther blew in since I left it on the front seat of my truck.”

She took the insulated sack and peeked inside. The little smile he was coming to crave played around her lips. “Why thank you, Zack.” She pulled it out. “Ooo. Häagen-Dazs. The good stuff.”

“Ice cream probably seems kind of dumb with this cold weather setting in.”

“Not to me. It’s my one indulgence. And the gallon that boys destroyed was going to be all I could afford this month.” The smile became full-fledged. “It was so nice of you to remember.”

Knowing he’d pleased her gave him a rush of pleasure. One indulgence down, a million more to go, if he had his way.

They settled on comfortable bentwood chairs at a little white spindle-legged table near a high bow win-dow that looked out over an overgrown backyard. The narrow, bare kitchen looked slightly cheerier in the daytime, even though the skies outside were gray and threatening rain. She had lit a candle on the table and she placed the teapot on a brightly patterned quilted hot pad between them.

“And thank you again,” she said, smiling as she poured his tea, “for taking all this time and trouble to fix my window.”

“No trouble.” He studied her in the milky afternoon light. Faint bluish circles under her eyes indicated that she was tired. Her hair was drawn back in the braid she often wore to work. She was wearing a baby blue maternity top with jeans. Watching her perform the simple task, he suddenly realized who it was she favored, at least in his mind. Nicole Kidman. Except Robbie’s hair had streaks of a deeper, purer red. But there was something about the way her full rosy lips contrasted so vividly with her pale skin and her faint freckles. He wondered how she’d react if he told her she looked like the actress.

He realized he was staring at her and turned his gaze out the window. “It really wasn’t any trouble,” he repeated. He stole a glance at her and frowned, finding that he still couldn’t tell her about the autopsy and the fire marshal’s conclusions. Not now.

The heat pattern, the trailers of gasoline on concrete, the pour patterns. It all added up to one thing: arson.

It seemed abrupt to drop a bomb like that on a pregnant woman while they were just sitting here, having tea at her quaint little table. Just the two of them, alone. That’s what really gave him the willies. Being alone with her, pregnant or not, gave rise to all kinds of conflicting emotions in him.

She raised her cup and sipped cautiously, noticing that he was watching her, eyeing him over the rim. She had probably already figured out he hadn’t come to the house on a social call last night, and she was undoubtedly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. Was that too personal a thing to say to a pregnant woman?

“Fine. This is my fourth, after all. There are no surprises.”

That hit him with a jolt. Here he had been entertaining all these idealistic, quasi-romantic memories about the perky redheaded Robbie McBride last night, when the reality was she was pregnant Robbie Tellchick, experienced mother of three.

He sipped his tea. “This stuff’s pretty good.” He took another sip, stalling, angling for something to say. “So. How’s your new job working out?” He’d been watching her at the café since she started waitressing there. He missed a few days when he’d worked an extra 24-hour shift and then he’d had a hardwood floor to lay for a woman over in Wildhorse. The job had taken him two solid days because the woman, a pretty-enough blonde, kept coming around to chatter. He had wondered if the other guys had tipped Robbie adequately in his absence.

“Fine. Everybody there is so nice to me. The whole town’s nice to me, though I suppose there are some folks that think I’m crazy for going to work as a waitress and moving into this old rattletrap. They probably wonder why I don’t take my boys out to my parents’ farm and stay out there like my mother wants me to.”

“Your mother and dad live out by the river, too, right?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a really nice farm out there.”

“Not to me.”

Zack gave her a quizzical look which she didn’t answer. “Still,” he offered sensibly, “that might have been easier on you.” Though a selfish part of him was glad to have her right here in town where he had some hope of seeing her more often. It would be pretty hard to come up with excuses to drive all the way out to the McBride farm on a regular basis, and he had already taken to eating breakfast at the Hungry Aggie as often as possible. Lunch, too. Even dinner if she was doing that shift. Why not? Who was to question the eating habits of a bachelor firefighter?

He was making a regular pest of himself, probably, being too obvious about laying down those huge tips under the saltshaker. Occasionally he’d gotten that pretty smile of hers to emerge. “Why did you move into town, if I may ask? That’s a pretty little farm you’ve got out there, too.” Zack knew the property well. He’d coveted it, truth be told.

“It’s a pretty little place that was falling down around my ears.” She sighed heavily, and Zack didn’t like the sound of it. “It’s a long story. In any case I couldn’t keep the farm up by myself, and there were…ugly circumstances that made it untenable to go live at my mother’s house.”

“Ugly? Like what?” He downed the remainder of his tea, and she filled his cup right away. It seemed like she was enjoying this little break, maybe even his company, he hoped.

“I don’t want to bore a man like you with the McBride family’s dramas.”

A man like him? What did that mean? “I’m interested.” He wanted to add, “in anything having to do with you,” but thought better of it. He smiled at her. Just a couple of minutes more of this, Lord. Please. Just a little more normal conversation.

“Well, you knew my sister just got married?”

“Right. I saw the pictures in the paper. To Justin Kilgore, the congressman’s son, right?”

“Um. Well, she and Justin were…sweethearts as teenagers. And my mother came between them years ago. She lied to them.”

“Oh. That is kind of heavy.”

“Kind of, yes. I still haven’t forgiven my mother for what she did. There’s a lot more to it, but I’m not sure my sister would want me to share the details.”

“I understand. Where is your sister these days, by the way?” Last night Zack had decided that having the sister around when he dropped his bomb might not be a bad idea. Robbie was so vulnerable right now. Markie McBride had seemed really levelheaded the few times Zack had talked to her, and she seemed genuinely concerned about helping Robbie.

“She’s on her honeymoon in Aruba, but she’ll be back in a couple of weeks. She promised to help me get this place in order when she gets home.” The heavy sigh came again. “I have to admit I could sure use the help.”

“I’d be glad to offer mine.” He wondered if he could get the fire marshal to keep his findings away from the media for a little while longer. He wondered if the bad news had to go in the papers at all, in fact. It was a common thing. Losers torched their own worthless barns and outbuildings all the time, then called the fire department when they were ready to put out the fire. He looked Robbie up and down, not liking the look of those shadows under her eyes. How could he make this easier for her? “I mean it. I’ll be glad to help. I thought about talking to your landlord for you, too. He needs to do some repairs around here.”

“Oh, I couldn’t ask you to do that,” she said.

“I don’t mind. Mestor’s not somebody you should have to even be in the same room with, much less confront.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have to confront him, either.”

Zack smiled. “Oh, but I like to. We’ve had words before. It makes my day. By the way, I meant to check when I was here last night. Has he got smoke detectors installed here?”

Robbie slapped her forehead. “Oh, man. Here I am fretting about mercury in tuna, and I didn’t even think of that.”

“We keep some at the fire station. I’ll bring a couple over right away. And we can get started on those boxes.”

“I’ll take the smoke detectors. But as for the rest of this mess…” Her eyes traveled to a cluster of half-unpacked boxes in the corner. “I just couldn’t ask you to use your time off helping me unpack. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do. Besides, I never knew of a man who could get stuff organized the way women want it, anyway. My sister and I are pretty good at this kind of thing when the two of us get going. We learned it from our mother, who’s so organized it’s scary. I’ll just wait ’til Markie gets back.”

He nodded and smiled. “Whatever makes you the most comfortable.”

Waiting for the sister, both of them. Too bad she was all the way down in Aruba. With Robbie Tell chick working over at the Hungry Aggie, it would be tough to protect her from rumors for long. Still, Zack figured he had to try. He swallowed the last of his tea. “Well, I’d better get going. I don’t want to tire you out. I imagine you want to put your feet up before those boys come home from school.”

“Thank you, again.” She pushed up from the table. He was glad she was sensible enough not to argue about needing her rest. She walked him to the front door. When they got there, she lingered, clutching the knob. “Listen, Zack,” she said. “I’m sorry. I mean, I really wish I could pay you, but—”

Before he could think about it, he clasped a palm around her arm to stop her. “No.” The instant he touched her he knew the feel of her would haunt him. Her skin felt like warm silk. An unbidden vision—running his hands all over her body—assailed him. He dropped his hand and cleared his throat. “Like I told you. I wanted to help.”

“Well, I was going to say I’d love to cook dinner for you sometime. I mean, would you want to maybe come over and have spaghetti with me and the boys sometime?”

“Thank you, but I couldn’t impose.” He wasn’t about to eat this woman’s food when she was barely getting by.

She gave him a little wincing frown. “Zack…you don’t feel…you’re not…” She seemed to be struggling to find the right words. “This isn’t because you’re feeling guilty about what happened to Danny or something?”

Guilt? Because he’d failed to save a man with three kids and another on the way? Because he’d just touched that man’s wife and immediately wanted to do more than touch—a whole lot more? Because he was lusting after a pregnant woman, for crying out loud? Guilt? Guilt was hardly a strong enough word. All of a sudden he found he couldn’t look in her eyes.

Wind gusted into the open doorway and thunder rumbled across the cloudy sky as his eyes fixed on the scarred wood floor of her entry hall, then on the stairs behind her, then traveled up searching, scanning aimlessly. One of the banisters was missing. Not safe. He’d be sure to come back to fix it. He couldn’t answer her question because the truth was, yes, a part of him had felt more than guilt, a gnawing helpless frustration, over his failed attempt to save Danny Tellchick’s life. But that should have changed now, in light of the findings of the fire marshal and medical examiner. That wasn’t why he wanted to help her.

His motives were far less pure, some might say. I’m hopelessly attracted to you, his heart admitted when his eyes finally came back down to meet with hers. Always have been. But under the circumstances, he sure couldn’t tell the woman that, now could he?

“I was a fatherless boy myself, once,” he allowed quietly. It was true, though if he were honest, he’d have to admit that that had little to do with his reasons for helping out these boys, either. “I just want to do whatever I can to make your lives easier right now.”

She smiled, and the sincerity and innocence of it went right through him. “That’s really decent of you. I just…I just wanted to be sure…you know. Well…”

“I’d better get going.” He stepped onto the porch.

“Yes. I’ll let you go before it starts pouring.” The heavy oak door creaked on its hinges as she made to close it.

He flattened a palm on the door to stop it. “Will you be working at the restaurant tomorrow?” he asked.

She nodded. “Bright and early on the breakfast shift.”

“Good.” He smiled. “I’ll see you then.”

She nodded again and closed the door.

Zack, old buddy, what are you doing? He trotted down the uneven sidewalk toward his pickup, fat, cold raindrops smacking his face and hands as he unlocked the driver’s side door.

He was pursuing her, that’s what. A woman so pregnant it practically hurt to look at her. A woman with three boys. A woman who was undoubtedly still in love with her dead husband. He climbed in his truck and swept his wet hair back in frustration. A woman who, it turned out, just happened to be Zack Trueblood’s lifelong ideal.




CHAPTER FOUR


UP EARLY. Despite bouts of insomnia, I keep telling myself I’m doing better day by day. I only think of Danny every day now instead of every hour. I can’t figure out if all widows do this, or if it’s worse for me because I’m carrying Danny’s child, but it’s like I can still feel him with me sometimes.

Like yesterday, when Zack Trueblood was leaving. I swear, I got the funniest feeling, like a subtle presence or something. As if Danny’s ghost was swirling around us or something. Danny used to get so jealous if I so much as talked to another guy. And when Zack grabbed my arm, I felt the strangest conflicting sensations. Like I was too aware of how good it felt to be touched again, and then immediately I felt sort of guilty, like I was still married or something.

Maybe it was just all this static electricity in the air. We had thunderstorms all night. I woke up about a kazillion times. Kept hearing noises. I have like a double whammy of paranoia—the usual kind that sets in when your pregnant and anxious about anything that might threaten your baby, plus a good dose of the usual widow’s insecurities on top of that. It got really windy again a minute ago and now there’s lightning like crazy. Well, time to quit scribbling in this diary and get ready for work, storm or no storm.

I hate leaving the boys to get themselves off to school when the weather’s like this.

And you, little baby, you just stay all tucked away safe and sound, right here inside your mommy. Whatever am I gonna do when you decide to come out?



ROBBIE CLOSED the cover on her journal—a cheap thing with a picture of a puppy on it. She tucked it under her pillow, then she swung her feet over the side of her bed. A chill ran through her as she pulled free of the soft sheets and her toes touched down on cold floorboards. She vowed again that she would find her area rugs and spread them out tonight. But each day her good intentions slipped through her fingers like shifting sand, where one urgent thing morphed into another and no task was ever completed until finally, each and every night, she fell into bed, exhausted.

Taking this job was probably a bad idea, but what choice did she have? If she had waited, Parson would have been forced to fill the position with somebody else. A twist of resentment curled up again as she thought how irresponsible she’d been to let Danny cut corners by dropping his life insurance. But after years of marriage she’d been worn down, arguing with the man about every single hare-brained decision he made.

In the bathroom adjoining to the cavernous, high-ceilinged master bedroom, she studied herself in the oval mirror above the pedestal sink. She’d slept a little better last night—a few hours—with that window properly repaired, but even so she was developing permanent dark circles under her eyes.

This bathroom—there were two upstairs, one downstairs, and none of them were in good repair—was dingy, as bland as clabbered milk. White on white on white, from the tile to the tub to the limp curtain someone had left hanging crookedly at the narrow window. She made some mental notes about adding color as she washed her face.

Most small towns in the Hill Country had old houses like this one: rambling nineteenth-century monstrosities that had devolved into bleak rentals, passed from hand to hand. In the towns where historic restoration caught on, these houses got rebirthed into awesome show-places. Painted Ladies, the civic-types called them. Robbie could envision this one that way, a beauty that shone with civic pride, only three blocks off Main Street.

After she patted her face dry, she attacked her hair with a big brush. Then her fingers went to work, efficiently plaiting the masses of reddish blond curls into a neat French braid.

As she braided, Robbie continued envisioning the house through artistic eyes. What this bathroom needed was one dramatic focal point. Like a giant stained-glass window instead of that scratched-up square of frosted Plexiglas that covered the window above the tub.

And wouldn’t it be cute, she thought, to find an old velvet straight-backed sofa to tuck under the high windows in the kitchen? Wouldn’t it be nice to refinish all these deep window boxes in this house in a coat of purest white and just leave the panes bare and let the sun pour in? Wouldn’t polished mahogany countertops set off those high kitchen cabinets?

When she caught herself thinking like this, she always brought herself up short. Number one, she wasn’t living in an HGTV show. This was life on the broke side of widowhood. Number two, old man Mestor, the crook, would never consent to doing anything expensive or upbeat to the house. Number three…baby.

The little darling kicked as Robbie pulled the stretchy panel of her well-used maternity jeans up over her belly. For a top she pulled on a boxy white shirt. Yesterday, Parson had gently objected to the overalls. Whatever.

She struggled into a pair of thick white socks and slipped her feet into her athletic shoes, and when she had trouble bending to lace them, she suffered a brief sting of tears. Danny had always tied her shoes for her this late in her pregnancies. Stop it, she told herself. You have a lot to do before you go to work.

Downstairs, she chugged down a glass of orange juice. Breakfast could be grabbed at the diner later. She put out bowls and spoons for the boys’ cereal, set out the sack lunches she’d made the night before and stapled a detailed note with instructions to Mark’s, then put the stapler right back where it belonged in her “grand central,” her super-organized lap desk. She had done the tole painting that decorated the flip top herself. Very cute, she often thought—an elaborate pattern, a sort of blend between country quilt and Mexican mandala. Inside the lap desk was the simple system she’d been using to run this family for years and it had never failed her. With her sudden move to town, she was grateful that the whole thing was portable enough to be tossed onto the seat of her minivan.

Lightning flashed, and when hard rain lashed at the window Zack Trueblood had installed only yesterday, Robbie’s thoughts went back to him. She had to admit she longed to see him, if she was honest with herself. Lord, she hated this business of being alone. She had never spent one day alone in her life. Danny had asked her to go on a hayride when they were in the eighth grade and they’d stayed together like hand-in-glove ever after.

Other guys had tried to get her attention, even tried to win her affections, but Robbie was loyal to Danny, always—even later when his irresponsibility began to let her down. Now that he was gone, she felt incredibly disloyal for the way she had been thinking about Zack Trueblood. But my gosh, that firefighter had the dreamiest coal-black eyes on God’s green earth. Well, this was plain silly.

She grabbed her jacket and headed out into the storm. The rain, a driving Hill Country deluge that would flood hard-packed roads and wash out rocky ravines, hit her face and wet her hair despite the hood on her little red jacket. Her front got soaked, too, because the jacket was too small to cover her belly.

She slammed the door of her van and plucked at the soaked white fabric where her belly button poked out like a gumdrop. Nice. Thank God she would slap on an apron as soon as she got to work.

The minivan had to be cranked three times before it sputtered to life. A new worry: car trouble. She couldn’t afford that now. Then it hit her. Who would drive her to the hospital when the time came? She only had five weeks. The days were racing by like ticks of a second hand. Daddy would come, of course, whenever she called him, day or night. But the McBride farm was a good seven miles out of town, and with a fourth baby, labor could be shockingly rapid.

Besides, if she called Daddy, Mother would insist on coming with him. There would be no peaceful labor and delivery then. Oh, no. Mother would boss. She’d boss Daddy. The nurses. Maybe even the doctor. Most of all Marynell would boss Robbie.

Peering out the rain-sheeted windshield and thinking of her mother’s pinched face, Robbie muttered aloud, “Hurry up and get back, Markie. I’ll feel a darn sight safer then.” She could not wait until her sister returned from her honeymoon. Everything would be all right then. None of Robbie’s other babies had come early. Markie would be home in plenty of time and then her strong, competent sister would help her.

It was only three short blocks to the gravel alley that ran behind the Hungry Aggie, but still Robbie breathed a sigh of relief as she pulled into the small lot out back, amazed that she’d made it without stalling out in high water. She slammed the van door again and dashed around rivulets of water and enormous puddles to the back door, where Parson stood holding it open.

“Come on, girl!” he hollered over the din of the pattering rain. “Before you catch your death.”

“You ought not to have come in on a morning like this,” he scolded when Robbie got inside. He was already helping her out of her jacket. For decades, Virgil Parson had been the only black man living or working in Five Points. But Parson never mentioned that fact, and neither did anybody else. He actually lived in another town with a sweet wife and numerous kids and grandkids. He drove to work in Five Points because at the Hungry Aggie he got to do what he did best—dish up food like an old-time chuck wagon cook, though he’d actually learned the art of slinging out large quantities of food for hungry men while serving in the Navy.

“I know how these rainy mornings go,” Robbie said as she smoothed back her damp, frizzy hair. “All the farmers will come into town to get away from their wives. And they’ll end up sitting right here in our booths, jawing ’til the rain stops. We will be busy filling coffee cups until noon.”

Parson chuckled as if that idea plumb tickled him. “That’s a fact. And it’s why I came in early to make some extra pies.” His black eyes sparkled in a face as furrowed as a fresh-plowed field.

Virgil Parson loved nothing so much as being prepared and making money. And he made buckets full off the regulars at the Hungry Aggie, not to mention the seasonal tourists who wandered from town to town in the Hill Country, looking for that perfect piece of chess pie. At the Hungry Aggie they found the chess pie and much more. Barbecued chicken, baked ham, sweet potato pudding, red beans and rice, hot rolls with peach peel jelly.

Robbie tied on one of the clean white aprons that the efficient old cook had already hung on hooks next to the walk-in refrigerator. Her wet shirt felt clammy against her tummy, but she was relieved that the moisture didn’t soak through the starched apron.

“You’re getting better at this, girl. You even beat old Nattie Rose in here this morning,” Parson informed her.

Robbie gave Parson a grimace. Nattie Rose was not old. She went to high school with Robbie’s younger sister, Markie. And Nattie Rose was never late. “Hope she’s not trapped out on some low water bridge,” Robbie said. Nattie Rose and her husband Earl lived on Earl’s family’s ranch, way out on a remote ranch road. Without Nattie Rose as a rudder, Robbie’s job would be hell today.

She and Parson fell into the rhythm of work in the brightly lit kitchen. He cut biscuits. She filled the two big coffeemakers. Together, they laid out bacon strips onto large jelly-roll pans. Parson always slow-baked the bacon in the kitchen’s huge cast-iron ovens because he claimed that was the aroma that brought in “The Boys,” as he called the customers.

When they’d gotten things organized, Parson pulled up a stool for Robbie to perch upon. “You and Hootcheecoo better take a load off while you all can.”

Parson, who made up a nickname for everybody, had taken to calling the baby Hootcheecoo, which amused Robbie, since she hadn’t been able to come up with a proper name for the baby yet. In the same way that Frances, Roberta and Margaret McBride were named after their aunts, Robbie’s three sons had been named the masculine versions of the McBride sisters. Frank after Frankie, Rob after Robbie, and Mark after Markie. Robbie supposed she would be breaking up the family rhythm with this fourth surprise baby.

Their routine had been for Parson to scramble Robbie some eggs as soon as the grill was hot. He set a pat of butter to sizzling, tossed on peppers, onions and tomatoes, poured the whipped eggs over the pile and added a handful of chopped cilantro and a dash of picante sauce. Robbie’s mouth started to water. Parson cooked a finer omelet than any four-star chef.

“Did you get that window fixed?” He wiped his hands on his apron while the eggs started to bubble.

“Yes,” Robbie said glumly. Not because she was thinking about the window, but because of the man who had fixed it. Thinking about how he was too gorgeous, and she was too frumpy. She was starting to wish Zack Trueblood had never come around to further complicate her life.

“What’s wrong?” Parson eyed her, then poked a spatula at the edge of the omelet. “You needin’ a little cash money for that window, child?”

“No.” Well, actually she did, but that was not Parson’s problem, bless his generous old heart. “Zack Trueblood fixed it for free.”

“Zack Trueblood? The one that comes in here and eats up everything but the sink? That big firefighter boy that looks about half Indian?”

Robbie winced. Nobody would dare hazard the mention of race to Parson, but such matters weren’t sacrosanct to the old man. His were the old ways, plain-spoken, uncomplicated by worries about such matters as political correctness.

“What’s ailing you? You look like you just bit a sour pickle.” The spatula halted in midair as if a thought hit him. “You ain’t having pains already, are you?”

“No.” Robbie smoothed the crisp white apron over her tummy then squirmed up onto the stool. “It’s just…oh, it’s nothing.”

“It is too something.” Parson plunked a heavy plate with the steaming omelet before her. “And you ought not to hold it in, lest you pop or somethin’.”

Robbie took up the fork and slid in a mouthful of omelet. It was absolutely perfect. Parson eyed her while she chewed, so after she took a sip of the milk he’d poured for her, she conceded, “It’s Zack Trueblood. He…I don’t know. He makes me…uncomfortable.” Robbie couldn’t admit, even to herself much less to Parson, that the word she was really searching for was more like bothered. Hot and bothered, actually.

“Uncomfortable? He ain’t pressing himself on you or something?” Plainspoken for sure, that’s what Parson was.

“No! Zack would never press himself on anybody!” Robbie wasn’t sure why she defended the man so strongly. The heroic way he’d tried to save Danny, she supposed. She took another bite of omelet.

“Then how come your cheeks is redder’n a hot chili pepper? Listen, little sister, if he’s coming around all nice like, doing favors and all, you’d best watch yourself. Ain’t no woman as defenseless as a widow with—”

“Woo! Lordy!” Nattie Rose’s cheery voice cut off Parson’s rant as the diner’s other waitress burst through the back door. “It is raining pitchforks out there! Bet we’ll be swamped today!” Nattie Rose Neuberger—always called by both nicknames and never by her given one, Natalie—bustled into the kitchen, perfectly groomed in tight-fitting jeans and a starched Western shirt, raring to go, as always. She was carrying a pair of immaculate white athletic shoes with fire-red laces. She plopped onto a stool and tugged off battered, rain-soaked cowgirl boots.

Robbie shoveled in the last of her eggs, grateful to be delivered from Parson’s meddling lecture. From out in the restaurant came male voices, the sounds of the first customers trickling in. Robbie peeked out of the swinging door to see Zack Trueblood and his friends sliding into their usual booth.

“Can you take care of those guys?” Nattie Rose said. She was still tying her red laces.

“Somebody needs to take care of those guys,” Robbie mumbled as she squeezed past Nattie Rose’s perch on her way out with the coffee. All three of the single firefighters were well-known about town as the most eligible of the eligible bachelors in Five Points. Nobody knew, except Parson of course, that the most handsome of them had been to Robbie’s house twice now. And nobody needed to know. Robbie adopted a carefully neutral expression as she approached the booth.

“I saw her in there hanging out with some guy with a popped collar,” the one named Mason was saying. “I swear the dude had a manicure.”

Zack and his two friends chuckled. Then the firefighters all turned to Robbie, mumbling, “Hey, Robbie,” like they did every morning.

“Hi, fellas.” Robbie angled her washtub of a belly away from the table as she poured the first mug of coffee and the men resumed their chatter. They were all good-looking guys. Not pretty boys, but handsome in a rough-cut way with easy smiles and square jaws. And Zack Trueblood was by far the best-looking of them.

“So. What’s she doing with some weirdo at the bookstore,” the third guy was saying. “I thought you two had a thing going.”

“Nah.” The resonance of Zack Trueblood’s voice so near to her body sent a tiny thrill through Robbie, but she wouldn’t let herself look at him, bad as she wanted to. Not in front of these men. “I don’t have any claim on Lynette. She can hang out with whoever she wants.”

Robbie felt a rush of heat to her cheeks as she realized they were talking about some woman Zack must be seeing. She found she had to steady her hand as she proceeded to pour the last two mugs full.

“It doesn’t bother you, even if the guy’s some kind of metrosexual pinko?” Mason pressed.

“Metrosexual?” the third firefighter scoffed.

“That’s urban talk for girly-man.” Zack grinned. The men chuckled again.

Mason waved a paw at Zack. “Ah. Right. I forget. The great Zack Trueblood doesn’t have to worry about competition, especially from some girly-man. Bet you’ve already turned down old Lynette every night of the week.”

“Mason—” Zack’s tone turned the name into a warning “—cool it.”

Robbie didn’t look at him, but she could sense Zack giving her an embarrassed glance.

“I dunno,” the third firefighter went on in a longsuffering tone. “Much as I want to see you get that award, Zack buddy, it’s always a pain to round up a woman to take to these formal dress-up things. How am I supposed to find a lady who knows how to wear anything besides jeans in a town like Five Points?”

“Hey.” Mason pointed at him like he’d just had a bright idea. “Maybe you could take the metrosexual.” They all guffawed at the joke as Robbie started pouring the last mug.

“You’ve got to take ’em out a time or two beforehand,” Mason advised. “Give ’em time to get all excited and shop for a dress. Or you could be like Zack here and find yourself a rich divorcée.” He turned to his friend. “So, you’re still taking her out tonight?”

Robbie’s eyes grew more alert and involuntarily cut to Zack. He was frowning up at her. And she was pouring coffee over the side of the mug and all over the table.

“Whoa!” Mason cried at the same time Robbie realized what she’d done.

“Sorry. Sorry,” Robbie said as the firefighters snatched wads of napkins out of the holder.

“It’s all right, sugar.” The third one pressed some napkins into the mess.

As she nervously sopped up the coffee, Robbie could feel Zack Trueblood’s hot black eyes examining her closely, but she refused to look directly at him. Her hands shook as the faces of all the single women in Five Points flipped through her mind like cards in a Rolodex.

“Hey, girl. You feeling okay?” Mason seemed to notice the depth of her distress for the first time. He took over with the napkins, bless him.

“I’m fine.” Robbie sighed. “It’s just this crazy weather. I was just thinking about my boys—hoping they don’t get soaked waiting on the school bus.” Oh, sure. Now she was thinking about her boys. Thinking how she had no business worrying about whether Zack Trueblood was dating some woman or not. She glanced at Zack’s face. He was still frowning at her.

Mason peered out the window as fresh sheets of rain beat the windows. “Personally, I just love it when it does this,” he said sarcastically.

“Yeah,” his friend, equally sarcastic, chimed in. “You know we’re gonna get called out to fish some yahoo out of a ditch.” And then the men were off and running again, complaining about the weather and the constant problem of flooding roads and bridges in the Hill Country.

Except Zack was still looking at Robbie with an expression that said he was worried about her. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed outside the window as he said quietly, “Everything okay, Robbie?”

Robbie nodded, swallowed. Don’t look at me like that, she wanted to say. It makes me weak in the knees and I have work to do here.

“You guys want the farmer breakfast?” Robbie said as she gathered up the last of the soggy napkins.

“Yep,” Mason answered for them all.

Nattie Rose’s round face popped under the pass-through space. “I’ve gotta help Parson back here, honey. Could you take care of those guys at table nine?” That’s where the Rotary-types were and Robbie was well aware that Nattie Rose was making sure Robbie got the generous tips today.

The men at that table kept up a jovial banter about the weather as Robbie poured coffee into upturned mugs for all four.

“The usual for you guys?” Robbie said with a falsely light tone.

When the men nodded she was glad to dash off to the kitchen.

Back in the safety of Parson’s domain, she nearly collapsed against the center island. She’d made a complete fool of herself, pouring tea for Zack in her slummy little kitchen yesterday, basking in the warmth of his attention, telling him how she’d love to cook spaghetti for him sometime, when all the time the man had a hot date lined up for tonight.

“What’s wrong?” Parson asked.

Lord, Robbie was sick of people asking her what was wrong.

Nattie Rose zipped around, already getting flushed with the challenges of the day. “Look sharp, my lovelies. The masses are hungry.”

Parson turned back to the grill.

Robbie took down three plates and started to fill them. Biscuit. Biscuit. Biscuit. She took up the ladle. Gravy. Gravy. Gravy.

Nattie Rose joined her at the island to work up some of the orders.

“Do you know who Zack Trueblood is dating these days?” Robbie asked casually, while her heart hammered with a fresh wave of humiliation.

“Some gal from over at Wildhorse. Divorced. I hear she’s got a big ranch.”

Robbie’s hands kept working but her heart felt like it had clutched to a standstill. A rich woman with a ranch. Isn’t that just what any man would want?



OUT OF THE CORNER of his eye, Zack noted Arlen Mestor’s plodding progress as he lumbered into the restaurant. The old man shook off the rain, then ambled up on his usual stool like a grumpy grizzly bear.

“Excuse me a minute, fellas.” Zack pushed up from the table and crossed the room.

He slid up on the stool next to Arlen at the counter. “Mestor.”

“Trueblood.” The two were acquainted, but had not been on friendly terms since the night some months prior when Zack had lectured the older man about the faulty wiring in a rental house that had burned to the ground. The family was not home at the time, but the sight of a baby doll with a melted face had set Zack’s blood to boiling. Zack had already pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket. He snapped it onto the Formica in front of Arlen.

Zack tapped the card, which Mestor hadn’t acknowledged. “I’ll give you a discount if you let me do the repairs on that house Robbie Tellchick just rented from you.”

“Nattie Rose!” Mestor bellowed toward the pass-through window as if Zack hadn’t spoken. “What does a man have to do to get a cup of coffee in this joint?”

Finally, Mestor sneered at the card. “What repairs would that be?” The way his nostrils flared when he spoke reminded Zack of a snuffling pig.

“A few things here and there. Safety issues, mostly.” Zack had said the word “safety” pointedly. He knew Mestor remembered well the fire that consumed one of his rental houses, if for no other reason than the financial ones.

Nattie Rose sashayed out of the kitchen brandishing a carafe of coffee. “You want a cup up here at the counter, too, Zack?” she said as she poured Mestor’s.

“I’m fine,” Zack said mildly.

“Sugar.” Mestor tapped the counter with a stubby finger, his tone was demanding.

Nattie Rose shoved the sugar jar, which was all of a foot away, toward Mestor, and then gave him a poisonous parting look before she disappeared through the swinging door to the kitchen.

“Well,” Zack pressed, “how about it? I’ll only charge you for the materials, throw in my labor for free. You won’t have to do a thing.”

Mestor dumped a hideous amount of sugar into his coffee before he answered. “Why are you so all-fired up to work on that old house?”

“Because it needs it,” Zack answered simply. “The place is an eyesore.”

“Always poking your nose in where it don’t belong, ain’t you, Trueblood?” Mestor stirred his coffee slowly, frowning as if considering something. “I ain’t sure I want you messin’ with my property. And I’d still like to know why you even want to. It’s that pretty little pregnant lady, ain’t it?” Mestor asked the question loudly, so as to be addressing the whole restaurant.

Before Zack could answer, Mestor continued even louder. “Or should I say it’s that prime piece of land that little pregnant lady has out there by the river?”

By an act of will, Zack kept his own voice low. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but—”

“I ain’t implying nothin’. I am saying flat out that you have always wanted a piece of farmland out on the Blue River ever since your granddad lost his place. Your granddad used to tell me all the time how blessed he was to have a boy like you to take over his farm when he was gone.”

Zack stared straight ahead, the muscles in his jaw working furiously. He could imagine that conversation, all right. Mestor had probably made some ill-advised crack about Zack’s mother and her illegitimate kid, and Zack’s granddad had defended them. He wondered if that accounted for Mestor’s missing teeth.

“Well, old granddad’s gone now, and so is his farm. Am I right?” Mestor was fairly bellowing now. “And now you’re looking to replace it. But if you have some cockeyed notion that running around doing favors for the Tellchick woman will get her to sell you that land for a song, you’re nothing but a fool, boy.”

Nobody called Zack a fool, least of all a blustery out-of-shape middle-aged man who really was one. Mestor had a lived a life tainted by alcoholism, chronic foul moods and various run-ins with the law. A notorious tightwad, the man was twice divorced and made a nuisance of himself with ladies he eventually claimed were only after his money. Even the old man’s own children avoided him. He ran around town acting like he had connections with the movers and shakers, but Zack remembered his granddad saying that among that crowd Arlen Mestor stood out like a goat in a flock of sheep.

Zack slid off the stool and stood to his full height. “Arlen, you talk too much.”

“That’s because I know too much.”

When Mestor leaned toward Zack threateningly, Zack detected a whiff of alcohol. The residue from last night’s binge maybe? Or maybe Mestor had already had his first Bloody Mary of the day.

“It is no surprise to me,” Mestor went on without encouragement from anybody in particular, “that you approached the bank about taking over the loan on that farm. Seeing as how you could never afford the down payment in a million years, I expect you’ll be awful disappointed to know that Congressman Kilgore has already foreclosed on it.”

“What?” This truly was news to Zack.

“Oh, yes. I have it on good authority. Me and the congressman have been on a first-name basis for years. But you didn’t know that, did you? I expect the place will just sit there now, going fallow. If you want it, you’ll have to deal with the old man up in Washington, not some defenseless little widow.”

Sensing trouble, the two firefighters with Zack had crossed the room and positioned themselves strategically near the two men at the bar.

But Mestor didn’t seem to notice them. He was too busy running his gums. “Why, if I didn’t know firsthand how worked up and self-righteous you like to get, I’d be of a mind to even wonder about that barn fire. That’s an awful lot of gasoline to get spilt in a simple acciden—”

That’s when Zack decked Arlen Mestor.

One second the old porker was twisting sideways on the barstool, sneering at Zack, and the next he was sprawled on his fleshy backside on the diner’s green and white linoleum floor.

People at the nearby tables yelled and jumped out of the way as Mestor crawfished backward and Zack loomed over him, fists clenched for another blow.

Parson came busting through the swinging doors of the kitchen shouting, “There’ll be no fistfights in this here establishment!”

Zack’s friends restrained him from doing further damage, though it took both of them to bodily remove him from the premises.



BACK IN THE KITCHEN, Robbie stood with palms pressed on the butcher block and her downcast face burning like fire. The baby had set up a panicky little dance inside of her, reacting, no doubt, to the shot of adrenaline his mommy was feeling as well.

“You okay, sweetie?” Nattie Rose asked anxiously, her hands suspended in the act of slinging home fries onto platters.

“Oh, fine. I’m fine. Really. I mean, hearing two men coming to blows because of me. That’s cool. Kind of flattering, you know?”

“Honey, you don’t believe what Mestor just said about Zack for one instant do you?”

“Of course not.” Robbie straightened. “Nobody puts much stock in anything Mestor says.”

“Well, then.” Nattie Rose continued shoveling out home fries.

But Robbie stood stock-still, her mind still reeling with too much new information, too many new emotions. “Who is this woman he has a date with tonight?”

“Huh?” Nattie Rose stopped loading the plates and looked perplexed.

“A date. Tonight. I heard the guys talking about it earlier.”

“You mean Zack?”

“No. Mestor.” Robbie looked sideways with a sarcastic squint.

“I told you about all I know, sweetie. She’s got a lot of money, but just between you and me, not much class. Kind of a sexpot, far as I can tell. But it’s no surprise if the man isn’t exactly a monk. I mean, just look at him. What in the world does Zack’s social life have to do with…”

“Don’t you know anything else about her?” Robbie cut in sharply. “Does she have any kids or anything?”

“Why, I wouldn’t know. Let’s see.” Nattie Rose strove to cooperate. “Her name’s Lynette something or other. She’s been in here a time or two, looking for Zack, but he—”

“She lives across the river?” Robbie interrupted.

“Yeah, I guess so. Over at Wildhorse.”

“And she has a ranch out there?”

“Yes. That’s all pretty much ranching country.”

“Well, then.” Robbie grabbed up some loaded plates, balancing them along her arms, against her tummy. “If he likes to mess with women who’ve got land, I reckon he’s all done with me, now that Mr. Mestor has informed him of the sad facts about my farm.”




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