The Last Good Man in Texas Read online

  "Good thinking," Ace said in approval. "Have you had any luck finding the man?"

  "We paid Dixie a visit last night. She remembered Macy's mother and gave us the name of one of her mother's friends. Sheila Tompkins. Ever heard of her?"

  "Tompkins?" Ace repeated, frowning as he played the name through his mind. "Can't say that I have. How about you, Woodrow?"

  Woodrow shook his head. "No Tompkins around these parts that I'm aware of."

  "Have you checked the telephone directory?" Maggie suggested helpfully.

  "None listed." Rory broke off a chunk of roll and tossed it onto the tray of Laura's high chair, grinning as he watched his niece close her chubby fist around it.

  Maggie pried the chunk from Laura's hand. "No bread," she ordered sternly, "until she finishes her vegetables."

  Rory looked at the blob of green in the bowl on Laura's tray and curled his nose. "You call that vegetables? Looks to me like a pile of fresh cow sh—"

  Ace silenced him with a warning look, then tipped his head toward Laura. "Little ears."

  "Like she's never heard it from you," Rory grumbled. He scooped up a spoonful of creamed spinach and held it before Laura's mouth. "Come on, sugar," he coaxed. "Eat your spinach and Uncle Rory will give you his roll."

  Laura squinched up her face and pushed the spoon away.

  "I bet I know who would remember Sheila Tompkins," Elizabeth said.

  "Who?" Woodrow asked.

  While everyone's attention was diverted, Rory quickly popped the spoonful of spinach into his mouth, wanting to help the kid out. He immediately wished he hadn't.

  "Maw Parker," Elizabeth replied, while Rory looked desperately around for someplace to spit the spinach out. "She's lived here forever and knows everyone in town."

  "She'd be the one, all right," Woodrow agreed, then turned to Rory. "Why don't you give Maw a call?"

  Caught, there was nothing for Rory to do but swallow the slimy mess. Shuddering, he grabbed his glass of tea. "I'll do that," he managed to choke out, before downing half the glass's contents in an effort to wash the awful taste from his mouth.

  Elizabeth looked at him curiously. "Are you okay?" she asked in concern.

  Rory pressed a hand to his stomach, praying the spinach would stay down. "Yeah. Fine."

  "What are your impressions of Macy?" Ace asked curiously.

  Rory passed the baby her spoon. "You're on your own kid," he said under his breath, then turned his attention to Ace. "She's all right, I guess. Why?"

  "Obviously you've spent some time with her. I'm curious to hear what you've learned about her."

  "She's a landscape architect. Used the money from the trust Buck set up for her to pay for her education. She came to Tanner's Crossing to return the money and find her real father." He lifted a shoulder. "That's about it. She doesn't talk much."

  "What about her as a person? What's she like?"

  "She's a pro when it comes to landscaping. No doubt about that. As to her personality, she's tough, determined, independent. Wouldn't hesitate to call a spade a spade. And she's defensive." He chuckled. "Reminds me of a turtle. Walks around with her shoulders up to her ears, as if she's expecting someone to throw her a punch." His smile melted as he remembered the haunted look he'd seen in her eyes the night before. "Yet there's something about her that's kinda sad," he said hesitantly.

  "In what way?" Maggie asked.

  "I don't know," he said, unable to name the emotion he'd seen in her eyes. "Like she's lost or something."

  "More than likely, she's suffering an identity crisis," Elizabeth interjected, then went on to explain to the others at the table. "Humans, by nature, draw their identity from their parents. The death of her mother and the discovery that the man she thought was her father really wasn't her father has robbed her of that identity. She's probably questioning who she is right now, which would explain the lost look Rory mentioned.

  "It might explain her defensiveness, as well," she went on. "Knowing who you are and where you came from gives a person a certain confidence. A sense of security, if you will. I would imagine Macy's confidence has suffered a terrible blow, due to the loss of her identity. I would imagine, too, that discovering the lie has made her distrustful of everyone. After all, if you can't trust your own mother, who can you trust?

  "I may be wrong," she continued. "But if I were to offer an opinion, I'd say Macy's running scared right now, searching for an identity, something on which to base who she is. Until she does, it's likely that she feels trapped in what must feel like purgatory to her. She can't go backward. Her past, as she knew it, no longer exists. And she can't move forward, because the future seems out of reach for her. Until she's able to establish who her father is, who she is, she'll remain in a state of limbo."

  * * *

  Macy's trailer was small, designed more for weekend trips than as a permanent residence. Parked beneath a cottonwood tree, it lay in the shadows created by the umbrella of limbs overhead. Beyond the apron of shade, a lounge chair was positioned on a narrow strip of lawn to catch the last of the sun's rays. Macy lay on the chair, her feet bare, sunglasses shielding her eyes. Cutoffs revealed an amazing length of tanned leg, and a sawed-off tank top exposed a tempting band of flesh across her abdomen. Rory assumed that she was either asleep or dead, as she seemed unaware that he was parked on the street, watching her. Unlike her neighbors, he thought, with a glance over his shoulder at the couple who sat in lawn chairs across the street, eyeing him suspiciously.

  With a sigh, he turned his gaze back to Macy, trying to work up the nerve to approach her. When he'd left the ranch, he hadn't planned to drop by for a visit, but throughout the drive to town, he hadn't been able to shake free of Elizabeth's theory of Macy suffering an identity crisis. He didn't have his sister-in-law's knowledge of psychology, but he had to admit, what she'd said made sense.

  He supposed, if he was into psychoanalysis, the travel trailer Macy chose to live in supported Elizabeth's theory. The trailer was untethered, lacking permanence and stability, much like Macy's life at the moment. And it lacked an identity, a personality, as its exterior was painted beige, its only distinguishing mark a bold maroon stripe that ran down either side.

  And that's what had drawn him here. Not Macy's trailer, but the woman who lived inside. He wanted to get to know Macy. Find out if Elizabeth's theory was right. Determine if Macy's porcupine demeanor was a defense mechanism, a sign of her loss of trust. To discover if she really did suffer an identity crisis, as a result of her mother's death and deception.

  And he'd better start now, he thought, with another glance over his shoulder at her neighbors. If he remained in his truck much longer, those two busybodies across the street would probably call the cops and report him as a Peeping Tom. Anxious to avoid that unpleasantry, he climbed down from his truck and crossed to stand at the foot of the lounge chair … and discovered that the band of bare flesh at her waist was even more tempting up close.

  "Working on your tan?" he asked.

  She jumped at the sound of his voice, nearly overturning the lounge chair, then sat up and snatched off her glasses to glare at him.

  "What are you trying to do?" she snapped. "Scare me to death?"

  He hid a smile, thinking she was kind of cute when she was mad. "No, but it looks like I did a good job of it."

  Her frown deepening, she swung her legs over the side of the chair, dropped her elbows to her knees and buried her face in her hands. "I was asleep," she grumbled.

  He slipped a finger beneath the thin strap of her tank top and swallowed a smile, when he felt a shiver move through her. "Cute pajamas."

  She looked up at him, her eyes narrowed to slits. "Move it or lose it."

  He slowly released the strap and lifted his hands. "I was just admiring your outfit."

  She yanked the strap back into place. "What do you want?"

  He lifted a brow. "A man has to have a reason to make a social call on a pretty lady?"

  She
huffed a breath and stood. "You can save the BS. I'm immune to men like you."

  He gave the front of her top a pointed look. "I wouldn't be so sure."

  She looked down, then quickly folded her arms across her chest to hide the embossed impressions her knotted nipples made on the thin fabric.

  "I repeat," she said tersely. "What do you want?"

  He lifted a shoulder. "I was on my way to the store and thought you might want to ride along. To check on the plants," he added, thinking that might be the inducement needed to persuade her.

  She frowned at him a moment longer, then scooped her sandals from the ground and pushed past him. "Why not? I don't have anything better to do."

  He stared after her, stunned that she'd agreed so easily. "You're actually going to go with me?"

  She stopped and turned. "Have you watered the plants today?"

  "No."

  She turned for his truck again. "Then, yeah. I'm going. Somebody's gotta keep them alive."

  * * *

  Four

  « ^ »

  Macy squatted down to poke a finger into the mulch surrounding a red yucca, checking the soil for moisture. "Still damp," she confirmed. Standing, she dusted off her hands and looked around at the neighboring plants. "You're probably going to have to install a sprinkler system, though. This soil doesn't seem to retain much water."

  "The woman is an idiot!"

  Startled, Macy turned. "What woman?"

  Rory flung out an arm, indicating the display window. "That damn window designer. She used stiffs. Stiffs! And after I specifically told her not to."

  Stiffs? she thought in confusion as she stared at the display. "Are you talking about the mannequins?"

  "Damn right I am! And that fence," he said, his face flushed with anger. "Does that look like the corner of a corral to you?"

  Hesitant to comment one way or the other, she said, "Is it supposed to?"

  "Hell, yes! White posts and rails," he muttered darkly. "That's the kind of fence you'd find in your Aunt Pitty-Pat's rose garden, not on a ranch. And get a load of that sand," he said, pointing to the floor of the display window. "Does that look like the kind of dirt you'd find in a corral? Hell, no!" he shouted before she could answer. "Throw in a couple of sand pails and you'd have yourself a damn beach."

  She had to agree. The display was almost comical, what with the Aunt Pitty-Pat fence, the sand and the "stiffs" dressed up in western attire. "It's not that bad," she said, trying for diplomacy.

  He looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. "Are you kidding me? Any cowboy worth his salt is going to laugh his head off when he sees this."

  She lifted a shoulder. "If you're not satisfied, make her redo it."

  "I can't! She's already gone! It would take days to get her back here again, and my grand opening is set for Wednesday."

  "Well, why don't you redo it?" she said in frustration. "You obviously know what you want it to look like."

  "Why do you think I hired a window designer in the first place? It takes artistic talent to dress a window, and although God was generous with me in most areas, he shorted me in that one."

  He turned to look at the window again, his expression that of a little boy who'd dropped his ice cream cone without ever getting the first lick. "And I wanted this to be special," he said miserably. "This is my hometown. The place where I was born and raised. I wanted to give the folks here bragging rights as having the best darn western store in the state. I've invited the media and dignitaries from all over Texas to take part in the ribbon-cutting.

  "I can just see the pictures in the newspapers now. The governor standing before this window, cutting the ribbon to signify the opening of Tanner's Cowboy Outfitters." He shook his head with regret. "Instead of giving the folks something to brag about, I'll have made Tanner's Crossing a laughingstock."

  "Surely it isn't that bad," she said doubtfully.

  He heaved a long-suffering sigh. "No. It's worse. Farmers. Ranchers. Cowboys. Those are the people who live around here and who'll do their shopping in my store. Country folks are prideful people who make their living with their hands and by the sweat of their brow." He gestured at the window. "That is an insult to them. It's a spoof of who they are, what they do, what they stand for."

  As Macy stared at the window, she began to understand his concern. "Isn't there something you can do?"

  "Nothing but tear the mess down. It'll leave me with an empty window, but I won't shame the folks here by letting it stay there."

  That he would sacrifice what looked to be an expensive display for the sake of the townspeople stunned Macy. It also made her wonder if there wasn't more to Rory than she'd first thought.

  She thrust out her hand. "Give me your keys."

  Frowning, he dug a hand in his pocket to retrieve them. "Why?"

  "We're going to fix this display and give the people of Tanner's Crossing the bragging rights they deserve."

  * * *

  It took less than an hour to strip the window of its contents, with Rory muttering threats all the while toward the woman he'd paid to design it. It took another hour and a half to drive out to the ranch, gather the supplies they needed and return to the store. By the time they'd moved everything inside and were ready to start on the window, the sun had set and a bar of track lighting was all that lit the interior of the display window. The heat from the lights turned the area into an oven.

  Rory shoveled dirt from a wheelbarrow he'd wheeled in from outside, while Macy hammered a fence post onto a base.

  "You're sure your family isn't going to mind that we took this stuff?" she asked for at least the third time.

  He backhanded the sweat from his forehead, then scooped up another shovelful of dirt. "As I've told you at least three times already, what we took from the barn was nothing but junk."

  She picked up another nail and positioned it on the base. "But what if they had planned to use it for something? They're going to be ticked when they go to get it and find it gone."

  "They don't need it," he assured her.

  "But what if they do?" she persisted.

  He propped the shovel on the floor and rested his chin on top of the handle. "Has anybody ever told you that you're a worrywart?"

  She looked up at him, then back down, frowning as she hammered the nail in place. "I'm not a worrywart. I merely have a conscience." She weathered him a look as she reached for another nail. "But I doubt you'd know what that is."

  Hot and looking for an excuse to take a break, Rory set the shovel aside. "What makes you think I don't have a conscience?"

  "Men like you seldom do."

  He hunkered down beside her and drifted his fingers over the pile of nails, scattering them. "And what kind of man would that be?"

  "A flirt."

  "Sorry, but I don't see the connection."

  "A flirt will tell a woman anything in order to seduce her, even if it's a lie. That indicates a lack of conscience."

  He drew his chin back to look at her. "I beg your pardon, but I don't have to use flattery to seduce a woman."

  Giving him a doubtful look, she pushed to her feet and lifted the pole, testing the strength of the base. "What do you think? Does this look sturdy enough?"

  He stood and wiggled the post. "Looks good to me. And I don't use flattery to seduce women," he said again.

  She picked up a weathered board and placed it against the post, eyeing it critically before setting it aside. "What method do you use?"

  He trailed behind her as she picked up boards and aligned them, laying out a pattern to form the sides of the corral. "You make it sound premeditated," he complained. "When I make love to a woman, I don't plan it out beforehand. It just happens."

  "Yeah, right," she muttered.

  "Dammit, it does! There's something chemical, electric that happens between two people. When things are right between them, something clicks. You can't force it. It's either there, or it isn't."

  "Do you want to make love to me
?"

  She'd asked the question as casually as she would ask the time. "Well, n-no," he stammered.

  "Why not?"

  He dragged a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly uncomfortable. "I don't know. Probably because you're not my type."

  "And what's your type?"

  "I like my women soft and feminine."

  She glanced his way. "And I'm not?"

  He knew he was walking on dangerous ground. If he wasn't careful, there was a strong chance he was going to hurt her feelings. "It's not that you're unattractive," he hedged. "It's just that … well. I like women with a little more—" he cupped his hands on his chest to demonstrate "—up front."

  She turned to face him. "So you're saying that you wouldn't make love to me, that the click you mentioned wouldn't occur, because I have small breasts?"

  "Well, yeah. I'd say that about sums it up."

  She took a step toward him.

  He choked a laugh and pushed out a hand. "Hey, now. What do you think you're doing?"

  She lifted her hands and placed them on his shoulders. "Proving a point."

  Something had changed in her expression, in her eyes. Her features had softened, her eyes had turned molten. He watched in stunned silence as she swept her tongue over her lips, wetting them. His own mouth went dry as he stared at the gleaming results. She took another step that brought her body up flush against his. She was close. So close he could feel her heartbeat, as if it were his own, count the dark flecks that shimmered in her eyes. With her mouth now only inches from his, she stretched upward and pressed her lips to his.

  Heat. That was his first thought. But it had barely registered before she opened her mouth over his and he was hit with the second thought. Need. It lashed through him like a whip, his knees buckling and his back bowing at the blow. Thanking the Good Lord that she wasn't his half sister, as she'd once thought, with a groan, he gripped her waist and hauled her up higher. With an urgency that sent his pulse racing, she knotted her fingers in his hair, thrust her tongue into his mouth, swept it over his teeth, nipped at his lips.