The Last Good Man in Texas Read online

  The heat raged higher, burning behind his eyes, scalding his throat. His only thought now was where. Where could he take her to make love to her? Not here in front of the window, where anyone who drove by could see them. The office? No. Nothing flat there but his desk, and it was covered with paperwork. The dressing rooms! They had benches. One of 'em would probably work as a makeshift bed.

  He let her body slide slowly down his until her feet touched the floor. "The dressing room," he said against her mouth, and prayed they'd make it that far.

  She dragged her lips from his with a reluctant slowness that churned need into desperation.

  "That's not necessary," she whispered, her breath blowing warm against his chin. "I think I proved my point."

  It took a moment for what she'd said to sink in. When it did, he flipped open his eyes to find her watching him, her lips pursed in a smug smile.

  He yanked his hands from her waist, furious with himself for falling into her trap. "You didn't prove a thing."

  "Oh, I think I did." Hiding a smile, she turned and headed for the door. "We'll finish this tomorrow," she called over her shoulder, then stopped and looked back at him. "The display, that is," she clarified, then walked out the door, laughing like a loon.

  * * *

  When Rory arrived at the store the next morning, he found Macy, looking all pink-cheeked and rested, watering his plants. And that irritated the hell out of him. How could she look so normal when his own system was tied up in knots and had been since she'd plastered that kiss on him?

  Spotting him, she waved and called a cheery "Good morning!"

  He curled his lip in a snarl. "I don't see what's so good about it."

  She lifted a hand to the sky. "A clear, blue sky. Lots of sunshine. What more could a person ask for?"

  "You out of my hair."

  She made a tsking sound. "Don't tell me you're still upset about that kiss."

  He braced his hands on his hips. "Kiss? Is that what you call that liplocker you plastered on me last night?" He advanced on her, murder in his eyes and on his mind. "Well, I've got news for you, lady. Around here, we call that foreplay, and in case you're unfamiliar with the term, it's the one used to describe the sensual stimulation that leads to sex."

  Her face reddening, she quickly looked away. He knew he was making her uncomfortable, but he wasn't about to back off now. Not when he'd spent a very uncomfortable night himself, thanks to her.

  "And I'm not talking about the missionary kind of sex," he continued, enjoying watching her squirm. "I'm talking about the get-down-and-dirty-hot-and-sweaty kind of sex. The roll-around-on-the-floor-no-holds-barred kind of sex.

  "Not that I'm opposed to a friendly kiss every now and again, you understand. But the kiss you laid on me was baited with promises of all kinds of carnal pleasure to come, then you up and walked away, without delivering on those promises. That kind of teasing would tick any man off."

  She set her jaw and aimed the hose at a group of crepe myrtles. "My purpose in kissing you wasn't to turn you on. It was to prove a point. Which I did," she added stubbornly.

  "Point?" He scratched his head, as if confused. "You're gonna have to refresh my memory. Exactly what point was it you were trying to make?"

  "You said that you wouldn't make love to me because the stupid click you said was necessary between two people wouldn't occur because I have small boobs. I proved that it would."

  He held up a finger, as if remembering. "Ah, yes. The click. I do recall mentioning that. But as to you proving anything…" He folded his arms over his chest and looked down his nose at her. "You didn't prove a damn thing."

  Her jaw dropped. "I most certainly did!"

  "No," he argued pleasantly. "To have proved anything, we would've had to make love, and as I recall, that didn't happen."

  "But you wanted to," she accused furiously.

  "What I want to do and what I do do are two totally different things. And until we do make love, you haven't proved anything, except that you're a tease."

  Touching a finger to the brim of his hat, he walked away, confident that he'd succeeded in ruining what she'd claimed was a beautiful day.

  * * *

  Rory assigned Jimmy, a part-time high school student, to help Macy finish the display window. It wasn't that he wasn't willing to work alongside her to finish the job they'd started. He just had more important things to do. With his store's grand opening just two short days away, he had calls to make, arrangements to confirm and inventory to check, which is how he spent the bulk of his day.

  It was after five when he heard a knock at his office door.

  Thinking his manager had forgotten to tell him something before leaving, he called, "Come on in."

  "Do you intend to uphold your end of our bargain?"

  He glanced up to find a sullen-faced Macy standing in the doorway. Pleased to see that she hadn't recovered the cheerful mood she'd flaunted in his face that morning, he reared back in his chair and laced his fingers over his chest. "And what bargain would that be?" he asked, although he knew perfectly well what she was referring to.

  "You agreed to help me find my father."

  "That I did." He sat up and snagged a slip of paper from the top of his desk and held it out to her. "Sheila Tompkins married Ted Sawyer and now resides in Burnet, Texas."

  She snatched the paper from his hand, scanned it, then glanced up at him, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "How do you know for sure that this is the right Sheila?"

  "Maw Parker. She's the undisputed town gossip. If you want to know anything, just ask Maw."

  "Did you ask her about my mother?"

  "I did. She remembered her but knew nothing about a pregnancy."

  Grimacing, she stuffed the slip of paper into the back pocket of her overalls. "Jimmy and I finished the window display," she muttered. "You might want to take a look before I leave to make sure it's what you want."

  He pushed back his chair and rose. "Good idea," he said, and followed her out.

  She led him to the parking lot out front, then lifted a hand, indicating the window.

  He stared, unable to believe the transformation. "Damn," he breathed. "It's better than I'd even imagined."

  "So you're satisfied?"

  "Satisfied?" He hooted a laugh, then slapped her on the back. "I'm ecstatic! This is perfect. Absolutely perfect, right down to the cactus plant there in the corner." He moved in closer to study the details. "Is that real grass?" he asked, pointing.

  "Yeah. Native. All the plants are real. Somebody's going to have to see that they get watered when they need it. I left instructions for their care with Jimmy."

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. "Where did you get all this stuff?"

  She lifted a shoulder. "Here and there."

  He reached for his wallet. "How much do I owe you?"

  Pushing out a hand, she turned away. "We're even."

  "Even?" he called after her. "How can we be even?"

  She patted her back pocket but kept walking. "You gave me the lead I needed."

  * * *

  After leaving the store, Rory drove out to the ranch to check on his house, telling himself he wasn't going to feel guilty about abandoning Macy. Sure, he'd left her to finish the window display alone that day, but he refused to feel guilty about that, since she'd volunteered for the job. And he hadn't welshed on their bargain to help her find her father, as his conscience kept insisting he had. Macy herself had said that he'd upheld his end when he'd come up with Sheila Tompkins's address.

  But in spite of all his rationalizing, he couldn't stop his mind from creating a scorecard, listing what all she'd done for him in one column and what he'd done for her in the other. His side had two entries: the visit with Dixie he'd suggested and the call he'd made to Maw Parker that had resulted in the lead on Sheila Tompkins. Macy's side had two entries, as well: the landscaping for his store and decorating his display window.

  Although the entries on the scorecard were e
ven at two each, it didn't take a genius to figure out that the scales were weighted heavily in Macy's favor.

  But she'd called them even, he told himself, and forced his mind to focus on what all the carpenters had done that day.

  They'd started on the drywall, he noted as he walked through the house. The kitchen and bathroom cabinets installed; the electrical roughed in; the trim work complete. Another couple of weeks, a month at the outside, and his new home would be complete. Five thousand square feet of living space under one roof and another twelve hundred in porches and patios. More space than all of the apartments he currently leased added together—and more than a single man required. Hell, his new home was so big, he could probably fit ten travel trailers the size of Macy's inside.

  Groaning, he did an abrupt aboutface. Macy again, he thought.

  As he made his way back to the front of the house, his footsteps echoed hollowly in the empty rooms. The sound was a lonely one. Downright eerie, if he allowed himself to think about it. He snorted a laugh, remembering his fear of being alone when he was a kid. His brothers had given him grief over it. Even created a few situations, making him think he was alone, then laughing at his fear. But those days were long gone. Rory wasn't afraid of being alone any longer. He supposed he had his brothers to thank for curing him of the phobia. Humiliation was one hell of a tonic.

  Stopping in the den, he braced a hand against the window and looked out, his heart warming at the western view of the ranch it provided. Stretched out before him, cattle grazed contentedly on pastures of thick green grass. Beyond them, miles of fencing stretched up into low hills covered with cedar and brush, a haven for a host of wildlife. At the moment, the sun sat atop the low hills, looking as if it had snagged there, painting the horizon in muted bands of red, gold and yellow, in its slow journey to sunset.

  It felt good to be home again, he thought. It felt good to have a home. He had five apartments—one in each of the cities where he owned western stores—but not a one of them had ever felt like home. To him, they were merely places to sleep. Storage facilities for all of his belongings. But this, he thought, looking out at the spectacular view, this was home. The place where he'd grown up. The place where he planned to live out his life. Raise his family. With his brothers all living nearby now, his children and theirs would grow up playing together on the Bar-T, building memories together, just as he and his brothers had done.

  He frowned, wondering what kind of memories Macy had to reflect on. With no siblings, her memories would certainly be different from his. In his estimation, growing up as an only child had to be hell. No built-in playmates. Nobody to give you grief when you did something stupid, or a slap on the back when you did something good. Nobody to tease you out of your fears. Nobody to talk to when you were lonely or just needed an ear. So who did she talk to when she wanted to unload? he wondered. With no siblings and her mother and stepfather both deceased, she had no family to turn to, no one to share her troubles with.

  But, if the lead he'd given her paid off, she might be on her way to finding her father, which would give her a family again—or it would if the man was still alive and if he chose to establish a relationship with her. But those were mighty big "ifs." If even one of 'em didn't work out in her favor, then Macy would be right back where she started. Alone.

  He remembered well her emotional state after they'd talked to Dixie. Though she'd tried her damnedest not to let him know how upsetting the meeting had been for her, she'd broken down before she could get inside her Jeep. He rubbed a hand over his chest, remembering the feel of her tears soaking through his shirt. The heat in them. The heartbreak. If her meeting with Sheila went the same as the one with Dixie, who would hold her this time? She was probably, right now, sitting all alone in that matchbox-size trailer, crying her heart out and nobody there to mop up the mess.

  He balled his fist against the window frame. He should've stuck with her, he told himself angrily. He should've honored the agreement he'd made with her. He'd told her he'd help her find her father and that meant sticking by her until the man was found, not providing her with a name and address and sending her off alone to search the guy out.

  And knowing Macy, she hadn't wasted any time starting the search. She'd probably taken the information he'd given her and hightailed it to Burnet to pay Sheila Tompkins a visit, which was a huge mistake in his estimation. When you wanted information from a person, you didn't go barreling in and demand it, which was exactly what he figured Macy would do. The woman was impatient, stubborn and about as subtle as a bulldozer.

  Finesse. That's what was needed in a situation like this and finesse was Rory's specialty. Firming his lips, he turned for the door. He was going to help her he told himself as he locked up his house. She'd probably tell him to get lost, that she didn't want or need his help, just like the first time he'd offered it.

  But if she did, that was too damn bad. The woman had no family. No one to turn to. She was alone in the world.

  And Rory knew what it was like to be alone. The fear that could grab ahold of a person. His brothers might have cured him of his phobia, but he hadn't forgotten the feelings associated with it.

  And nobody should have to suffer that kind of fear alone.

  * * *

  Macy sat with her hands pressed between her knees, trying to hide her impatience as she waited for Sheila's response.

  "Pregnant?" Sheila repeated, her shock obvious. "Heavens. I had no idea. Darla Jean never said a word to me about being pregnant. All she told me before she left was that she was putting Tanner's Crossing behind her and was going to find herself a rich man to marry."

  Macy tried her best to hide her disappointment. "She did get married. As to the rich part…" She lifted a hand. "I suppose she accomplished that, too. My stepfather had plenty of money, though he was pretty tight-fisted with it."

  Sheila hooted a laugh. "Oh, I'll bet that made Darla Jean madder than a hornet. She expected a man to spend lavishly on her and had no patience for one that wouldn't."

  Macy didn't need Sheila to tell her what Darla Jean was like. She'd experienced her mother's particular brand of selfishness firsthand. What she didn't know was who her father was.

  Hoping to spur a memory that Sheila had forgotten, she asked, "Was there any one man in particular that my mother spent time with?"

  Her face softening in sympathy, Sheila leaned to lay a hand on Macy's knee. "Oh, honey. I know you're wanting me to tell you who your father was, but I honestly don't know. Darla Jean liked all the men, and they liked her. I never knew her to spend any more time with one than any other."

  Forcing a polite smile, Macy nodded, then stood. "Well, I guess I better be going. I've taken up enough of your time. Thanks for agreeing to talk to me."

  Sheila wrapped an arm around Macy's shoulders and walked with her to the door. "Honey, I was glad to. I'm just sorry that I wasn't more help. I doubt anyone knows the answer. When Darla Jean left, she cut all her ties to Tanner's Crossing, including her one with me."

  At the door, Macy paused. "If you should think of anything," she began.

  Sheila gave her a sympathetic look. "I've got your number if I do."

  With a nod, Macy turned to go. She was about to pull away from the curb when the screen door of Sheila's house flew open and Sheila came flying down the steps.

  "Macy, wait!" she called, frantically waving a hand over her head.

  Macy shoved the gearshift into Park and rolled down her window, praying that Sheila had remembered something. "Yes?" she asked expectantly.

  Out of breath, Sheila thrust a small tin through the open window. "These are pictures of your mother and me and the crowd we ran with back then. I don't know what good they'll do you, but I'd thought you'd like to have them."

  Her heart sinking, Macy accepted the tin. "Thanks. I'll make copies and return the originals to you."

  Shaking her head, Sheila stepped back onto the curb. "No, you keep them. My husband never liked me having them a
round, anyway."

  * * *

  Five

  « ^ »

  The tin sat beside Macy's purse on the passenger seat as she made the drive back to Tanner's Crossing, but she refused to stop and open it, wanting the privacy of her trailer before she looked inside. Not that she expected to discover her father's identity hidden within. The tin held only pictures of her mother's past, a pictorial display Macy wasn't at all sure she wanted to see.

  As she drove into Tanner's Crossing, instead of taking the loop that circumvented the downtown area, she turned onto the street that wound around the square and past Rory's store. She told herself she hadn't chosen the route in the hope of finding Rory there. She was merely checking on the landscape job she'd done, a follow-up she did after all her installations.

  She slowed as she approached the corner and looked over the plants, pleased to see that they were thriving. But then her gaze slipped to the parking lot in front of the store. Disappointment sagged through her when she found it empty.

  It's just as well, she told herself, and drove on. Even if Rory had been there she wouldn't have had the nerve to stop. He'd made it clear that he didn't want anything more to do with her and she certainly wasn't going to force herself on him. Not after what he'd said to her that morning.

  A tease, she thought with a frown, remembering the name he'd called her. She wasn't a tease. That was more Darla Jean's style than Macy's.

  But even if Macy were a tease, seduction was the furthest thing from her mind when she'd kissed him. She'd kissed him to prove a point. He'd insulted her, made her angry with his comment that she wasn't his type, that he liked his women softer, more feminine.

  With bigger boobs.

  Like she needed anyone to tell her she didn't have a figure that men drooled over. She had a mirror, didn't she? And even if she'd been born with the proper equipment, she never would've flaunted it. Throughout her life she'd watched her mother bat her eyes and show a little cleavage in order to get what she wanted from a man and Macy refused to lower herself to that form of persuasion. Using beauty and feminine wiles came with a price, indebting a woman to a man, leaving her weak, dependent and vulnerable to his every whim. And Macy didn't intend to get caught in the trap that had ensnared her mother. She had brains and initiative, and those two traits were the ones she'd used to get where she was and would continue to use throughout her life. Forget the helpless-buxom-blond persona her mother had perfected over the years. Even if Macy had been built for the role, she'd never have played it.