The Lost Daughter Of Pigeon Hollow. Inglath Cooper
appeal, honey. You’re allowed.”
“Thanks,” Willa said, laughing, “but I’ll keep my buttons buttoned.”
“Odds preparation, that’s all. Like dropping another five for lottery tickets on the way out of the store.”
“The lottery’s a scam.”
“You’re hopeless. You’ll call me as soon as you get home?”
“I will.” Willa clicked off, then hit the stored button for her home number and got the machine. She left Katie a message, told her she would be home later. They needed to talk.
Maybe by then, Willa would figure out what to say.
THE HOOT ’N’ HOLLER DREW a crowd every Friday night for buy-one-get-one-free pitchers of Budweiser and waffle fries.
Willa chose the place because it was one of the liveliest around and not the kind of spot for which she could be accused of harboring any romantic notions.
Even from the parking lot, the noise level required a raised voice. Willa got out and stood beside the Wagoneer. Owen pulled in beside her, the Range Rover making her jalopy of a vehicle look like a third runner-up beauty contestant.
He threw a glance at the front of the building, basically concrete blocks with a roof on it. A big neon sign blinked the name of the establishment in bold orange. “Interesting,” he said.
“Not exactly an architectural wonder. But keep in mind the old book-by-its-cover adage.”
“Now I’m really curious.” He ushered her forward with a wave. “After you.”
At the entrance, he held the door for her, and yes, okay, she noticed. Her last few dates—few and far between as they were—had left her all but certain the pool of available men in this county had forgotten any courtesies their mothers had taught them where women were concerned.
The place was nearly full. A country-and-western band took up the far right corner of the room, the lead singer a frosting-kit-era blonde in a mini-skirt that redefined mini. She crooned a familiar Reba hit. Smoke hung like a veil over the main room. Peanut shells littered the floor.
The only available table sat a little too close to the band, making conversation next to impossible.
Again, Owen held her chair, waited for her to sit. Again, Willa was impressed. Maybe Judy was right. Maybe she did need to get out more if all it took to wow her was a surface show of manners. Pretty soon, she’d be unbuttoning buttons.
He sat down across from her. “Great place,” he said.
“You think?” she shouted.
The band hit the last note of the song and promised to be back in fifteen minutes. A jukebox started up at a volume that did not rattle the eardrums.
“Did you think I’d run when I saw the monster trucks parked outside?”
“I thought the local color might test your resolve.”
He smiled. “Did I pass?”
“So far.”
“Good.”
The waitress arrived with their beer and waffle fries. He poured her a glass from the icy pitcher, then handed her a plate, waited as she put some fries on it. He filled his own glass, loaded his plate and dug in.
She stared.
He looked up, eyebrows raised. “Is something wrong?”
“I—no. You just don’t seem like the waffle-fries type.”
He took a sip of his beer. “So what do you think my type is?”
She shrugged, buying time.
He sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “No, really. Go ahead.”
She wrapped both hands around her glass, giving it some consideration. “Let’s see. You play some sport like squash. Or maybe golf. You have a connection to the horse-racing industry. You drink port and smoke skinny cigars.”
Owen laughed, a real laugh that came from somewhere deep inside him. “You got one of them right anyway. How’d you figure out the horse connection?”
“We get a lot of that passing through here.” She smiled. “And you’ve got a decal on the back of your truck.”
He grinned. “My turn.”
Willa wasn’t at all sure she wanted to hear the conclusions he’d drawn about her so far.
“So noted you’re a reader,” he said. “You think TV is the drain through which all modern intelligence is leaking. NPR is secretly programmed on your FM dial. You normally frown on the kind of food sitting in front of us.” He hesitated, rubbed his chin, then added, “There’s some reason why you’re not married. Some obligation you’re meeting because a woman like you should have been snatched up long ago. And you’ve already assigned me a spot in your Okay, so I was right about him file. How did I do?”
She studied him through narrowed eyes. “Did Judy put you up to this?”
He laughed again, one elbow on the table. “Fairly well, I take it.”
The band started up with a sudden blast.
Owen leaned over close to her ear. “Since talking is out of the question, how about a dance?”
No was the obvious answer. Again, passing through. Clearly, a one-night thing. And she wasn’t a one-night kind of girl.
Intrigued, though? That, she had to admit.
One dance. What could it hurt?
There was a crowd on the parquet floor, making closeness essential. He was a good dancer; she noticed as much right away. Not like he’d had lessons or anything. He just moved with the kind of fluid ease that said the rhythm came naturally.
The frosted-blond singer belted out another Top 40 hit with a lively beat, her gaze set on Owen. Laser set.
Willa didn’t think it was her imagination that the woman’s hips gyrated with more deliberation every time Owen glanced at the stage.
She couldn’t resist. She leaned in and with a straight face, said, “I can duck out. Leave her a clear playing field.”
“Do, and I’ll stage a food-poisoning picket outside your diner.”
“Low.”
He smiled. And it hit Willa then that they were flirting with each other. Or maybe she had flirted with him, and he had flirted back. Whatever the sequence of it, she was enjoying herself. Imagine that.
THEY FINISHED THAT SET, and while the band took another break, Willa excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.
Owen watched her disappear around the corner. What was he doing? He was supposed to give her the letter. That was all.
He’d asked her to dinner for that purpose alone, and somewhere between the parking lot and that last dance, he’d gotten off track. Way off.
The cell phone in his pocket rang. He pulled it out, hit Send. “Hello.”
“Owen.”
He looked up at the ceiling. “Pamela.”
“Cline said you were going to be out of town for a couple of days,” she said, a clear note of dissatisfaction lining her voice.
“Yeah,” he said. “Kind of unexpected.”
“Is everything all right?” The question tentative, as if she were afraid to ask too much.
“Yes,” he said.
“When will you be home?”
“A day or so.”
There was a long pause, and then she said, “I’m not