Claimed by a Cowboy. Tanya Michaels
late and she was all alone in the inn.
Sam’s estimated “couple of hours” of being gone had turned into all afternoon and evening. Ava had insisted on staying long enough to have dinner with Lorelei but then had returned home to her husband. Both women had listlessly pushed their food around on Wanda’s sunset-colored ceramic plates. During the meal, Ava had tentatively broached the subject of the eulogy Lorelei needed to write for Saturday’s memorial. There was also the task of selecting pictures for display at the funeral home. A salon decorated with mementos of Wanda Keller’s life would open an hour prior to the formal service so that loved ones could gather to share their recollections. And their grief.
The service would take place there at the funeral home. Wanda, never really a churchgoing woman, had decided against having her final farewell at one of the local chapels. Since she was being cremated, like her husband before her, there would be no graveyard burial, either.
Lorelei shoved her hands through her hair. Her first attempt at drafting a eulogy had been disastrous. She’d thought that pulling out all these old photos, conjuring the memories, would help organize her thoughts. Sort of like an outline for a college paper. But seeing her mother’s life, now ended, spread out on the carpet around her…
A jagged keening broke the silence, and she pressed her fist against her mouth, trying to stem the dark wave of despair. Though she was usually comfortable with solitude, right now the overpowering sense of aloneness choked her. She gripped her cell phone, wanting to escape by talking to someone outside of Fredericksburg. But it was too late to call any of her work friends back in Philly, especially given the time difference. Rick, maybe?
No. She recalled with a grimace his distant response when she’d learned of her mother’s death. He’d said he was sorry, naturally, had even offered the rote “if there’s anything I can do…” But he’d sounded more like a lawyer giving a client bad news than a potential lover. “Can I send flowers?” he’d asked. “Or was she one of those people who’d prefer a donation to charity, in lieu of?”
A metallic jiggling cut through Lorelei’s thoughts and she stiffened. The B and B had never seemed creepier than it did at that moment.
Once she realized that what she’d heard was the back door being unlocked, she expelled a shaky breath. Sam. When they’d met earlier today, all she’d wanted was for him to get the hell out. Tonight, though, she was grateful for his presence. She almost called out to him but bit her lip, embarrassed by her neediness. He’d come through here anyway to get to his suite.
Sure enough, a moment later, booted footsteps sounded in the short, hardwood hallway leading from the kitchen. Then Sam appeared at the edge of the spacious living room, his face shadowed by his cowboy hat and the dark hall. It probably would have been better for her nerves if she’d turned on more lights than the standing fixture in the corner and a stained-glass antique table lamp.
She felt exposed in her circle of photos and muted light. The fact that she was wearing a tank top and flannel pajama bottoms didn’t help. “Hi.”
He leaned against the wall, seeming caught by all the images of Wanda. “Can’t believe she’s gone.” His quiet murmur didn’t completely mask the emotion in his voice. Once again, Lorelei wondered how Sam and her mother had met and what their relationship had been. It was easy to picture Wanda and Ava as best friends, laughing over botched recipes and antiquing together on the weekend. But what had Sam and Wanda shared?
“I’m supposed to pick photos for the funeral home,” she told him, her voice cracking only the slightest bit when she said funeral.
“Would you like to know which ones were her favorites?” Sam offered.
Her erstwhile relief at his company crisped and blackened to irritation. “I’m her daughter,” she said defensively. “You don’t think I can figure that out for myself?”
He tipped his hat back with a finger, staring her down with those green eyes.
“You think you knew her better than I did,” Lorelei said.
He somehow shrugged without ever moving his shoulders. “Even when we suppose we know someone, we can be surprised. But I did spend some time with her.”
And I didn’t spend nearly enough. Guilt clogged Lorelei’s windpipe, making it impossible to speak.
“She dragged out her box of photos plenty,” he said. “Made me look at them so she could talk about her husband. Or brag about you.”
Lorelei wanted so badly to ask what her mother had said. How had she described the brainy, estranged daughter who had so little in common with her?
Sam straightened slowly, awkwardly, and it was only as he moved away from the wall that she realized he was unsteady. Come to think of it, was his drawl more pronounced than it had been that afternoon?
“You’ve been drinking!”
“Not uncommon in these parts to honor a person’s memory by hoisting a glass.” He paused. “Can’t say I recall the exact number of glasses, but that’s why I walked. Left my truck at the bar.”
A strange shiver pulsed through her. She was alone in this large house with a broad-shouldered cowboy she barely knew and he might be inebriated. Should she be concerned for her welfare? Wanda had apparently believed in him, but then Wanda had believed a lot of things.
Sam approached, and Lorelei felt the instinct to scoot back, except there wasn’t much room behind her. She was between the ring of pictures and the bottom edge of the sofa. When he crouched down, Lorelei breathed in a subtle blend of denim, soap, beer and the crisp March night. It was unexpected. Rick always smelled like designer cologne—appealing, in a manufactured way, but indistinct from dozens of other successful men.
Sam Travis was distinct.
Looking into his eyes, she couldn’t remember having ever seen a pair like them. “Wh-what are you doing?”
“Helping.”
“I didn’t ask for your help.” It felt invasive, having him loom over these snapshots of her life. The too-short era when her mother and father were both alive, the later pictures of a smiling Wanda and tense adolescent Lorelei.
Sam’s jaw clenched. “Maybe I’m helping her. You’ll probably pick out the most formal portraits in the bunch, regardless of how Wanda would want to be remembered.”
“That’s not true. I’m aware of how different my mother and I are. Were.”
A fuzzy photo that predated the age of clear digital prints caught her eye, this one of a blurry Wanda laughing with tourists at a festival booth. She had thrived on the conversation and merriment around her. At the edge of the picture was a dark-haired smudge. Me. Though it was difficult to tell from the shot, Lorelei had been huddled in a lawn chair with her nose in a book. For all that Lorelei had excelled in school, she’d always had the feeling that her free-spirited mother, who held no degree of her own, would have been more proud if her daughter had put the books down and just enjoyed the sunshine and crowds more.
Sam rocked back on his heels. “Sorry. You’re right, this isn’t my place.” He stood, exiting the room with efficient speed and purpose despite however many glasses he’d drunk in Wanda’s memory.
Lorelei bit her bottom lip hard, staring at the mix of antiques and fanciful touches in this central Texas bed-and-breakfast, none of which spoke to Lorelei or resembled her life in Philly. An all too familiar bubble of alienation surrounded her. It’s not my place, either.
THURSDAY NIGHT, SAM stepped into the kitchen as gingerly as a prowler trying to pass through the house unnoticed. He’d grabbed a burger in town a couple of hours ago, but judging by the angry meow that had greeted Sam as soon as he set foot inside, Oberon had not yet eaten dinner. At least he has his appetite back.
Now that Sam was moving in the direction of the cat food, Oberon trilled his approval and wound figure eights between Sam’s cowboy boots, nearly tripping