Lone Star Rising. Darlene Graham
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,