Second To None. Muriel Jensen
rooms that were all they could afford after her mother had spent her welfare checks on drugs and alcohol, Veronica had dreamed of living where there were grass and trees, and animals that didn’t come out of the walls at night to fight you for your food.
Once, when her mother had been in rehab, Veronica had stayed in a foster home with a TV. She’d watched reruns of Green Acres and enjoyed the antics of the characters. But mostly she’d thought the setting marvelous. She’d decided that when she grew up, she’d live in the country where there’d be no neighbors screaming on the other side of the wall, no dark alleys...no loneliness. Country people always looked so well-fed and cheerful—and they always stuck together.
Veronica lay back on the carpet, closed her eyes and said a prayer of gratitude. Tomorrow, Tate and his brothers were moving unneeded furniture from their house into her loft She would bring her few possessions from the apartment and stay overnight for the first time.
She had accomplished so much more than she’d expected to—and so quickly. Good. Step Two of the plan—finding an apartment convenient to her business—almost completed.
MIKE’S GAZE FELL to the newly laid carpet as he pushed on the half-open door of the barn. He was here with a message for Veronica from Colette, but he forgot it temporarily as he admired the renovations.
The walls looked neat and sound, and the upstairs had been completed, though not yet painted, windows looking down on the playroom below.
And it was as his eyes swept the rest of the area that he saw Veronica lying on the floor. His heart lurched. What had she fallen from? Or had she just collapsed? Earlier he’d watched her helping the workmen put up wallboard, then roll out the carpet padding. She’d probably overdone it—
He was halfway toward her, his concern mounting, when she sat up, looking perfectly sound, and blinked at him in bemusement. He stopped in his tracks, relieved and exasperated. He drew a steadying breath. “If you’re going to take a nap,” he said, “don’t sprawl out on the floor that way. I’m liable to draw a chalk outline around you.”
He almost expected her to be annoyed with him, but she laughed instead.
“Sorry.” She got lightly to her feet. “As you can see, there’s nothing to lie on but the carpet. I was just relaxing. Did you need something?”
She wore a pair of baggy, dark blue sweats, splattered with paint. The pants hung on her, yet failed to detract from whatever there was about her that he always noticed.
She smoothed the sweats self-consciously, probably thinking he’d been studying her with criticism rather than admiration. “I got my wardrobe,” she said, “from the St. Vincent de Paul Society and the thrift shop when I left the convent. You won’t find it at Bloomingdale’s.”
He looked down at his own winery “uniform” of jeans and sweatshirt. “I, on the other hand, am outfitted by JCPenney’s...” He indicated his jeans, then plucked at his sweatshirt with its Dallas Boys’ Club logo. “And the fund-raising efforts of a friend of mine.”
“You worked with a boys’ club?”
“No. My old partner did, and I often got roped into helping out. The shirt sale was to raise money for gym equipment...” That was all he wanted her to know right now. It wasn’t like him to talk about himself, even in a general way. But she’d looked embarrassed about her clothes.... “Colette wondered if you needed the winery’s truck to move your things.”
“I’ve ridden in that beast with Colette. It’s pretty temperamental, and I can’t drive a stick. But tell her thanks. I’ll just make a couple of trips in my car.”
“Actually, she was offering you the truck and an assistant with stick experience.”
She raised an eyebrow warily. “You?”
He tried not to be annoyed by her obvious reluctance. “Me. Tate’s picking up some friends who are coming out for the wedding. And Shea’s busy cooking for the reception.”
“It’s not that I’d prefer someone else’s help.” She seemed impatient that he thought so. “It’s just you’ve made it clear you don’t want me here, so I’m sure there are things you’d rather be doing.”
That was frank. He responded with equal honesty. “That’s not entirely accurate. I don’t think the day care center should be here. It has nothing to do with you personally.”
“You’re sure?” She smiled suddenly. “You’re convinced I’m not a B-and-E artist, but you always look as though I worry you. Are you afraid I’ll force you to pray or light candles or something?”
He didn’t think he’d ever known a woman who’d kept him so off balance—and he’d known a few who had loved to try. But this one didn’t seem to be playing at anything, and that was somehow harder to deal with.
“B-and-E artist?” he asked, trying to unsettle her. “You talk more like a cop than an ex-nun.”
She shrugged and folded her arms, her stance becoming just a little aggressive. “My mother did time in every prison east of the Mississippi, several times for breaking and entering. But mostly for drugs and prostitution.”
He had to concede that round. He was pitched a little further off balance, while she seemed to root herself in place, as if she’d taught herself to stand firm under the assault of childhood memories.
“I’m sorry,” he said with quiet sincerity, his earlier annoyance with her evaporating.
She shrugged again. “Everybody has something ugly to live with. But that’s beside the point. I can move my things over tomorrow, a little bit at a time. Thanks, though, for the offer.”
He knew it was chauvinistic of him, but he’d never be the kind of man who could happily let a woman tell him what to do. He’d be the first one to admit they were equally intelligent and capable, but upbringing and instinct made him feel responsible.
A policeman protected the small and the weak and anyone else who asked for help, and although he was off the force, at the core, he’d always be a cop.
“I’ll be at your apartment at nine,” he said, ignoring her attempt to interrupt him. “It’d help if you had boxes packed already. We have the wedding rehearsal early in the evening.”
She followed him to the door, still objecting, but he turned only to remind her, “9:00 a.m.,” then walked away.
EVERYTHING VERONICA OWNED was in the bed of the truck in less than an hour.
Mike looked at the dozen or so boxes, and the clothing on plastic-wrapped hangers held together by a rubber band, and asked in surprise, “This is it?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“No furniture?”
“No.” She reached into the truck to secure the flaps on a box. “I took a vow of poverty, remember?”
He frowned and closed the tailgate, then walked around to open the passenger door for her. “I guess I didn’t realize that was meant literally.”
She dropped her purse on the floor and climbed in. “It was a promise,” she said as he handed her the end of her seat belt. “You took all your oaths as a cop literally, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did. But they didn’t require that I face the world with only twelve cardboard boxes.”
“They required you to risk your life.” It amused her that he was less horrified by that. “Poverty’s easier.”
Mike looked uncomfortable, and shifted the conversation.
“We scrounged you a table and chair and a couple of other things from the house, but you have no bed, no sofa, no television.” His message of doom delivered, he closed her door and walked around to climb in beside her. “You’re