In Emmylou's Hands. Pamela Hearon
“No need to protect my honor, Joey. I’ll be there to pick you up in a few minutes. Just do me a favor, and please don’t tell Sol my history. I’m EmmyLou Creighton to everybody in Taylor’s Grove. I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Your secrets are safe with me, sis.”
EmmyLou dropped into the desk chair with a groan, defeated. Joey could be totally clueless sometimes, bless his heart.
She was so screwed.
* * *
“AND ON THAT, I’m going to hang up. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
Joe Wayne recognized his sister’s tone—the one that meant she had no confidence in what he’d told her, which was laughable considering it was her lack of confidence in herself that had spoiled everything. They could be making millions by now... He took a deep breath and let it go.
“See you in a few,” he answered. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
“She’ll be here in a half hour.” He handed Sol the phone and turned his attention back to his sandwich. Or that’s what he pretended to do. In reality, he studied the man sitting across from him.
So something had happened between Sol and EmmyLou. Something neither of them wanted to admit to. Well, the guy was a bit of a strange bird—but likable in spite of that hard-ass bullshit he put on. Like right then. He was sitting there, chewing his sandwich all slow, staring out at the Gulf like the sight had his total concentration. But Joe Wayne had seen his reaction when he heard EmmyLou was here. Something deep-rooted surfaced for an instant...something akin to fear. And he perked up when the topic of her secret hit his ears, although he played it cool like he hadn’t really taken it in.
“Rocket-propelled grenade blew it off in Afghanistan.” Sol’s voice was low and even, like he was talking about that pelican he could see standing at the water’s edge.
But the impact of the statement caused Joe Wayne’s throat to close around the bite he’d just taken. He chugged half the bottle of water to wash it down. “I’m sorry, man.”
Sol closed his eyes as if the words hurt him, and Joe Wayne saw the muscle in his jaw twitch as he opened them again. “You don’t need to be sorry. You had nothing to do with it. I hate it when people are sorry.”
“I mean I’m sorry for your loss,” Joe Wayne explained.
“It’s a leg. Save your mourning for people.”
Joe Wayne understood his point, but he figured the best way of showing it was to not say anything.
He must’ve figured right, because Sol went on. “Nobody in Taylor’s Grove knows I lost my leg. They think I caught a bullet and just have a bad limp.”
“That’s a helluva thing to keep quiet about.”
“Can’t stand for people to be sorry for me—the way you were just now. I stayed in Texas the first year and went to physical therapy to get used to the prosthesis. After that, it was easy to wear long pants and keep it hidden. And I don’t ever talk about it.”
“Which is why you didn’t want EmmyLou coming down here.”
Sol looked at him directly, and the side of his mouth rose in a partial smile. “Your sister’s mouth is in constant motion.”
Joe Wayne laughed. “A common Fuller family trait.”
“So I’ve gathered.” Sol gave a disgruntled sigh. “And now that she’s coming over here, I’ll have to get back into my jeans.”
“How long’s it been...since you lost it?”
“Eight years. During my second tour of duty.”
Joe Wayne held his water bottle up in a salute. “I appreciate your sacrifice, man.”
Sol shook his head. “Half a leg’s a small a thing compared to what others gave.”
Joe Wayne drank to him anyway and then took another bite with the understanding that the subject was closed. He liked this guy. He had an honorable air about him. “What happened between you and EmmyLou?”
“None of your business,” came the answering growl.
Yep, honorable...with a heaping helping of ornery on the side.
PARKING UP THE street in a black pickup truck with a pair of binoculars trained on Ramona’s house was not the smartest reconnaissance plan Sol had ever been part of, but the Fullers had collectively vetoed his suggestion to get the police involved. So the next best option seemed to be to watch the house for Ramona’s husband or both of them to leave and to hope for an unlocked door or window, which Joe Wayne seemed to think was likely.
Looking around the run-down neighborhood, Sol couldn’t imagine such a scenario. This was a far cry from neat and tidy Taylor’s Grove and his own house, which he’d bet had never been locked since the day his grandparents moved in. But it confirmed that his decision to follow Joe Wayne and EmmyLou had been the right move, despite her protests that she didn’t need his protection.
Damn stubborn woman.
Joe Wayne came into view, slinking around the side of the house, head darting back and forth, guilty as sin and looking every inch the part. He sprinted to the edge of the driveway and up the street toward EmmyLou’s car. Sol hurried from the truck to hear his report.
“She’s in the backyard.”
A break—finally! “Did you arrange to get your keys?”
Joe Wayne shook his head. “Not Ramona. Patsy. She’s around back. And I seen the legs of my jeans laying out by the garbage, too. My guess is Ramona made herself a pair of shorts to get rid of the evidence.” He caught his breath on a wistful sigh. “I heard her husband tell her they was out of baloney and somebody was gonna have to go get some. Maybe it’ll be him. And maybe it’ll be soon.”
The temperature was creeping up to the point of being uncomfortable, and Sol was itching to get back to the beach house and the breeze off the Gulf...and the prospect of solitude once EmmyLou and her brother were out of his hair.
“I have an idea.” EmmyLou’s breathless exclamation raised his body temperature—and his disgruntled attitude—even more. “Let’s call your phone, and when they answer, we’ll pretend you’re an undercover CIA agent.” The brown of her eyes deepened with excitement, sending Sol’s memory soaring back to the night they spent together, which, in turn, reminded him how far he’d dropped on her scale of desirability. “We’ll say there’s a bomb planted on the cycle and they need to move it to the road with the keys and the phone, and we’ll come by and pick it up.”
Sol mustered his most condescending snort. “That may be the most ludicrous idea I’ve ever heard.”
“That so?” If the convertible top had been up on EmmyLou’s car, she might’ve ripped it in her hasty exit from the driver’s seat. “I don’t hear you coming up with anything better. I drove all night to get here, and I’m going to have to do it again tonight to get home for work tomorrow. I’m ready to go back to my hotel room and get some sleep, but instead, we’re standing around, roasting in this heat all afternoon, waiting for an event that might not happen.” She slammed the door and leaned back on it, crossing her arms in a pose that was somehow beguiling in its belligerence.
“If you’d stayed home, you wouldn’t be having to deal with this.” Sol shifted his eyes to Joe Wayne. “Look, I’ll just go to the door, and when she answers, I’ll ask for the keys and your phone.”
The male half of the Fullers squinted a wary eye. “What if he answers?”
Sol shrugged. “I’ll ask to speak to Ramona.”
“And