Flirting with Texas (Deep in the Heart of Texas) (9 page)

“… so I told Kenny Gene that if he don’t poop or get off the pot that this girl is goin’ huntin’ for a different feller. I won’t waste any more years of my life, not when my bi-oh-logical clock is tickin’.”

Marcy stepped around the corner to discover Twyla had set up her beauty salon behind the circular counter of Ms. Murphy’s desk. Hairbrushes, combs, and bowls of dye littered the top, while Darla sat in the caster chair with a plastic cape fastened around her neck and her hair twigged up in bright pink permanent rods.

“I don’t know what you’re complainin’ about, Twyla,” Darla said as she continued to work on the blanket she was crocheting. “The man gave you a diamond engagement ring that is almost as big as the one Lyle Dalton gave Shirlene. He’s probably waitin’ to marry you until he pays the thing off.”

Twyla snapped in another rod. “Well, if that’s the
reason, he can have it back. A diamond is not worth a two-year wait to have me another weddin’—” She glanced up. “Well, hey, Marcy. I haven’t seen you around in a couple days. I thought you’d run back off to Fort Worth without sayin’ good-bye.”

Marcy waved a hand around at the clutter. “What in the world is going on here?”

Twyla was more than happy to explain. “Well, you know that Ms. Murphy up and married that hot Brant Cates, leavin’ us without a librarian. We tried takin’ applications. Even had a few bites.” Her face scrunched up in confusion. “But after being interviewed by our selection committee—Mayor Sutter, Kenny Gene, Rye Pickett, and myself—the applicants didn’t seem in such a hurry to take the job.” She waved a comb at Marcy. “I think we asked them too many tough questions. I did the personality questions myself—like if you had five dollars what would you spend it on at Sutter’s Pharmacy?”

“That is a tough one,” Darla said. “Yesterday, I couldn’t even decide between yarn, pipe cleaners, or sequins.”

“See what I mean?” Twyla continued. “ ’Course, now I’m thinkin’ I should’ve made them easier. Without a librarian, people are stuck volunteerin’. And some of us have to make a livin’.” She frowned. “Especially when our boyfriends won’t marry us and help pay the rent.”

Realizing that Twyla was about to go on a tangent, Marcy quickly made her escape. “I’m just going to check out some books,” she said as she headed over to the computers that sat on a side table.

“Help yourself,” Twyla said, “but don’t expect me to know how to check them out for you. I’m a hair stylist, not some computer whiz.”

Marcy figured that was probably an overstatement. Twyla didn’t fix hair as much as ruin it.

It didn’t take Marcy long to pull up some books on the computer that might be useful. Since she couldn’t find a pencil in the little basket on the side, she took note of the area the books were in and headed toward the back of the library. There were quite a few books written about sex, even one by a former prostitute. Marcy took the book from the shelf before heading around the corner to see what was on the other side.

With her attention on the upper shelf, she didn’t see the man crouched down looking at the books on the lower shelf until she ran into him. He fell back, and in her slick-bottomed high heels, she fell forward, and they ended up sandwiched between the two shelves in a tangle of legs and arms.

It wasn’t the first time this had happened to Marcy. And now that she worked at the henhouse, it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Minnie might not have given her any instructions on sex, but she’d given her the Henhouse Rules. And rule number forty-four stated, “Don’t give away the cart unless you’ve sold the horse.” Which Marcy took to mean, no sex without first seeing the money.

Of course, perhaps this man had the money. He certainly had the desire. Marcy could feel it pressing against her leg. But just the thought of sex with some strange man for money had a sick feeling welling up inside her, and for a moment, she actually thought she was going to throw up.

She swallowed hard as she tried to untangle her legs from the man’s. A man who wore a bright Hawaiian shirt, baggy shorts, and flip-flops. And the only person in Bramble who dressed like a surfer dude was…

“Pastor Robbins?” She stopped moving and stared
down at the man, who was looking at her as if she was his worst nightmare. Of course, given that he was a man of God and she a soon-to-be hooker, she probably was. But she had to give it to him. He recovered quickly.

“Well, hello, Miss Henderson.” His gaze flickered down for a second before flickering back up with even more alarm reflected in the deep green of his eyes.

Marcy glanced down and immediately understood why. Her boobs had almost come out of her lacy Wal-Mart bra and were smashed against his chest like two over-filled water balloons. She tried to get up, but her high heel seemed to be stuck in one of the metal bookends. And her attempt to yank it out almost ended up changing Pastor Robbins’s voice by three octaves.

He flinched, and she settled back against him. The hardness pressing into her leg was still there. And since he was a preacher, she had to wonder if he was packing a pistol. The old pastor had carried a Glock, but only after he’d tried to close down Bootlegger’s and started receiving death threats.

“Just give me a second, Preacher,” she said. “I think if you can slide over a few inches, I can get my shoe unhooked.”

His gaze flickered back down before he slammed his eyes closed and nodded. Once he’d moved over, Marcy was able to pull her shoe free and climb off him. Within seconds, he followed her up. Although he kept his back to her for so long that she wondered if she hadn’t kneed him in the balls after all.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Of course.” He turned back around, his face still a little flushed. “How are you, Miss Henderson? I had heard you were back from Fort Worth. How is your mother?”

“Not so good. She had almost recovered from the first stroke when the second one hit. Now she can’t even ask for a drink of water. But hopefully this new place we have her in will help.” She reached down to pick up the books she’d dropped when she noticed that one had fallen open. An illustration of some Asian guy having sex with some fat Asian woman had her eyes almost popping out of her head. She was about to slam the book closed and save them both some major embarrassment when Pastor Robbins snatched it up and slipped it into the empty space on the lower shelf.

The same shelf that he’d been looking at.

Curious, she leaned closer to read the title, but the pastor stepped in front of her.

“So you were telling me about your mother, Miss Henderson. I was sorry to hear about her most recent stroke, but your sister said that your mother was very fortunate that you were there when it happened.”

“I didn’t do all that much, but call the ambulance,” Marcy said absently, her mind still trying to piece things together.

“Somehow I doubt that,” Pastor Robbins said. “You took care of her after the first stroke for two years. Most people wouldn’t have lasted a month.”

It had been a long time, but seeing as Marcy hadn’t had anything better to do, it wasn’t that big of a deal. At least, not as big of a deal as finding the pastor of her hometown looking at…

She leaned down and reached behind the pastor’s legs, pulling the book back off the shelf. She looked at the title, and a smile lit her face, followed by a bubble of laughter. It had been so long since she’d had anything to laugh
about, she gave herself up to it, leaning back against the shelf of books and holding her sides in glee.

The preacher didn’t find it quite so amusing. He stood there watching her with a deep scowl on his tanned face.

“Hey!” Twyla’s voice rang out, “this here is a library. So keep it down.”

Marcy’s laughter subsided, but her smile remained.

So did Pastor Robbins’s scowl.

“I was doing research,” he stated.

She glanced back at the book. “On the Kama Sutra? I haven’t been to The First Baptist in years, but if that’s what you’re teachin’ now, Pastor, I’ll see you on Sunday.”

Suddenly, the scowl disappeared to be replaced by a smile. Since Marcy tried to keep her distance from anything to do with church, it was the first time she’d really looked at the pastor. And she had to admit that he was a good-looking man, in a surfer dude kind of way. He had curly hair and pretty green eyes and a pair of shoulders that seemed wasted on a preacher.

As she examined their width, they lifted in a slight shrug. “I guess I’m busted.”

“I guess you are,” she said. “By the way, do you own a gun?”

He tipped his head. “Excuse me?”

She smiled even brighter. “Never mind.” She went to hand him the book, but he shook his head.

“I think I’ve given in to my carnal flesh enough for one day.”

Without hesitation, Marcy added the book to the stack in her arms. “Well, that’s where we differ, Preacher Man. I can’t seem to give in to mine enough.”

The smile slipped, and he looked away. “Well, I guess
I should head on back to the church. It was nice seeing you, Miss Henderson.” He turned and walked down the aisle.

When he was gone, Marcy was mad at herself for teasing him so much that he left. She probably would never get a chance to talk to him again. A preacher and a hooker had no business talking.

The front desk was empty when she got there so she opened up the little gate and stepped behind the counter. She had helped Ms. Murphy on occasion and knew how to use the scanner. Once she checked out her books, she noticed the full return bin and started checking those books back in. She had just loaded them onto a caster rack to return to the shelves when Twyla and Darla came out of the bathroom. Darla’s hair was so tightly kinked she looked like Rachel Dean’s toy poodle.

“Thanks, honey,” Twyla said as she and Darla came back around the counter. “With three cuts, a dye, and a perm, I just haven’t had time to get to the books.”

“It’s no problem.” Marcy stacked the books on the cart. “I like to do this.”

Twyla stopped fluffing Darla’s curls, and her eyes lit up. “You do? Because I sure could use someone to take over my volunteer shift on Saturdays.” When Marcy started to shake her head, Twyla’s voice became pleading. “Please, honey, I’ll give you a free haircut once a month and a dye if you can just help me out.”

A haircut and dye from Twyla was the last thing Marcy wanted, but the thought of spending a couple hours in the library appealed to her. Certainly, she could squeeze in a little library time between her hooker duties.

“Fine,” she said, “but only Saturdays.”

Twyla whooped with delight and ran over to give her a hug. When she pulled back, she looked around. “What happened to Pastor Robbins? Is he still back there lookin’ at bibles?”

“Nope.” Marcy sent her an innocent look. “I think he’s all through looking at books for the day. What’s his story, anyway? Why doesn’t he have a wife or a girlfriend?”

After covering Darla’s hair in a cloud of Aqua-Net that had all three women coughing, Twyla answered. “Because some men are too holy to think about women and sex. And Pastor Robbins is one of those men.”

Marcy glanced over at the Kama Sutra and smiled. “You don’t say.”

T
HE NIGHTMARE WAS ALWAYS THE SAME
. It started with a dark, cloaked figure standing at the foot of Beau’s bed and ended with Beau lying in a small, wooden box six feet under. In the dream, he didn’t scream or try to get out of the coffin. He just lay there, counting his breaths until they finally drifted away to nothingness. But no matter how calm and accepting of his fate he was in the dream, he always came awake with his heart pounding against his ribcage and sweat beading his forehead.

Beau opened his eyes prepared to see the generic furnishings of a hotel room. Instead, he
did
find himself in a box. A brightly lit, metal box with a low ceiling and hard mattress. It only took a couple blinks to figure out where he was. The wall of the tiny bathroom kept him from seeing more than just the scarred wood cabinets and tiny kitchenette, but the steady sawing noise told him that his camping buddy was still with him and working hard to escape.

He flexed his shoulder. It was tender, but the sharp pain was gone. He removed the sling and tossed it into
one corner of the bunk before placing a hand over the right side of his chest and tracing along his ribcage. It was a ritual he had performed every day of his life since getting the results of the CT scan. Of course, he couldn’t feel the cancer growing inside his lung.

Just like he hadn’t felt it growing inside him the first time.

There had been no lumps or obvious signs. He had gone in for a routine checkup and had come out with a life sentence. The lymphoma diagnosis had completely blindsided him. He had been a naïve kid fresh out of college who had never even considered death. His mind had been too consumed with living. His brothers, Brant and Billy, had wanted him to help with the family business, but Beau wasn’t interested in the running of a big corporation. His dreams had been smaller. He wanted to live in his hometown of Dogwood and raise a passel of kids.

He had clung to that dream all through the radiation and chemotherapy. Had held fast to it even after his fiancé, Cari Anne, had given him back his ring and broken his heart. But the dream had been shattered forever when the doctor had called after his last checkup to tell him that now there was a suspicious spot on his lung scan.

Suspicious?

Suspicious was the unidentifiable veggie in your dinner salad. The Twitter account with no followers. The guy who lurks around a debit machine. It wasn’t a fuzzy blob on an x-ray. That wasn’t suspicious; that was out-and-out terrifying. Especially when Beau knew what it meant. He knew what his chances were if his cancer came back within a year. He also knew what his options were. And he wasn’t willing to go through even more intense
chemotherapy, stem cell transplants, and transfusions when the odds were stacked against him.

Instead, he had chosen to live what was left of his life on his terms. Cancer had already taken a huge chunk of his life. He wasn’t willing to give it more than the routine morning check. After that, the day was his… until the nightmares returned.