Sweet Talk Boxed Set (Ten NEW Contemporary Romances by Bestselling Authors to Benefit Diabetes Research plus BONUS Novel) (54 page)

“I hate to break this to you, kid, but you won’t always feel that way.  Someday, in fact, some good-looking woman will be sudsing up her undies in
your
bathroom, and you’ll be just fine with the idea.”

Henry reddened with righteous conviction.  “
Never,”
he said.

God, he was stubborn.

Like you,
he heard Sandy say.

G.W. put out a hand.  “Bet you five bucks,” he said.

“Not unless you allow for inflation,” Henry told him.  “By the time I’m grown up, and you have to pay me, five dollars won’t be worth much.”

“You’ve got me there,” G.W. said.  “Good thing
you’ll
have to pay
me.”

Henry huffed out a sigh.  “You’re really bull-headed sometimes, Dad.”

G.W. chuckled.  “And you’re half again too smart for your own good.”  He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.  “The way I see it, what we have here is a stand-off.  We’d better just agree to disagree and be done with it, don’t you think?”

Another sigh, though less gusty than before.  “Well, if you’re not going to work, and we’re not going over to Uncle Duke’s place, can we at least go
somewhere? 
‘Cause I’m
really
bored and so is Chip.”

G.W. thrust himself to his feet.  “In that case, I guess we’d better come up with a plan.”

Henry looked hopeful now.  “Like what?”

“I’m thinking we could head for the swimming hole.  Cool off a little.”

Henry beamed.  “
Yes!”
he yelled.

Chip let out an excited yip.  Whatever was coming down the pike, the dog was ready to participate, no holding back.

“Let’s get going, then,” G.W. said.  “We’re burning daylight.”

Shelby lived in the same small house she’d grown up in, on Pine Street.  Her parents, both retired postal workers, had purchased an RV and hit the road three years before.

Shelby, an only child, had been going through a bad divorce at the time, so she’d moved back to Busted Spur from Phoenix—temporarily, she insisted—to housesit and figure out what she wanted to do next.

As it turned out, Shelby’s mom and dad loved the gypsy life.  They came back a couple of times a year, stayed a week or two, and then took off again.

Shelby, always an enterprising type, had adopted a couple of dogs, lived frugally on her savings from her last job, and slowly but surely built herself an eclectic online business.  She sold folk art, inexpensive jewelry, and what she called up-cycled furniture, carefully restoring chairs and small tables and wooden chests she found at flea markets and garage sales and thrift stores.

Except for a non-existent love life, she claimed, she was perfectly happy, and Cassidy, perched on a stool at Shelby’s kitchen counter and munching her delectable nachos, believed her.

“What about you?” Shelby ventured.  “Are
you
happy, Cass?”

“Of course I am,” Cassidy said, a little too quickly.  “I’m about to marry a fabulous man.  I have a great job.  Why
wouldn’t
I be happy?”

“You tell me,” Shelby said, reaching for her glass and rattling the ice inside before taking a swig of diet soda.  “I look at you, my friend, and I don’t see ‘happy’.  I see uncertainty.  I see sadness.  But I sure as
heck
don’t see a bride-sparkle in your eyes or a flush of excitement in your cheeks.”  She bit into a tortilla chip dripping with melted cheese, salsa, and other good things, chewed and swallowed, and then went on, her tone thoughtful.  “If
I
were getting married in a few months, I’d be over the moon.  I’d be talking about nothing but the guy and what I was planning to wear, what color my bridesmaids’ gowns would be, the sort of flowers I’d have in my bouquet, where we were going on our honeymoon.  You haven’t said one word about any of those things.”

“There’s time,” Cassidy said, but it was a weak argument and she knew it.

“What’s the problem?” Shelby persisted.  From kindergarten days, she’d been able to see right through Cassidy, but this was the exception to the rule.

Or, at least, that was what Cassidy told herself.

“I’m crazy about Michael,” she said.

“Are you?” Shelby asked quietly.  “Or are you just feeling stuck?”

Cassidy bristled.  “
No,
I’m not ‘feeling stuck’.”  

“Yes, you are,” Shelby replied.  “Since when does a person planning a country club wedding in a world-class city like Seattle have to come back to little ole Busted Spur, Arizona to decide on the details?”

“Maybe I wanted to consult my best friend?”

“Oh, save it, Cassidy,” Shelby said gently.  “God knows, I’m glad to spend time with you, but it’s not as if we live on separate planets.  We email, we text, we Skype and we talk on the phone a couple of times a month.  We could decide on dresses and all the rest through the miracle of technology.  You came home because you wanted to
be
home.”

Cassidy’s cheeks were hot by then, but it wasn’t because she was flushed with pre-nuptial excitement.  “I
love
Michael,” she said furiously.

Calmly, Shelby licked a dollop of cheese from the tip of one finger.  “Not G.W. Benton?”

“
G.W. Benton? 
You’ve got to be kidding!”

Shelby’s shoulders moved in a casual shrug.  “Kidding?  Hardly.  The man is drop dead gorgeous, your classic cowboy, in every sense of the word.  He’s smart, he’s honest and he’s obviously capable of long-term commitment.  If I thought I had a chance with the guy, I’d be all over him in a hot minute.”

Cassidy opened her mouth, closed it again.  Thought seriously of making an indignant exit until she remembered that she’d ridden to town in Shelby’s Blazer, and it would be a long, hot walk home to the ranch.

Shelby smiled.  “You were crazy about G.W. from the day you hit puberty.  No matter who you went out with, you compared the poor guy to him.  Don’t you think I remember?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Shelby,” Cassidy sputtered.  “You and I were
kids. 
He was a grown man.  And,
yes
, I had a crush on G.W., but so did every other female within a hundred-mile radius of Busted Spur.”

“You cried for a week when he and Sandy got married,” Shelby recalled.

“That was a long time ago.”

“I’ll bet you even compare Michael to G.W.,” Shelby went on.

“I do
not.”

“So tell me about him.  Michael, I mean.”

“You
know
all about Michael.  I’ve told you everything.”

Shelby gave a slight nod, of the complacent variety.  “You’ve told me more than you think you have, Cass.”

“What is
that
supposed to mean?”

“Last month, for example, you said he wanted you to lose five pounds.  The month before that, you told me Michael’s mother—his
mother—
chose your wedding gown.  And before
that—”

“Stop,” Cassidy broke in.  “Michael’s mother has good taste.  The dress is beautiful.”

“Michael’s mother has no business picking out
your
dress, Cassidy.  Plus, you always planned on getting married here, didn’t you?  In that little country church your grandmother attended?”

“Can we not talk about this?”

“I think we
have
to talk about this.  Marriage is serious business, my friend.  And trust me, if you get it wrong, the fallout can be wicked.  Believe me, I’ve been there.”

Cassidy braced both elbows on the counter top and rested her head in her hands.  “Not now, Shelby,” she said.  “Please.  Not now.”

Shelby reached out, patted Cassidy’s shoulder.  “When?” she asked, very softly.

Cassidy merely shook her head.

“Okay,” Shelby said.  “I’ll wait.  The last thing I want to do is upset you, believe it or not.  So from here on out, even if it kills me, I’ll keep my opinions to myself until you ask for them.  Deal?”

Cassidy swallowed hard.  Lowered her hands.  “Deal,” she replied.

After that, there didn’t seem to be much to say.

They gave up on the nachos, Shelby put the leftovers in the fridge, and reached for her car keys.

So much for togetherness.

***

The swimming hole sparkled like liquefied crystal, spangled with moving flashes of sunshine, filtering through the leaves of cottonwood trees.  The pool was spring-fed, so the water would be ice-cold, even in the heat of mid-summer, but Henry didn’t care, and G.W. hadn’t either, when he was his son’s age.  Chip leaped from the truck as soon as an opening appeared, a glossy black streak of dog shooting over stones and patches of grass, dashing onto the same fallen log that had served as a foot bridge for as long as G.W. could recall.

Henry, wearing cut-off jeans, a t-shirt and flip-flops, and carrying a rolled-up bath towel under one arm, gave a hoot of laughter when Chip reached the middle of the log and hurled himself into the water.  A great, sparkling splash rose around the animal, and he surfaced, paddling gleefully toward the bank.

Hauling himself out of the drink, Chip shook, slinging gleaming droplets in all directions. 

“Dumb dog,” Henry crowed, with great affection, dropping his towel on the flat surface of a boulder.  Chip gave a couple of eager barks, then dashed back out onto the log and flung himself off it again.

G.W., shirtless and, like Henry, making do with a pair of cut-offs, wasn’t quite so anxious to take the plunge. 

Henry waded right in, shivering and delighted, while Chip swam in a wide circle, yipping encouragement.  They were a sight to remember, the dog and the boy, awash in dappled sunlight and spring water.

A memory sneaked up on G.W. just then; he saw Sandy, slim and shapely in her two-piece swim suit, standing waist deep in the swimming hole one summer day, teaching a younger, smaller Henry to float on his back.

She’d taught the boy well; by the time Henry was four, he was as agile in the water as a baby seal.

G.W. waited for the pang to pass, then hung his own towel from a low-hanging branch of one of the cottonwoods, and grinned as he approached the edge of the swimming hole.  Henry was treading water, while Chip paddled toward shore, where he promptly shook himself off again, baptizing G.W. in the process.

G.W.’s laugh was part howl.  To get it over with, he stepped into the water and immediately dunked himself to the shoulders.

The cold bit into him like sharp teeth.  Stole his breath.

Henry, blue-lipped and bright-eyed, swam over, set his feet on the stony bottom, and wind-milled his arms, splashing G.W. unmercifully.

G.W. grabbed the boy around his waist and hauled him close to stop the assault, laughing the whole time. 

Chip, still on the bank, stood with his back to G.W. and Henry, dripping wet and barked, once, twice, a third time.

Henry watched the dog, squinting in the bright glare of the afternoon, then started toward him.  Chip was fairly obedient, as a general rule, but if he bolted in pursuit of a jackrabbit or some other critter, they might spend the rest of the day tracking him down.

Above them, on the rim of the bank, a horse and rider appeared, a single shape against the light.

“Duke!” Henry called, shading his eyes with one hand.

G.W. felt a brief, sharp stab of jealousy.

Duke swung down from the saddle as Chip scrabbled up the bank to greet him, bent to ruffle the dog’s sodden ears. 

“You gonna go swimming?” Henry asked eagerly, as Duke, leaving his pinto cowpony to wait, reins crisscrossed over its neck, sidestepped down the rocky incline, Chip hopping gleefully at his side.

Duke shook his head.  “Not today,” he said.  “I’m a warm-water man, myself.  Cold makes my bones ache.”

G.W., willing himself not to shiver with the cold, waded back to shore.  “What’s going on?” he asked his friend.

“I spotted your truck and decided to stop by and say howdy,” Duke replied.  “Annabelle’s cooking supper tonight, after she closes up the store, of course, and she gave me strict orders to invite the two of you.”

The way Henry whooped and punched the air with one miniscule fist, a person would have thought he hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks.

Something about his eagerness chapped G.W.’s hide, and he wasn’t proud of that.  He held his tongue and looked down at Henry.

“Can we go, Dad?  Can we go?”

G.W. smiled, ran a hand over Henry’s spikey hair.  “Sure,” he said.  He’d have preferred to keep his distance from Cassidy, at least until he got some perspective, and, at one and the same time, he looked forward to being near her, even if they didn’t so much as look at each other.

“Great,” Duke said, taking off his hat, running an arm across his forehead and putting his headgear back on again.  “See you around six-thirty.”

“See you then,” G.W. replied.

“Can Chip come, too?” Henry called out, as Duke was turning to head back up the bank to his horse.

Duke paused, adjusted his hat, and grinned. “He’s welcome,” he told the boy.  “Hope he likes barbecue.”  A few moments later, Duke was back in the saddle and riding off.

“We’d better go home and get ready,” Henry announced.

G.W. glanced at the sun.  “Six-thirty is still a long way off,” he said.

But Henry was already reaching for his towel, covered in goose-bumps, teeth chattering.  He draped the thing around him like a cape.  “Chip needs time to get dry,” he reasoned.  And then he started up the hill, the dog trotting alongside.

CHAPTER THREE

Even in her bedroom, with the door and both windows closed, Cassidy could smell the smoke wafting up from the brick barbecue grill in the back yard, and it made her stomach rumble.  She’d offered to help with the preparations, but Annabelle had shooed her away, saying cheerfully, “Let us fuss over you a little.”

Now, Cassidy sat cross-legged in the middle of her bed, her electronic tablet in her lap.  Her suitcases, delivered by Duke while she was still munching nachos with Shelby, had been unpacked and tucked away in the back of her closet.  The few articles of clothing she’d brought along were neatly hung up or arranged in her dresser drawers.  Her laptop remained in its case, under her desk.