Texas Rose Forever (Texas Rose Ranch #1) (21 page)

CHAPTER 21

Hours later CanDee rinsed the last dirty dish she’d used to make the meatloaf for dinner and set it in the drainer. She glanced at the oven. The meatloaf had a little over an hour left to cook and she could make the salad later.

She wiped her hands on a dish towel and then set it back on the peg to dry. Having spent a good portion of the afternoon working on the genealogy, she could give herself an hour—just until the meatloaf was ready—to work on her mystery.

The first draft was almost finished and story was taking shape. She rubbed her hands together; she couldn’t wait for revisions. That’s when she added the sparkle. Right now,
Murder, Mayhem, and Sadness
was just a shell, like a new house in the framing stages. Wait until she added the walls, flooring, and appliances. This was going to bury
Murder, Mayhem, and Madness
.

She sat back. Only now did she realize the name was so close to the first one. She’d plotted the series before Phillip had stolen it, so it never occurred to her to change the name of the second book.

Since it was so close to the name of her first, she doubted she could keep it, but she didn’t have to worry about that right now.

She pulled up the Word file and read over her last chapter.

An hour later, the oven timer buzzed. She finished her sentence and fought the urge to ignore the timer and keep going. She was in the zone, the words practically writing themselves. The buzzer went off again. Forcing herself to get up, she stretched out the kinks in her back from sitting in the hard wooden kitchen chair and walked to the oven. With a potholder, she pulled out the meatloaf. It smelled good, which was not usually how things she pulled out of the oven smelled. She set it on the stovetop to cool a bit.

She glanced at the clock on the microwave. Cinco would be home in a half hour or so. Surely fifteen minutes more working on her book wouldn’t hurt or put her behind.

Her phone vibrated on the kitchen table. She picked up the phone and didn’t recognize the number. Maybe it was another client in need of a genealogy.

She hit answer. “Hello.”

“Hey, babe.”

Her heart dropped to her knees and she sat down hard in the kitchen chair.

It was Phillip.

“You have a lot of nerve calling me.” Her hands started shaking with rage. She did her best to control it. Around him, it was best to keep the chatting to a minimum. Somehow he’d always been able to twist things around so that everything he did was her fault. For someone who prided herself on her wit and sarcasm, she could feel herself wilting into the old pattern of saying “I’m sorry” when he was in the wrong.

That just pissed her off even more. This time, she had nothing to lose—least of all him—so letting loose with the stream of curses that burned inside of her would be fantastic . . . empowering . . . cathartic. She opened her mouth and . . . nothing came out. Her hands shook and her teeth gritted but she’d been struck dumb and didn’t have a single good one-liner. One hour from now, a million of them would pop into her head, but for now, all she could do was sit there picturing four different ways to kill him and hide the body where it would never be found.

“I know you’re mad. What can I do to make it up to you?” He made it sound like all he’d done was accidentally throw a red sock into a load of whites. “We’re stronger than this. Come on, let me make it up to you.”

With her free hand, she slapped herself hard on the cheek just to make sure she was dreaming.
Surreal
wasn’t a surreal-enough word.

“Short of running over yourself with your own car, I can’t think of anything that would remotely make up for your behavior. You can’t replace my parents’ things. You’re a bastard and I never want to hear from you again.” She hung up and then blocked his number.

No communication was good communication. The last thing she wanted was to see that son of a bitch again. Part of her was afraid that she’d scratch his eyes out and the other part was afraid that she’d let him belittle and break her down until she nodded and gave him whatever he wanted. The last few months with Phillip, he’d more than walked all over her. And she’d let him. That was the kicker. She’d let him manipulate her.

After not hearing from him for almost a year, why now?

She sat up. He needed something. Her gaze landed on the chapter she was working on for her next book. The dumb bastard needed a sequel and here it was. Over her dead body was he getting near enough to her computer to even read, much less steal, her current work in progress. One book wasn’t enough for the asshole, now he wanted her new one.

She was back to wanting to kill him again. Vengeance and rage were the things she needed to hold onto. She wanted to go back in time and tell herself not to go to the party where she’d met Phillip, but that only happened in fiction. Life would be so much better with a time machine. She could go back in time and kill Hitler and possibly the man who invented pantyhose—because it had to be a man; no woman would have been that stupid—and she could have saved her parents’ things from having been auctioned off to pay the rent. For that matter, she could have saved her parents.

She scrubbed her face with her hands and then they fisted and she pounded on the table a couple of times.

“What’s wrong?” Cinco walked through the kitchen doorway and went straight to her.

“Nothing.” She ground the word out. She didn’t want to talk about it because then he’d know how stupid and sappy she really was.

He flinched. “Hopefully, one day you’re going to trust me enough to talk to me about things that really matter.”

Why was he angry? She was the one with ex drama.

Like he was doing something against his will, he sat down next to her and pulled her in for a hug. He just held her and didn’t press her for information. The silence droned on and on and she could feel the weight of his wanting to know, but holding back.

Cinco was right. She did have a problem sharing her feelings, but only because she was tired of having them trampled to death. He stroked her back and the strings that she was beginning to attach to him pulled at her heart.

“Phillip called.” Those two words sounded like a bomb going off in the silent kitchen.

“And?” His tactic of pressing without pressing was working more than she’d like to admit. He had her wanting to fill the angry silence between them.

“He called out of the blue, like we were two old friends who hadn’t seen each other in years and he was just calling to catch up. No big deal.” Tears of rage stung her eyes. She wasn’t usually a crier, but ex-boyfriends who were assholes tended to be her trigger.

He patted her back and rocked her gently from side to side. “Don’t cry. He isn’t worth it.”

“I know,” she said as the first sob croaked out. Tears streamed down her face and snot poured out of her nose creating a sloppy wet spot on the shoulder of his T-shirt.

He just held her and let her cry it out. As the tears began to subside, so did some of the burning desire to remove Phillip’s spleen with a dirty spoon.

“I’m so sorry that he hurt you.” Cinco stroked her hair.

She pulled back and looked at him. “Phillip didn’t hurt me, he pissed me off. I’m not a sad crier, I’m a mad crier.”

His eyes narrowed like he was filing that piece of information away for future reference.

“Okay, so what did he want?” Gently, he wrapped his hands around her waist, guided her out of her chair, and settled her on his lap. His arms circled her.

It occurred to her that he liked touching her and was always doing it. Her hair, her hands, her shoulder—it was like he wanted her to know that he was always there for her.

“I don’t know. I hung up on him.” With the back of her hand, she wiped the remaining wetness from her cheeks. “But I’m pretty sure he wanted the book I’m working on now.”

Cinco’s brow squenched up. “Why would he care about my family history?”

“My mystery. He wants
Murder, Mayhem, and Sadness
.
Murder, Mayhem, and Madness
, my first book, is really popular.” How come she hadn’t been able to see Phillip for who he really was until after they’d stopped dating?

“Wait a minute.” Carefully, he stood her up and then did the same. He walked out of the kitchen and came back a couple of minutes later carrying a book. “This book. You wrote this book?”

He handed her a copy of
Murder, Mayhem, and Madness
.

Cinco had no idea that he was rubbing her nose in her mistakes, but it felt like he was. She glanced down at the book. The cover with its giant red cross and the knife sticking through it had never made sense to her. There were no crosses in the book. Since she’d refused to buy, much less read, Phillip’s version, she had no idea where the cross came from.

“Phillip Harcourt is your ex.” It wasn’t a question so much as verification.

“Yes.” She pushed the book away. “Unfortunately.”

Anger turned his eyes reptilian. “That bastard. He’s made millions off of your book while you lived in your car. I want to break him in half and punch him square in his butt chin.”

“Butt chin?” Oh, the deep cleft in Phillip’s chin. Now that she thought about it, it did look like a butt. “You’ve met him?”

“I waited two damn hours at BookPeople for him to sign my copy. Bastard.” He fisted and unfisted his hands. “He stole from you.”

Cinco turned on his heel, walked to the island, opened a drawer, and pulled out a black Sharpie. He opened the book, ripped out a page at the front, and handed her the pen. “Would you sign it for me?”

She blinked once and then twice. It was her first book signing. Something so small meant so much. “I’d love to.”

She flipped the book open to where the title page should be but was now missing. On the dedication page, which she couldn’t help but notice didn’t mention her, she wrote, “Cinco, thanks for being my very first fan. I like knowing that you enjoy my work. I love being with you. CanDee McCain.”

She handed it back to him. “Wow, that felt good.”

He read the inscription. “I love being with you too.”

He traced the uneven edge that remained of the ripped-out page. “That bastard.”

She had the distinct impression that he wanted to kill Phillip on her behalf. She kissed him on the cheek. “Usually, violence doesn’t turn me on, but your willingness to kill him for me is very sexy.”

Light as angel kisses, his hand cupped her face and his gaze met hers. “I would do anything for you.”

The devotion in his face made her nervous and like always, a one-liner to lighten the mood almost popped out, but he was being serious. He cared about her and instead of making a flippant remark, she held his gaze and kissed him.

“You’re too good to be true.” She didn’t want to label the feeling she had for him . . . not yet. It was too soon and she wasn’t going to make the same stupid mistakes she’d made in the past.

“Nope. You’re the one who I can’t figure out why you’re letting me hang out with you. You’re too good to be true.” His eyes were giant aqua pools of sincerity.

The nervousness melted away and she could actually feel her heart smile. He thought she was as wonderful as she thought he was. It shouldn’t have been a shock to be in a relationship as an equal partner, but it was.

A knock sounded at the front door.

Cinco looked away, dropped his hands, and stepped back. “Crap.”

“What’s wrong?” She glanced at the doorway that led to the hall that led to the door. “Who’s here?”

“No one.” He walked to the fridge, opened it, and pulled out two bottles of Shiner. He twisted off the caps and tossed them in the trash can under the sink. “You’re going to need this.”

“I don’t understand. What’s going on?” She took the beer and drank deep. “Is someone at the door or not?”

“Nope.” He drank deeply and swallowed. He didn’t meet her gaze. “That was a little message telling me that Lefty is done.”

“Oh, so he finally came to his senses and put the tires back on my golf cart.” That was easier than she’d thought it was going to be. Good, she wouldn’t have to use Connie when going back and forth to the cottage.

“Not exactly.” Cinco took another drink.

“What do you mean?” Something wasn’t right. She headed to the door. “What did Lefty do?”

Cinco was close on her heels. “Now remember, he’s an old man and he’s lived a hard life.”

She made it to the front door first, but his long arm reached around her and grabbed the knob.

“Do you have any weapons on you?” His gaze raked down her coral cotton T-shirt dress.

“Do I need some?” She went for the knob, but he didn’t budge. “Let me out.”

“Not before you take a couple of deep calming breaths.” He took a couple of deep breaths as if to show her.

“Let me out or I’m going to knee you where it counts which I’m going to regret because I plan on using that area later, but that won’t stop me from doing it now.” It must really be bad.

“Just remember, I’m Switzerland in this.” Slowly, he turned the knob and opened the door.

She stepped out into the evening sunshine and . . . life as she knew it didn’t end, nothing gross dumped down on her head, and nothing exploded. She looked around. In fact, she couldn’t find anything wrong. She scanned the front yard and the golf cart still up on blocks, but when she got to Connie, the slightest sliver of alarm shimmied down her spine. She shaded her eyes from the sun. The interior looked bluer than the blackest-gray cloth it had been. She walked down the steps and then around the car.