The Fantasy Factor (5 page)

“E
VEN IF IT AIN’T THE
champion himself.” Hank Brister’s voice echoed through the old barn as the man rolled out of the small office located at the far end. His wheelchair crunched hay as he made his way over to Houston. “You’re looking good, boy. Mighty good. As damned good looking as your daddy ever was.”

Houston ignored the rush of pride that went through him.

Pride? Because he looked like his father?

He felt many things where Bick Jericho was concerned, but pride wasn’t one of them.
Hatred
because the man had never done right by him or his brothers. Bitterness because he’d not only been neglectful, but cruel as well. Confusion because he couldn’t understand why. And anger with himself because he didn’t want to know why. He didn’t care. Because no reason was good enough for a man to deprive his kids of the love they’d needed so badly.

Back then. But Houston had stopped longing for his father’s love a long time ago, well before the man had drunken himself into an early grave.

“You’re looking good yourself,” he told Hank Brister, eager to change the subject. “Much better than the last time I saw you.” He’d visited Hank Brister in the hospital when the man had first lost his leg to a vicious bitch of a bull named Harpo. One stomp on the man’s thigh had ended his career several years back.

“I’m feeling better, that’s for damned sure. Getting around pretty good, too, all things considered. So what brings you out here?”

“A wedding yesterday and Miss Marshalyn’s party in two weeks. I thought I might as well hang around here rather than make another trip back.” He gave Hank the same story he’d given Sarah.

Truthfully, he’d intended to leave last night after she’d walked away from him at the wedding. He’d gone back to the bed-and-breakfast and packed up his stuff. Then he’d pulled his T-shirt over his head and smelled her on the material. And his brain had short-circuited.

He’d sunk to the edge of the bed, the material pressed to his nose, and all thoughts about the upcoming PBR finals had faded in a rush of heat. She’d been right there with him. The taste of her still potent on his lips. His fingertips still tingling from the feel of her soft skin.

He’d stretched out on the bed and given himself over to the image of her so soft and warm and ready. He’d fantasized then the way he always did when her memory managed to distract him, but it wasn’t nearly as fulfilling as usual.

Because he’d gotten a taste of the real thing and he wanted more.

She’d not only kissed him, she’d gotten under his skin and fired his blood, and no matter how many times he played his favorite memory over and over in his head, it wasn’t enough to slake the lust eating at his common sense.

He needed the real woman for that.

Which meant he had to get Sarah out of his thoughts and into his arms for the final four of the Sexiest Seven. Then he could stop thinking and fantasizing and wondering.

He would know. His curiosity as satisfied as his greedy body. Then he would leave Cadillac the way he always did, but this time he would be rid of the fantasy that had haunted him all these years. He could forget her for good and sever the one tie to his past. And then he could concentrate on his future. On breaking the championship record and proving his old man wrong once and for all.

In the meantime…

He turned his attention back to Hank.

“You still got that old mechanical bull out back?”

“I might.”

“Think you can still run it as good as you did back in the old days?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?” He grinned. “What did you have in mind?”

“I need to practice. To stay in top form for Vegas.”

Hank grinned. “You came to the right place, boy. Ain’t nobody gives a ride like me and old Nell out back.”

Actually, Houston could think of someone who did, but he’d made up his mind not to think about her for the time being. She was the one who needed to think. To burn.

If she got hot enough, he had no doubt she would come to him. He just hoped it didn’t take too long.

He’d never been a patient man when it came to something he wanted, and he wanted Sarah Buchanan.

Almost as much as he wanted that tenth championship.

“We can start first thing tomorrow if you want,” Hank said. “I’ve got my boy Harley over there—” he pointed to a twenty-something man shoveling oats into a feeder “—to help out with the chores here and a foreman who oversees the ranch, so most of my time is my own.”

“How about today?” Houston needed to slide his hand under the grip, feel the rope cut into his palm. Maybe then he could forget the softness of her skin. The warmth. “Right now.”

“Harley!” Hank called out. The young man, dressed in worn jeans and boots, the sleeves of his plaid button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows, turned toward them. “Go on out back and pull the tarp off of Nellie. We’ve got an old friend here who wants to say hello.”

“You sure?”

“I said so, didn’t I?”

“Hot damn!” The young man grinned, shoved the scoop into the large sack of oats and headed for the rear of the barn.

Hank grinned and turned to Houston. “Follow me.”

“I’
M SO SORRY
, G
RANDMA
. I got caught up at the nursery and forgot the time.” Hey, it was the truth. She didn’t say she’d been caught up
with
the nursery, just
at
the nursery. She kissed the old woman on the cheek and headed into the kitchen to retrieve the dinner plates.

No more, she told herself. She was not going to think about him, or the way that his lips felt eating at her own, or the way his fingers had plucked at her nipple in the dark corner of the VFW Hall last night. Or the way he’d traced those lazy circles right against her—

“You look flushed, dear.” Her grandmother’s voice shattered the thought.

Sarah whirled. A plate slipped from her hand and crashed to the floor. “Oh, no.” She dropped to her hands and knees and started to retrieve pieces. “I’m so sorry, Grandma. I know these are your favorite dishes. I can’t believe I’m so clumsy.” She gathered a few large shards. “Maybe I can glue it.”

“It’s all right.” Grandma Willie hobbled into the kitchen and opened the trash can. “I’m more worried about you than a worthless plate.” She eyed her granddaughter as Sarah deposited the pieces into the can. “Are you all right?”

Sarah put on her best smile for her grandmother, the way she’d been doing for the past twelve years. Oddly enough, despite the years of practice, the expression didn’t come as easily tonight as it should have. “Why wouldn’t I be all right?”

“I don’t know. Maybe something happened that you’re not telling me about.” Grandma Willie eyed her as she rushed toward the trash can.

“What could have possibly happened? I’ve been at the nursery all day.” Sarah dumped the pieces into the trash and turned toward the cabinet to get another plate. “Just counting inventory and watering plants and tallying the week’s sales and counting inventory and—”

“You counted inventory twice?”

“What?”

“You said you counted inventory and then you said you counted inventory again.”

“I did? Well, yes, I, um, guess I did. But the first time I came up short so I had to do it again, but then everything matched and so everything’s fine. Really. Everything is A-okay.”

Her grandma didn’t look convinced. “You look jittery, dear.”

Sarah’s fingers tightened around the edge of the stoneware and she willed them to stop trembling. “Do I?”

“You look like you have a fever.”

Boy, did she ever. Unfortunately, it had nothing to do with an illness and everything to do with a certain hot and sexy cowboy and…

She sucked in a much needed breath. “I feel fine. Really.” She wiped at a drop of sweat that slid down her temple. “I’m just a little flushed. My fan wasn’t working at the nursery. I think the wiring’s messed up.” The lie came easily. Much too easily considering that she didn’t lie to her grandmother anymore.

She never had to because she walked the straight and narrow. She paid her bills on time and opened the shop bright and early every morning and she went to bed at a respectable hour and she attended every chamber of commerce meeting and she helped out at the local women’s shelter every third weekend of the month and she never, ever did anything irresponsible like forgetting her dinner date with her grandmother.

Until tonight.

Houston Jericho had not only unlocked her nursery that morning, he’d unlocked the door to her most erotic thoughts, as well, and they were now overwhelming her, interfering with her daily life and threatening her cover and—
stop!

She closed her eyes and drew a deep, calming breath. She could do this. She could keep on going as if everything was the same as yesterday and the day before that and the day before that. Just the way she’d been doing her entire adult life.

It was simply a matter of focus.

She fixed her gaze on Grandma Willie and noted the woman’s concerned frown. And her trembling hands. And her tired slump. The past rushed at her as she remembered a similar look, and she rushed forward.

“Grandma, are you okay? Your chest isn’t hurting, is it?”

“What? My chest? Of course not.”

“You should sit down.”

“I feel fine.”

“Do you want some water?”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“How about something to eat? I was late so you’re probably starving. Your sugar’s probably down.”

“I took my sugar an hour ago. It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s you I’m concerned about.”

“You should sit down, anyway. Please.”

“But…” She started to protest, but then she seemed to think better of it. “Maybe I will sit down.”

“Good. You just sit right here and let me get your dinner for you.” Sarah helped her grandmother settle into a chair and headed off to the kitchen, her only thought on making the old woman as comfortable as possible.

At least that’s what she told herself, and she actually managed to believe it for the next few hours as she and her grandma shared dinner and watched a few hours of television.

But when Sarah climbed into bed that night, Houston Jericho walked back into her thoughts, and the fantasy started all over again.

“T
HIS IS A ONE-TIME THING
only,” Sarah told Houston as she climbed into the passenger side of his pickup, the bed filled with Mr. Jenkins’s large order of azalea bushes.

“This is good business.”

“What do you know about the nursery business?”

“I know that for any business, it’s all about making the customer happy. Mr. Jenkins looked mighty happy when I told him we could deliver his purchase. He even looked happy when I added the delivery charge to his bill.”

“But I don’t have a truck.”

“You do today.”

“Exactly, which is why today is a one-time thing. I can’t be away from the nursery for deliveries.”

“You could if you made them before you opened, or in the late afternoon.”

“Would you stop with the suggestions?”

He shrugged. “Just trying to help.”

“You’re not. You’re making me crazy.” In more ways than one.

She was acutely aware of his close proximity. Of the firm masculine thigh only an arm’s length away. If she wanted to, she could reach out and finger the hairy skin barely visible through the rip in the thigh.

If
she wanted to? Okay, so she wanted to. But she wouldn’t. Because Sarah Buchanan didn’t do those things anymore. And she wouldn’t do them until Grandma Willie was no longer living and breathing and Sarah had fulfilled her promise to the old woman.

Until then, she intended to be a well-behaved, modest young woman. The picture of wholesome goodness. Saint Sarah, herself.

Her gaze drifted to his thigh again and she licked her lips. And then promptly regretted it when she found him looking at her, his liquid-gold gaze dark and hungry and tempting.

“We’d better hurry. I have to get back.”

“Isn’t your cousin Arnie watching things?”

“That’s why I have to get back. Last time I was out for a chamber of commerce luncheon, he gave away two gallon containers of Mexican heather and ten bags of potting soil in exchange for a new fan belt for his car. He’s really into cars and he’s not too good with money. But he’s reliable,” she added, suddenly feeling guilty for not pointing out his finer qualities.

If you can’t say something nice, don’t say it at all.
Her Grandma Willie’s voice echoed through her head and she stiffened. She became acutely aware that she was riding through the heart of Cadillac in Houston Jericho’s truck, in front of God and everybody.

There goes the reputation.

She shook away the thought. He was giving her a ride. End of story. It wasn’t as if she was jumping his bones for all the world to see.

Not yet.

She ignored the sudden image of Houston beneath her, his body glowing with a fine sheen of sweat, his eyes piercing as she slid down his hard length in a ride that was far from innocent and blatantly carnal.

“Are you okay?”

“W-what?” Her head snapped around and her cheeks burned.

“You look flushed. Are you running a fever?” Concern furrowed his brow and a burst of warmth went through her. Followed by a rush of embarrassment because he knew what she was thinking. He looked into her gaze and she knew he knew and it made her face burn all the hotter.

“I’m fine.” She adjusted the air-conditioning vent and aimed the blast of cool air at her face. Then she busied herself rifling through the stack of invoices she’d brought with her to keep her occupied while they made the twenty minute drive out to Mr. Jenkins’s house.

Five minutes of staring at the same invoice and seeing nothing except that thigh out of the corner of her eye had her folding the blasted things and stuffing them into her purse.

“Whoever planted those hibiscus are just asking for trouble,” she said as they passed the local cemetery. The familiar flower blossomed in the bright Texas sunlight. “Those are tropical. While it’s hot here in the summer, the first cold front will whither them right up. Wildflowers grow best outdoors and they’re less trouble to maintain.”

“You really know a lot about flowers.”

“You would, too, if you’d spent every day after school helping Grandma Willie at the shop. I was in charge of watering—that was back in the old days before I took over and added an automatic sprinkler system in the greenhouse. As I watered, I had to recite the plant’s name and classification and a few characteristics.” At his surprised glance, she added, “Grandma wanted to cultivate my green thumb the way she had my mother’s. They used to play the name game when Mom was small, and so Grandma played it with me.”

“But you didn’t like it the way your mother did.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t like it
because
my mother liked it so much. I didn’t want to be my mother. I couldn’t be.” Now, why had she said that?

Because as hot as he made her physically, there was something oddly comforting about his presence and the fact that he was listening, and understood.

He’d longed for love as a child as much as she had. But while her grandmother had showered her with love, albeit the love she’d felt for her deceased daughter, his father had never shown him any sort of affection.

An image rushed at her of a young man, his gaze full of pain as he’d told her about his father and his childhood that night down by the creek. She had the sudden urge to reach out to him now the way she had that night. To slide her arm around him and pull him close until the pain faded.

She stiffened and fixed her gaze on a distant patch of flowers. “Bluebonnets,” she blurted. “A perennial that thrives in full sunlight.”

“What about that one?” He pointed to a small patch of white wildflowers.

“Ragweed. An unfortunate perennial that thrives in a warm climate. Allergists the state over owe their careers to Texas ragweed.”

“You are good.” A wealth of meaning filled his voice and she shifted to find a more comfortable position.

“I had to be, otherwise I would have spent Saturdays cooped up in the greenhouse. If I played the game and got everything right during the week, my Saturdays were my own.”

“I bet you never missed.”

She grinned. “Once in a while—when I was much younger—but I was a very quick study. Especially with my favorite day of the week hanging in the balance.” Or rather, it had been her favorite day.

The one she’d planned for, dreamed of, relished because she’d been free of the greenhouse and her mother’s shadow. “I would set my alarm for seven o’clock, pack my bag and head down to the river near Jackson’s Ranch.”

“I didn’t know there was a river out at his place.”

“It’s small and private, and surrounded by so many trees that you can’t see it unless you’re right there. Anyhow, it was my favorite spot because there’s all this carpet grass and a huge oak tree that dangles out over the water. I don’t know how many times I climbed that tree and walked the branch out over the deep end. I used to pretend I was a tightrope walker in the circus or that I was crossing an unsteady bridge in the Amazon while fleeing a bunch of cannibals.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“It was, and it was an escape, albeit temporary, from Cadillac. I wanted out of here so bad.”

“But you’re still here.”

She shrugged. “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. My grandmother wanted a carbon copy of my mother to follow in her footsteps. Someone who loved flowers and lived for the family business and that’s what I’m giving her. I’m carrying on the family tradition.”

“But do you like it?”

“What I like doesn’t matter. It’s about my grandmother. I won’t cause another heart attack.”

“Maybe you didn’t cause the first one.”

“I was a constant source of worry and stress.”

“You were a teenager. That’s what teenagers do. They worry their parents and stress them out.”

She cut him a sideways glance. “I climbed a twenty foot flagpole and spray painted a mustache on the school’s mascot.”

He shrugged and his mouth split into a grin. “Okay, so you were a really wild teenager, but those exist the world over. They cause sleepless nights and a gray hair or two, but that’s expected.” His gaze locked with hers for a heart-pounding moment. “Raising kids is tough, but it’s not life-threatening. At least not for the average parent.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That your grandmother wasn’t the average parent. She was much older. It’s understandable that her health wouldn’t be as good as a woman thirty years her junior. Not to mention she had the added pressure of running her own business. I’d say her age and her workload contributed to her health problems more than anything you did.”

Sarah had told herself the same thing time and time again. But it hadn’t been enough to ease her guilt or erase the image of her grandmother turning pale and blue and lifeless.

“I owe her. I could have been the one in the car that night. I would have been except that Grandma Willie grounded me and made me stay home to watch
Wheel of Fortune
with her. She saved my life, and now I’m saving hers. She has no reason to worry about anything, not the business and especially not me.”

“When it’s her time, it’ll be her time. No matter what you do. That’s the way of things. You’re born and you die, and you don’t have any control over the two. My father drank so much that he should have died a long time ago. But it didn’t catch up to him until two days shy of my first PBR championship.” He shook his head. “
Two
days. Can you believe that?”

“I’m really sorry about his death. I know you wanted him to see you ride.”

“It wasn’t that. He didn’t have to see me. I just wanted him to
know.
” He shook his head. “He said I would never do it and he died thinking he was right.” His hands tightened on the wheel and she knew he was remembering the past and his father and she knew it hurt.

Don’t do it. One touch will lead to two and two to three and…

She balled her fingers and kept her hands in her lap. Her gaze went to the passing landscape and a small area off in the distance where Bick Jericho had been laid to rest years before. It wasn’t even visible from the road, but Sarah knew what it looked like because it wasn’t far from her mother’s resting place. When she took fresh flowers to her mother’s grave, she always glanced at the patch of weeds and overgrown brush that completely concealed the small headstone that marked the grave.

“I’ve got some really nice potted palms.” While she wouldn’t reach out to comfort him with her touch, the sudden urge to do something—say something—to ease his pain overwhelmed her. “You should take one out to his grave.”

He looked at her as if she’d grown two heads. “Why would I do something like that?” He shook his head. “He doesn’t deserve anything from me. He never gave me or my brothers anything but a hard time.”

“It’s not about him. It’s about you. You didn’t go to his funeral.” At his questioning glance, she added, “I didn’t go, either. It happened so fast and everything was very low key that I didn’t even hear about it until I saw for myself. I was visiting my mother’s grave when they buried your father. It was a small funeral. Just your brothers and Hank Brister and Judge Merriweather, who recited a few words.”

“So?”

“So I just thought you might like to know how things went. Unless your brothers told you.”

“We didn’t talk about it.” He cut her a glance that said he didn’t want to talk about it now. “There wasn’t anything to talk about. He died. We buried him. End of story.”

“It was a nice casket.”

“Dallas picked it out.”

“It looked like cedar.”

“Dallas likes cedar.”

“And the judge said some really nice things.”

“Good for the judge.”

“And your brother Austin said a few words.”

“Look—” he pinned her with a stare “—is there a point to this conversation? Because if there is, I wish you would just get to it.”

“There were no flowers, so after everyone left, I took him a small flowerpot of daisies.”

“Thanks, but you shouldn’t have. He didn’t deserve any flowers.” The words were cold and cynical, but the brightness in his eyes told her he felt a lot more than he cared to admit.

“They weren’t for him. They were for me. I felt good leaving them there. That’s what funerals are for, you know. They’re not for the person who passes away. They’re for everybody left behind.”

“Since when?”

“Since always. They’re a chance to say goodbye. You never said goodbye to him.”

“I don’t need to say goodbye.”

“If you say so.”

“So where’s this place again?”

“Just over the railroad tracks.” They lapsed into an uneasy silence the rest of the way there.

“You’re here!” Mr. Jenkins met them out front when they pulled up. “This is so wonderful. I’ve already told Mrs. Hollister down the road and she said she’s going in first thing tomorrow to get everything to redo her flower beds. She’s been putting it off until her boys come home from college. One of them has a truck. But I told her you’re offering delivery for practically nothing, and she was thrilled!”

“But I’m not—” she started, only to have him cut in.

“So was Ernestine Miller. She’s the lady with the petunia garden over on Fifth Street. She’s got rheumatoid arthritis and has a heck of a time driving. This new setup is perfect for her. You’re a saint, that’s what she said. What we all said.”

“Um, thank you,” she said, but the words held no enthusiasm. Deliveries? She couldn’t make deliveries. This was a fluke. A one-time thing.

A test of her willpower, she realized as she climbed back into the truck and gave up the fresh Texas air for the scent of Houston. The sound of him. The sight of his handsome profile drawing her like a bee to a honeycomb.

“Mrs. McGhee got stung by a bee,” she blurted when her hand actually slid a traitorous inch across the seat. The comment had nothing to do with anything, but she needed to talk, to divert her attention to something—anything—besides the fact that he was so close and she wanted him so much. “It made the front page of the paper,” she rushed on, despite the strange look that Houston gave her. He knew. He knew she was searching for a diversion, but he wasn’t going to help her by asking any questions. He was going to let her flounder around on her own.