The Sweet Spot (33 page)

C
har awoke like the click of a light switch, from oblivion to alert in a nanosecond.
Something heavy weighted her chilled chest. She cracked an eyelid. A familiar muscular
forearm lay draped across her naked breasts. A trill of lightness ran through her,
matching the song of the mockingbird outside the window.

She closed her eyes and lay unmoving, listening to Jimmy’s deep breathing and the
shush
of her dad’s slippered step in the hall. What would he say when she and Jimmy walked
in the kitchen, sleep tousled and conspiratorial? She blushed.

The bedcovers rustled and the bed bounced. She opened her eyes to Jimmy’s smile. He
lay, head resting on his fist. His arm tightened around her. “He’ll be happy for us.”

She smiled back. He always could read her mind. Or maybe the blush had given her thoughts
away. “If it’s a bad day, he’ll think you never left.”

“Either way, it’s gonna be all right.” He slapped her hip lightly. “Come on, Little
Bit, we’ve got cattle to feed before church.” He crawled over her and off the bed,
reaching to retrieve articles of his scattered clothing. “I’ve got a change of clothes
in the truck, and—”

She sat up, clutching the sheets to her chest. “A bit cocky about the outcome, were
you?”

“Hell no, Charla Rae.” He turned to her, frowning as he pulled up his jeans and zipped
them. “Management or no, when you work at a feedlot, you learn pretty quickly to carry
an extra set of clothes, just in case.”

“Oh.” She’d been awake all of two minutes and been in interminable painful blush the
whole time. She fell back against her pillow.

He leaned down, and his long kiss made her want to pull him back into the warm nest
of mussed sheets for a few hours. They had a lot of lonely nights to put behind them.

“You sure are adorable in the morning light, Mrs. Denny.”

She squirmed. She dreaded ruining the day so early. But they’d vowed not to hold anything
back from each other, so…

“Speaking of clothes, Jimmy,” she said, focusing on the lightning bolt crack in the
ceiling. “About your championship softball cap.” She took a deep breath. “It’s, uh…
trashed. Beyond redemption.” The rest of the story came out in a rush: her ordeal,
the day Dirty Tricks had been born. She admitted to pressing it into service as a
molasses trough.

“Nothing will get that stuff out. I washed it. I bleached it. I even used Bon Ami!”

Jimmy snorted. Then he threw his head back and laughed.

She watched him, surprise coursing through her. “What?”

He dropped onto the edge of the bed. Still chuckling, he leaned down, forearms bracketing
her head, thumbs smoothing over her temples. “I don’t give a good goddamn about that
hat, Charla.” The dark look in his eyes smoked her down to her toes. “I found something
I lost that’s a lot harder to win than a cap, or a buckle for that matter.” His lips
hovered, more a suggestion than a touch. “I intend to hang on for a lot longer than
eight seconds.”

H
er new life was going to be so much better than the last one. Aubrey Madison would
make sure of that.

She savored the sight of a solitary saguaro, standing sentinel on the flat Arizona
landscape. She savored the red-tipped ocotillo branches that waved in the stiff breeze
of the Jeep’s passing. She even savored the chilled air that swirled in, raising the
hair on her body in an exquisite shiver.

God, it’s good to be out of prison.

Her face felt odd. Until she realized she was smiling.

Glancing at the gas gauge, she vowed to stop soon. Only long enough to get gas and
use the restroom. She had to keep putting on distance.

What if it’s not possible to outrun your own conscience?

The pull of the road in front of her was as strong as the push from the view in the
rearview mirror.

A weatherbeaten Sinclair sign in the distance made up her mind. She took the exit
leading to a deserted corrugated building that may have once been painted white.

Pulling to the pump, she killed the ignition and sat a moment, listening to the
tick, tick, tick
of the cooling engine and the wind keening through the power lines. She stepped out,
closing her denim jacket against the wind’s probing fingers.

A bell over the station door jangled, and a black haired Native American teen glanced
from behind the register.

She took bills from the pocket of her jeans. “I need to fill it up. Where’s the restroom?”

His expression didn’t change as his stare crawled over her throat. She fisted her
hands to keep them still. When he finally pointed to a dark corner, she almost ran
to it.

After solving the most urgent matter, she washed her hands. Her gaze locked on the
black-flecked mirror. The ropy scar twisted from behind her ear to the top of her
collarbone, looking like something out of a slasher movie. Shiny. Raw. Angry. She
jerked her eyes away, turned the water on full force in the sink and tried once again
to wash away the shame.

In her mind, she saw the sign she’d woken up to, in the prison infirmary, hanging
on the wall across from her bed.

I
F YOU’RE GOING THROUGH HELL, KEEP GOING.

—W
INSTON CHURCHILL

In spite of her mantra, the walls closed in, as they always did. Yanking the door
open, she fought to keep from running until she was outdoors, the wind kicking around
her once more.

She reached for the gas nozzle, the tightness in her chest easing. When the Feds released
her from eight
months of perdition, her mother begged her to stay in Phoenix. But Aubrey couldn’t
get a deep breath there. The suburban ranch house crowded her with its memories and
worried eyes. This morning she’d packed and escaped.

Holding the lever in chilled hands, waiting for the tank to fill, she turned her back
to the wind.
Alone.
She pulled the luxury of the empty landscape into her solitary-starved soul and lifted
her face to the sun’s tentative warmth, smiling once more.

Max Jameson twisted the cowboy hat in his hands and lowered his eyes to the body in
the gray satin-lined casket. His father’s broad shoulders brushed silk on both sides.
His face looked unfamiliar, mostly because it was relaxed. But there was no mistaking
the strong jaw and high cheekbones. Max saw them in the mirror every morning.

Just like you to duck out when the going gets tough, Old Man.
His mouth twisted as his father’s familiar chuckle echoed in Max’s mind.
Leave me holding a sack of rattlesnakes. Lotta help you are.

No response, which, on several levels, was probably a good thing.

Max scanned the empty viewing room. He dreaded the remainder of the day: the funeral,
the cemetery, the reception at the ranch. “
Your dad is reunited with your mother after thirty-five years.
” The thought of solicitous friends spouting platitudes was enough to make him bolt
for the barn, saddle his horse, and get the hell out of his own life.

He surveyed his father’s waxen features.
Yeah, and don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same, you old boot.

“Maxie?”

The singsong cadence in that single word snatched him back, to when the man in the
casket was a mountain and a little kid with worshipful eyes dogged Max’s footsteps.
Only one person on earth dared to call him that.

Strap yourself in, Daddy, it’s gonna get bumpy.
He turned to face Wyatt.

His younger brother stopped a few steps short of the casket, his gaze dropping to
his father. A worried frown marred the angelic face from Max’s childhood. Wyatt looked
familiar, but different too. Soft cheeks had hardened to a man’s and his golden locks
were gone, shorn short.

Well. The prodigal returns. No points for bravery maybe, but
—

“Did he suffer, Max?” Wyatt’s voice wavered, his gaze locked on his father’s face.

“Nope. One minute he’s pounding in a post for the new fence line. The next, he’s on
the ground. Gone.”

Wyatt’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “Jesus, Max. Do you have to be so cold-blooded?”

So much for the new and improved Max he’d committed to just this morning, lying in
bed, probing the scabbed-over edges of the hole in his life. “Kinder and gentler”
melted before the blowtorch that was his life lately. “Just telling you what happened.
Sugar coating won’t make it any prettier.”

A hurting smile twisted Wyatt’s mouth. “You sound just like him.”

Max knew he hadn’t meant the words as a compliment. “Let’s grab a cup of coffee before
the vultures show up.” He settled his Sunday Stetson on his head. “You and I have
a bucket of trouble, little brother. And trouble don’t wait.”