The Trouble With Valentine's Day (8 page)

“His eyes are brown,” Ada waxed in the final stanza.

“He's the only dog in town

to come when I call Snicker.

His tongue is pink,

his fur is like mink, and

he's one hell of a licker!”

Kate's foot stopped, and Rob thought he heard her murmur something that sounded like, “God have mercy.”

Stanley coughed behind his fist, and Rob was grateful that his mother wasn't the only bad poet in the room.

Regina was up next and read a poem about the library where she worked. After Regina, Iona Osborn plugged in a tape player, and the sound of a steady
boom bop-bop boom
filled the grange. Over the drumbeat Iona recited a poem entitled “If I Were Britney Spears.” It was lighthearted and wasn't half as bad as Ada's dog poem. Kate's foot settled into an easy sway once more, then stopped as her long fingers worked the big buttons on her coat. Her shoulder bumped Rob's as she tried to pull her arms from the sleeves. Watching her was like watching someone try to get out of a straitjacket.

He leaned in and said close to her ear, “Lift your hair up.”

She stopped her fidgeting and glanced up at him out of the corners of her eyes. She looked like she might argue. Like she might launch into another “I can take care of myself” speech. She opened her mouth, closed it, then ran one hand across the back of her neck, twisted her wrist, and gathered her hair. She scooped it up and Rob reached for her coat. He pulled the back of the collar down as she leaned forward. She drew one arm free and straightened, letting go of her hair. It fell in a gentle wave and brushed the back of Rob's hand. A thousand strands of red silk touching his skin and curling around his fingers. If he turned his palm up, he could gather it in his fist. It had been a long time since he'd felt the weight and texture of a woman's hair in his hands or across his chest and belly. Desire both unexpected and unwanted tugged at his lap.

She looked at him and smiled for the first time since the night they'd met in Sun Valley.

“Thank you,” she said as she pulled her other arm free.

“You're welcome.” He turned his attention to the podium and folded his arms across his chest. His life had become pathetic. Her hair had touched his hand, big deal. There'd been a time in his life when he probably wouldn't have even noticed. When his attention would have been focused on how to get her out of her bra, not on her hair.

He didn't know how he felt about Kate Hamilton. Other than her amazing body and dominatrix boots, he wasn't sure he even liked anything about her. There were a few men around town who were intimidated by Kate. Who thought she wanted their ball sack for a change purse. Rob wasn't so sure they were wrong. So why was he thinking about her in ways that put
his
ball sack in jeopardy?

He really didn't know, but perhaps it was because the Kate that everyone knew contrasted sharply with the woman in the Sun Valley bar. That night she'd been soft and warm and inviting. She'd been temptation all wrapped up in one fine package, but she'd been a temptation he'd resisted. A temptation he could still resist.

Is she worth dying for?
asked the voice in his head.
Is she worth your life?
Kate was beautiful. No doubt about that, but as always, the answer was no. There was just no telling when a soft, warm, inviting woman would turn into a praying mantis.

Next up, Eden Hansen took the podium. She was dressed from head to toe—literally—in purple, and Rob concentrated on her purple hair and eyeshadow. If anything could scare thoughts of sex from his head, it was Eden. Her poem was entitled “Ten Ways to Kill a Mangy Rat” and was about her brother-in-law, Hayden Dean. She didn't mention Hayden by name, but anyone who knew her knew she was talking about her twin sister, Edie's, husband. When she was through, people didn't know whether to applaud or search her for hidden weapons.

From a few rows up, Rob watched his mother move toward the front. She set her poem on the podium and began,

“Getting old is a drag

you start to wrinkle and to sag

your behind hangs real low

and you begin to move so slow

that you fear someone might put you in a bag.”

Rob placed his forearms on his knees and gazed down at his boots. His mother had obviously given her rhyming dictionary a workout.

“People half your age

earn a better wage

think they're twice as smart

but there's much to take heart

I happen to like this stage.”

The poem went on for several more minutes. Grace hit the high points of getting older and ended with,

“Your life is calm and void of drama

almost as extinct as Mount Fujiyama

but unlike that mountain peak

I'm not dead or even weak

I'm alive and one red hot momma!”

“Sweet Mary, mother of Jesus,” Rob groaned and stared at the toes of his boots.

He could feel Kate's leg still, and out of the utter silence Stanley Caldwell said just above a whisper, “That was wonderful.”

Rob turned his head to look at Stanley. The older gentleman appeared to be serious.

“The best so far,” he said.

Kate looked at her grandfather as if he'd lost his mind. “Better than the Britney poem?”

“Oh yes. Didn't you think so?”

She pushed one side of her hair behind one ear and rather than lie said, “Not all poetry has to rhyme.”

Stanley frowned, and the ends of his mustache dipped. “Well, all I know is Grace's poem was about life and what it's like getting older. It's about wisdom and finding peace with yourself. It spoke to me.”

Rob placed his hands on his knees and continued to stare at Stanley. His mom's poem had been about all that? All he'd heard was that his mother was afraid of being put in a bag and that she was “one red hot momma.” Neither of which a son wanted to contemplate.

Grace smiled as she took her seat, and Rob suffered through three more poetry readings before the “social” part of the evening began. He excused himself from Stanley and Kate and sought out his mother, who stood next to the refreshment table. He and Stanley were the only males in the grange, and there was no way he was going to stick around and socialize, which in Gospel meant stand around and gossip.

“What did you think of my poem?” his mother asked as she handed him a cookie with some sort of jelly in the middle.

“I thought it was even better than the squirrel poem you read me last week,” he answered and bit into the cookie. He washed it down with the champagne punch she handed him. The fruity liquid burned a path to his stomach. “What's in this?”

“A little whiskey, a splash of brandy, and some champagne. If you drink too much, we have designated drivers.”

He didn't plan to be around long enough to need a driver.

“You didn't think the line about Mount Fujiyama was too weird?”

Yes
. “No. Stanley Caldwell liked your poem. He said it was wonderful. It spoke to him.”

The corners of her mouth turned up. “Really?”

“Yep.” If his mother thought shoving cookies and punch at him would make him stay longer, she was mistaken. Just as soon as he could get the dry cookie down, he was gone. “He thinks it was the best out of all the other poems.”

“He's a nice man,” she said through her smile. The crow's-feet in the corners of her eyes fanned across her temples and touched the roots of her graying hair. “And he's been so lonely since Melba passed on. Maybe I'll invite him over for supper one of these nights.”

Rob glanced at Stanley, who stood several feet behind him, surrounded by gray-haired single women. The light shone off his bald head like he'd buffed his scalp with Pledge, and his gaze darted about the grange looking for rescue. It landed on Kate, standing further down the refreshment table, downing the spiked punch like a drunk who'd fallen headfirst off the wagon.

“Are you interested in Stanley Caldwell?” he asked, then shoved the last of his cookie into his mouth.

“Just as a friend. He's only six years older than I am.” She took a drink of her own punch and added, “We have a lot in common.”

Rob drained his cup and set it on the table. “Gotta go,” he said as he shrugged into his coat, but before he could take even one step toward the door, Regina blocked his escape.

“Has your mother had a chance to talk to you about Tiffer?” she asked him.

“Yes,” Grace answered in a lowered voice. “I talked to him.”

Rob frowned and glanced behind him to see if anyone had heard Regina. “I'm not gay.”

For several long moments she stared at him through those thick glasses that magnified her blue eyes. “Are you sure?”

He folded his arms across his chest.
Was he sure?
“Yeah,” he answered. “I'm real sure.”

Regina's shoulders sagged under the weight of her disappointment. “I'm sorry to hear that. You would have been a good match for Tiffer.”

A good match for a drag queen? This was getting out of hand, and it was beginning to annoy him now.

“Regina, do you know who started this horrible rumor?” Grace asked.

“I'm not sure. Iona told me, but I don't know where she heard it.” She turned to the knot of people standing a few feet behind them. “Iona,” she called out, “where'd you hear the rumor about Grace's boy being gay?”

As one, the cluster of people surrounding Stanley turned and looked at Rob. He felt like there was a spotlight on him, and for the first time since hearing the gossip, his temper flared. At this point, he didn't particularly care who'd started the rumor. He just wanted it to stop before it got out of hand. Before he got jumped by a bunch of rednecks out to prove something—not that he couldn't take care of himself.

“I heard it the day when I was getting my hair done at the Curl Up and Dye. Ada told me. I don't know where she heard it, though.”

Ada put a bony finger to her thin lips, and after a few moments of thought, she announced, “Stanley's granddaughter said you was gay.”

All eyes turned to Kate. She didn't seem to notice until she set down her empty punch cup and glanced up. “What?”

“It was you.”

Kate licked the punch from her lips and looked at everyone looking at her. They were staring as if she'd done something evil. Yeah, she'd had a few glasses of punch. So what? She needed it after suffering though a night of bad poetry and Rob Sutter. He'd tricked her into smiling at him, and he was so big and took up so much room that she'd had to hunch her shoulders to keep from rubbing against him. Now her neck hurt. That was worth a glass or two of punch.

“What?” she asked again as everyone continued to stare at her. What was everyone's problem? She'd left some punch in the bowl. “What did I do?”

“You're the one who first said Grace's son was gay.”

“Me?” She sucked in a breath. “I did not!”

“Yes you did. You were ringing up my cling peaches and you said he doesn't like women.”

Kate thought back and barely remembered a conversation she'd had with Ada about the owner of the sporting goods store across the parking lot from the M&S. “Wait a minute here.” She held up one hand. “I didn't know who you were talking about. I'd never met Mr. Sutter.”

The lift of his brow called her a liar.

“I swear,” she swore. “I didn't know she was talking about you.” The look in his green eyes told her that he didn't believe her.

“That's not right starting a rumor about someone you don't know,” Iona admonished, as if Kate had broken some gossiping rule. Which was just insane. Everyone knew there was only one rule to gossiping, and that was if you weren't in the room, you were fair game.

“Katie,” her grandfather said while he shook his head, “you shouldn't start rumors.”

“I didn't!” She knew she hadn't started anything, but by the look on everyone's face, no one believed her. “Fine. Think what you want,” she said as she stuck her arms into her coat. She was innocent. If anything, she thought Rob was impotent, not gay.

This was crazy. She was being chastised for being a gossipmonger in a town that thrived on gossip. She didn't understand these people.

Her gaze moved from Rob, who looked as if he'd like to strangle her, to the rest of those in the grange. They might look somewhat normal, but they weren't. If she wasn't careful, she might become one of them.

Just another cashew in a town of mixed nuts.

Six

Kate looked around the living room, then
leaned her head back on the sofa. The gentle swoosh of her grandfather's rocking recliner and the sound of a
Golden Girls
rerun filled the small house. It was Saint Patrick's Day, and she was spending it watching television with her grandfather. She was half Irish. Usually this time of year, she and her friends were out drinking and singing “Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ra” off key.

Her grandfather also had some Irish blood, and he should have been out living it up. Maybe she should suggest that he call a few of his buddies and at least invite them over for green beer, although the last time she'd pushed him into doing something, he'd forced
her
into going with him to the poetry reading. That night had turned into a disaster.

Growing up, she'd always known Gospel was a little odd, but after that night, she was convinced it was more than odd. She now knew that she was living in an alternate dimension, one that looked fairly normal on the surface but was freaky as hell underneath. Four nights ago, she'd glimpsed the craziness that hid behind normal faces, and it was scary. The only person who hadn't acted like a nut had been Rob Sutter. He'd looked more angry than insane.

“Why don't you go out, Katie?”

She rolled her head to the left and looked at her grandfather. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Yes. You're wearing me out.” He turned his attention back to his television program. “I love you, Katie, but I need a break from you.”

She sat up. She was in Gospel to give him a hand in the store and to help him over his grief. She needed a break from him, too, but she wasn't so rude as to tell him. Obviously, he didn't suffer under the same restraint.

“Go have a green beer somewhere.”

She didn't want to drink in a bar alone. There was something a little sad about it, and besides, it hadn't worked out for her the last time. She'd drunk too much and was still paying the price.

“Play a little pool and meet young people your own age.”

Pool.
She could play pool. That wasn't sad and pathetic, and if she didn't drink too much, she wouldn't do anything stupid. “Which bars have tables?” she asked.

“The Buckhorn has a few in the back. I don't believe Rocky's Bar has any, but the Hitching Post might still have a couple.” While Kate tried to recall which was closest to her grandfather's house, he added, “Of course you should probably stay out of the Hitching Post on account of the restrooms are a little rough.”

Kate looked down at her sweats and Tasmanian Devil slippers. “Isn't the Buckhorn a little rough?” she asked. She'd driven by the bar several times and thought it looked about a hundred years old. Not falling down, just very rustic.

“Not this time of year. It only tends to get rough when flatlanders come up for the summer.”

“Why don't we go play some pool together? I'll bet some of your friends are there.”

He shook his head. “I don't want to go anywhere.” Before she could argue, he added, “I'll call Jerome and see if he wants to come over for a beer.”

She stood. If her grandfather had a friend over, he wouldn't need her company. “Okay. Maybe I will go play some pool,” she said as she moved into her bedroom. She changed into her strapless bra, then pulled on a black-and-white-striped boatneck sweater and a pair of jeans. She shoved her feet into her black boots and shot perfume on the insides of her wrists. After she brushed her teeth, she combed her hair until it fell in a smooth, blunt line across the middle of her shoulder blades. She didn't waste a lot of effort on makeup, just a little mascara and soft pink lip gloss. Then she grabbed her coat and her small black Dooney & Bourke backpack and headed out.

“I doubt I'll be late,” she told her grandfather as he walked with her past the kitchen table set with Tom Jones place mats.

“You look lovely.” Stanley helped her with her coat. “If you drink too much, promise to give me a call.”

“Thanks. I will,” she said, but she didn't have any intention of drinking much at all. She fished her keys out of her backpack and reached for the door.

“And Kate.”

She looked up into her grandfather's eyes. “What?”

“Don't beat all the boys at pool.” He laughed, but Kate wasn't sure he was joking.

The outside of the Buckhorn Bar looked like a lot of the businesses in Gospel, made of split logs, with a green tin roof. But unlike the other establishments, there were no striped awnings or planters to soften the rough appearance. No wooden Indian or gold leaf lettering on the blacked-out windows. The door handle was made from a horn, and a big neon sign with an elk on it hung over the worn porch. Cement patched the holes in the old logs, but slices of dim light and the whine of steel guitar slipped through a few cracks and into the darkness outside.

Walking into the Buckhorn was like walking into a hundred other small-town cowboy bars. It was a second home to the regulars, and anyone new was eyed with suspicion.

The owner of the bar, Burley Morton, weighed in at about three hundred pounds and stood just over six-feet-five. He kept a Louisville Slugger and a sawed-off shotgun behind the long bar. He hadn't used the Slugger since '85, when a flatlander had attempted to rob him of a case of Coors Lite and a pack of beer nuts. He hadn't had trouble of that nature in years, but he kept both items handy just in case. Occasionally, one of the locals got riled up and developed beer muscles, but it was nothing he couldn't handle with a call to the sheriff's office or his own two fists.

The door to the Buckhorn closed behind Kate, and she was reminded of a lot of the older hotels and casinos in Vegas. The bar smelled of alcohol and old cigarette smoke that had seeped into the wood like varnish. The owner's attempt to cover it up with cherry deodorizer didn't help.

On the jukebox, Kenny Chesney sang about a big star while a few couples danced in the center of the large room. Kate wasn't a huge fan of country music, but Kenny was a big improvement over Tom. Green shamrock garlands decorated the long bar and several of the red booths. A bulletin board filled with multicolored flyers was nailed to the wall to Kate's right.

Kate hung her backpack over her shoulder and moved toward the bar. She wove through a few tables and found a stool near the neon Coor's light.

“What can I get ya?” the owner of the Buckhorn asked around the cigar stuck in one corner of his mouth.

“Do you have a winter wheat?”

Burley's thick black brows pulled together, and he looked at her as if she'd ordered a Shirley Temple with extra cherries.

“I'll have a Bud Lite,” she amended.

“Good choice,” he said, and a thin plume of smoke followed him as he moved away to the beer spigots.

“Aren't you Stanley's granddaughter?”

She turned her gaze to the man on the stool next to her and instantly recognized Hayden Dean, the inspiration for the Mangy Rat poem.

“Yes. How are you, Mr. Dean?”

“Good.” He reached for his beer, and his shoulder brushed Kate's. She wasn't so sure it was an accident.

Burley returned and set two glasses of green beer in front of her. “Two-fifty.”

“I only ordered one,” she said as the song on the juke changed and Clint Black poured from the speakers.

He took the cigar out of his mouth and pointed to a sign behind him. “Wednesday night is twofer night.”

Wow, twofer night. Kate hadn't enjoyed twofer night since college. These days, pounding beer didn't hold the appeal it had in her early twenties, when she'd been a champion keg stander and beer bonger.

“I haven't been in here before,” she said to Hayden as she dug into her Dooney bag and handed Burley a five. She glanced over her left shoulder toward the back of the bar. Through an opening she could see billiard lights hanging over two pool tables.

She raised a beer to her lips and felt something brush her thigh.

“I love the redheads,” Hayden said.

She looked down at his hand on her leg, then back up into his heavily lined face. It figured that the only man to pay attention to her in a year was a creepy old guy with beer breath and a reputation for low standards. “Take your hand off my thigh, Mr. Dean.”

He smiled, and she noticed that some of his back molars were missing. “You've got fire. I like that in a woman.”

Kate rolled her eyes. She'd kept up with self-defense classes since she'd first received her PI license, and if she wanted, she could remove Hayden's hand and pin his thumb to his wrist all in one motion. But she didn't want to hurt Mr. Dean. It might make things difficult the next time he came into the M&S for a free cup of coffee. She stood and placed the strap of her backpack on her shoulder. Even though she really didn't want two green beers, she grabbed them off the bar and headed toward the back. As she carefully wove her way through the locals, she sipped out of each glass to keep them from spilling.

In the cramped back room, four players occupied the two tables while several spectators drank beer and loitered under the big No Spitting, No Fighting, No Betting sign.

Within the dusky shadows of the room, Rob Sutter pushed away from the wall and moved to lean over one of the tables. “Three in the side pocket,” he said over the crack of pool balls from the other table and the sound of George Jones crooning from the juke in the next room.

Kate stood in the doorway and watched him line up the shot. The light hanging directly over the table shone down on his left hand and the silver ring on his middle finger. Blue flannel was rolled up his long arms, exposing the tail of his snake tattoo, and he wore a navy blue ball cap with a fly hook and the words “Bite me” embroidered on it. He slid the stick between his thumb and first finger and shot. What he lacked in finesse, he made up for in pure muscle. The cue ball hit the solid red ball so hard that it jumped before shooting across the table and falling into the pocket. His gaze followed the ball to the edge of the table, paused for several heartbeats, then continued up the buttons of Kate's coat, passed her chin and mouth to her eyes. Within the shadow of his hat, his gaze met hers, and he simply stared. Then a slight frown pulled at the corners of his mouth. Kate didn't know if he was irritated to see her or bothered because he'd hit the cue so hard that he'd lost control of it. Probably both.