What the Heart Wants (What the Heart Wants, #1)(80)

Damn Marguerite to hell. She’d messed him up from the start. His conscience had bothered him so much after their first encounter that he couldn’t sleep that night. He’d f*cked a teacher. He almost confessed to Reverend Ed the next day, but couldn’t bring himself to talk about anything so vile to that good man.

Jase snorted.

Yeah. That good man. What a crock.

He heard a cackle outside his window and levered himself up on his elbow. An iridescent grackle was playing in the neighbor’s sprinkler. Now, that was a change. When he was a kid, nobody in the neighborhood—all three houses of it—gave a shit about his lawn. Now there was a parade of houses up and down the street and their yards were regularly watered, mowed, and edged. The area had become respectable—just like he had, judging by the number of people in Bosque Bend who wanted to sell him land or loan him money.

He stared at the black bird preening and flapping in the water and smiled. Strut your stuff, buddy! He’d risen in the town’s esteem while Reverend Ed had hit rock bottom. But did Laurel have to go down with him? It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t known what Reverend Ed was doing behind closed doors.

Relaxing his arm, he studied the shadows on the ceiling and rubbed his jaw. He’d better stop by Walmart for a razor and shaving cream. Laurel—she’d been so cold this morning, so wary, as if she was afraid of him. Of course, he’d looked like Growler on his worst day. He probably wouldn’t hear from her again until Lolly decided to come home.

But within the hour, she called and asked him to pick up a list of groceries. “I would go myself, but I don’t want to leave Lolly alone. She’s depressed and very confused.”

He was instantly alert. “Should I come over?”

“Not yet. Give her time to think everything out. Marguerite…”

“Marguerite’s a bitch.”

Laurel’s voice relaxed a little. “I think Lolly was expecting a more motherly type—like June Cleaver or Carol Brady. It’ll take a day or so for her to handle the situation, but she will.”

“I hope so. Listen, I’ve got to make a flyby to Walmart so, if it’s okay with you, I’ll get your stuff there too.” He’d make his own purchases, change clothes and shave in the restroom, then fill Laurel’s grocery list.

*



An hour later he was at her door, grocery bags in hand. “I brought a few things you didn’t have written down.” He hoisted the bags up for her inspection. Actually, in a frenzy of guilt, he’d doubled her order too, but he’d bet she could use the extras. At least she wouldn’t starve for a while.

A large-headed mongrel poked his head out of the door to look him over. Laurel put her hand on the dog’s head, which topped near her waist.

“That’s okay, Hugo. This is Jase. We’ll let him come in for a minute.”

Laurel had a dog now? A dog the size of a small pony?

As he entered the house, Laurel took hold of the dog’s collar, stepping aside so there was no chance Jase would brush against her as he crossed the threshold. Guess he deserved that. And she’d changed clothes too, into heels and a pale blue touch-me-not dress. Was she going somewhere?

“You know where the kitchen is,” she said, walking back up the stairs. “Be sure to turn the lock when you leave.”

He unloaded the grocery bags on the kitchen table and put everything away in the cupboards, pantry, and refrigerator as best he could.

Stonewalled. She’d frozen him out.

Well, Redlander, what did you expect? And now you’re going to have a boring day working on tax statements and a lonely night sleeping on the same bed in which you made rowdy love to her just a month ago.

*



The next morning, after checking in with Laurel, Maxie, and Connie, he called to see if Craig Freiberg was free for lunch. Might as well get a little business done while he was in town. And if nothing came up this evening, he might give Rafe McAllister a call.

Craig leapt at the invitation. “And I’ll tell ya what, Jase—how’s about I invite Rick Simcek to join us? He’s overextended, and I bet you could get that property out to the west for a song if you worked him right.”

“Sure.” Why not? Just so Simcek kept his mouth shut about what had happened at the Bosque Club. “Where’s a good place to eat?”

“How about Six-Shooter Junction? It’s a new steak house that just opened up last month—Wild West theme. It’s on the other side of the Shallows. Lots of branding irons, barbed wire, and old saddles. They must’ve emptied out every barn and tack room in the county to furnish the place.”

An hour later, Jase shrugged into a light wool jacket he always kept in the backseat of his car, which gave just the right touch of class to his Walmart jeans and cotton shirt, and drove across town toward the river.

Bosque Bend was definitely on the move. A lot of trendy restaurants had set up on the far side of the river, but Six-Shooter Junction stood head and shoulders above the rest—literally. On top of its two tall stories, a big automated marquee advertised specials of the day, and on either side of the menu was an electronic pistol with electronic smoke coming out of its barrel.

Jase snorted. The Old West never had it so good. And never had Bosque Bend. “Six-Shooter Junction,” as he remembered from Mrs. Johnson’s fourth-grade Texas history unit, was what Waco was called, not Bosque Bend.