Jodi Thomas - Wild Horse Springs

Dan took a long drink of his iced tea.

She knew she’d shocked him, but if she was going to spend a while with a man for the first time in years, she wanted all the cards on the table. And, she decided, she wanted to be remembered as being someone’s unforgettable encounter, no matter how brief. She’d like to be the one woman, the one memory that would always make Dan Brigman smile.

He ate, and she picked at her food.

Finally, he broke the silence. “What time is your last set over tonight?”

“Eleven. Why?”

“I’ll pick you up for a late supper.”

“If you can find a place around here still open, I’ll be hungry.”

He left a twenty on the table and stood.

“I...” She’d told him she’d pick up the check, and she planned to.

“It’s not happening,” he answered, as if he knew what she was about to say.

She followed, already wondering if she’d done the right thing to join him here. She hated bossy men, but then maybe there was some kind of rule that sheriffs can’t accept gifts, even a lunch.

She’d been just fine staying away from men. She liked being alone. She hated strings and planned to live the rest of her life without getting attached to anyone. So why had she hinted at another promise? Another meeting? Why had she offered to spend time with him before she knew what kind of man he really was? Maybe honest blue eyes lied? She hadn’t been around enough to know.

Brandi mentally slapped herself. She was overthinking this. Just go with it. She was wild, remember.

Maybe it was enough that he had kissable lips and he made her feel young like she had ten years ago when she’d first been on the road. She’d been twenty-five then and loving the gypsy life of a singer.

When they stepped out of the restaurant into the little tin windbreaker foyer, the sheriff turned and helped her with her coat. The plastic window in the entryway door looked like it was shivering as wind howled over the cloudy day.

He lifted part of her curly hair, caught under her collar. “Before we step out I want to give you something back.”

Before she had time to say a word, he pushed her against the rattling, icy tin wall and kissed her full out. Openmouthed.

Her sheriff might be quiet, but he definitely wasn’t shy.

Brandi forgot all about being cold. For the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt alive. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back like this one kiss might be the last in her lifetime.

His arms tightened around her. She leaned into him. This wasn’t a first-time, hesitant kiss. She could feel him breathing, his heart pounding next to hers. A tiny spark came alive inside her where only dead embers had lain for so long.

When he broke the kiss, he didn’t say a word; he just circled his arm around her shoulders and held her tightly as they faced the wind and rushed back across the street.

Just inside the club, the whole world lost all sound. No one around. No music. He held her for a moment as though unable to let her go. Though he hadn’t moved, she could feel him pulling away, turning back into the in-control sheriff. His lips pressed against her forehead in a quick peck. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You, too,” she whispered, swearing she could see passion sparkle in his blue eyes.

Then, with a very formal nod, he turned and walked away without a word.

Brandi grinned as she watched him climb into his cruiser and thought she’d add that Toby Keith song “A Little Less Talk and a Lot More Action” to her last set tonight. If the sheriff wanted someone wild and free, she could make it happen.

In a few weeks she’d drive away from this place. Maybe she’d take a memory of her own with her. But that was all she had room to pack.

A memory. Nothing more.

CHAPTER THREE

RAINY NIGHTS IN DALLAS were never as beautiful as they had been when she was a kid growing up at the lake house just outside Crossroads. There, the old cottonwoods whispered when the wind blew, and the rain tap-dancing on the water twenty feet from her window often lulled her to sleep.

Her hometown seemed a million miles away tonight. She stared out her apartment windows at the solid brick wall of the condo next door. No view.

If her pop wouldn’t think she was a failure, she’d load up all she owned in a U-Haul and drive back home. She could be there in five or six hours. She’d cook her father’s breakfast and then follow him to the county sheriff’s office, where she’d work all day organizing his files. They’d eat lunch at Dorothy’s Diner across the street and pretend she was sixteen again with the world waiting on her to grow up, and not twenty-five, waiting for the world to realize she was a failure.

Lauren pulled out her cell, thinking she could call her pop. It was almost nine. He’d probably be finishing up his day, heading home with his supper in a bag, looking forward to eating in front of the TV, which would be tuned to a football game. In an hour he’d be sound asleep in his recliner.

Pop was so predictable. When she was growing up, he cooked the same meals every week. Chili dogs on Monday, pancakes with burned sausage on Tuesday, grilled chicken and baked potatoes on Wednesday, meat loaf or spaghetti on Thursday. They had take-out pizza on Friday and leftovers, if there were any, on Saturday. Sundays they ate out or warmed up cans of soup. Oh, she almost forgot, they usually had hamburgers if he got home late. If she hadn’t learned to cook early, he probably would have stuck to that menu until she left for college. She was twelve before she knew appetizers could be something besides potato chips.

Now, their conversations were the same. For her, work was always great, yes, she was making friends, no, she didn’t need any money. For him, he’d tell her about the weather, talk about the folks in town who’d ask about her, and say no, he wasn’t lonely, he was doing fine.

Lauren shoved her cell back into her pocket. She didn’t call. Tonight she wasn’t sure she could stand to hear him tell her one more time how proud he was of her.

His Lauren was moving up, honing her skills as a writer. It wouldn’t be long until she finished a book and was on the bestseller list, he’d say. Crossroads just might have to open a bookstore in town with Lauren’s first book about to hit any day and Tim O’Grady working on his fourth novel.

She’d heard Pop brag to everyone, and she hadn’t said a word. She’d had three jobs in a year, all ending in being laid off. None in publishing. She was not moving up or working on her book. The chance of anyone from Crossroads filling a bookstore shelf was highly unlikely, with her manuscript unfinished and Tim’s novels all ebooks.

If the Crossroads Bookstore ever opened, the “local author” shelf would be empty.

Lauren jumped out of her self-pity when her phone buzzed.

Tim O’Grady’s name flashed along with his smiling face. She grinned and answered.

“Hello, Hemingway, don’t tell me you’ve just finished another book.” Lauren tried to sound happy. He always called to celebrate over the phone when he finished anything. The outline. The edit. The final draft.

She always acted excited, and she suspected he always tried his best to sound sober.

“Hi, L.”

For once he actually did sound sober.

“You able to talk? Not on a date or anything?” He paused. When she didn’t answer, he added, “And no, before you ask, the book’s not finished. Tonight I’m dealing with real life.”

“I’m home.” She dropped to the couch. “Alone. What’s up? Talk to me.” She needed a little bit of home, and talking to the boy she’d grown up next door to might help.

“I don’t know what you can do about it, but I need help. We’ve got a real mess here, and I don’t know how to handle it.”