The Husband School Read online

  “I’ll make a fresh pot of decaf,” she said, clearing away his dirty dishes. She gave the counter a quick wipe and removed his full coffee mug. “Just for you. Sit. It will only take a few minutes.”

  Patience, he reminded himself as he reluctantly returned to his stool at the freshly wiped counter. Slow down. Breathe. Do not listen to George complain about Congress. Do not answer questions about the town’s budget. Do not think about Tracy’s—

  “I’m worried about you,” Meg said, returning with a plate of English muffins spread with peanut butter, a dollop of strawberry jam on the side in a little paper cup. “Here. Protein. You didn’t eat your eggs.”

  “Thanks, Meg.” He took a bite of the muffin, though he wasn’t sure he could get it past the nervous lump in his throat. Fortunately Meg seemed to understand and provided a glass of water.

  “Better?”

  He nodded, swallowed and sipped some water. He’d need to see a gastroenterologist in Billings before this was over. He was too young for daily heartburn.

  “Good. Now, start over. What kind of help do you need?”

  “Janet is—was—our volunteer dance instructor. She was the only woman in town who ever actually taught dancing—two-step, swing, waltz, the real stuff—professionally.”

  “Ooh, now I get it.” She walked over to the coffee machine and lifted the decaf pot. As she filled his cup, she said, “You really should switch to decaf full-time, Jerry. Your hands are shaking.”

  “I thought Tracy would stay with me at my house,” he confided. “I made a guest room for her in her favorite color and I bought 100-percent-organic sheets. I thought it would be romantic, you know?”

  “Organic sheets?” Now it was Meg’s turn to look panicked. “I can’t afford organic sheets! I thought she’d like a Montana country-western look, so I ordered a blue plaid sheet, comforter, dust ruffle and pillow sham set from J.C. Penney.”

  “Cotton?”

  “Yes, but I don’t think I read anything about organic.”

  “What’s the thread count?”

  “Are you out of your mind? How would I know?”

  “I guess you could look it up. Or you could just lie. Tell her it’s organic and really expensive.” Breathe. Focus. Dump the jam on top of the peanut butter and eat.

  “How would you know what?” This was from Shelly again, who carried a tray of dirty dishes. Jerry didn’t mind the interruption this time, because he hoped Meg would be sidetracked and therefore stop shrieking.

  “Thread count for the queen sheets,” Meg muttered.

  “Yep,” George said. “And don’t forget the organic part.”

  “Is that important?” She set the tray down and looked from Jerry to Meg and back again. “What’s wrong with you two?”

  “Janet broke her ankle,” Meg replied.

  “Yeah. I heard. That’s why Mr. Ferguson didn’t come in this morning. It’s a small fracture, but they might not be able to go on their vacation now.”

  “Janet was supposed to teach the dance class tonight,” Jerry managed to say with a mouthful of peanut butter. Yes, he was breaking the “don’t talk with your mouth full” rule of dating, but he sure wasn’t going to date either one of the women looking at him with pity in their eyes. “Who else around here can dance? There must be someone.”

  “Don’t look at me,” George hollered. “I need a hip replacement.”

  “Not me, either,” Meg said. “I’m not the least bit coordinated, never was. You can ask my mother.”

  “Can she dance?” Jerry wiped a blob of strawberry jam from his lip.

  “Probably, but she’s in Tucson.”

  “Can you dance enough to teach the basics? I mean, I’m from California and I can do the two-step if I’m in a bar in Texas without embarrassing myself too much.”

  “You’re way ahead of me. So you teach.”

  “I can’t. It has to come from a woman to make the guys pay attention. They have to have someone who knows what she’s doing so they can practice with her, to get the hang of it. Janet even bet me ten bucks she could make a dancer out of Hip.”

  “Okay.” Meg thought for a moment. “There should be a dance studio in Billings, or maybe someone at Lewistown? We can call around—”

  “I already did. Offered fifty dollars an hour, the going rate for group lessons. No one wants to come up here tonight, especially with the weather being as bad as it is.”

  They all looked out the window to check. Sure enough, it was gray and windy, with flakes of snow already beginning to swirl in the cold air. “We’ll have to change the date, I guess, and hope I can get something scheduled before the twenty-eighth.”

  “I’ll do it,” a female voice said.

  He turned away from the sight of snow and saw the determined pregnant girl, hands on her hips. “Huh?”

  “I had to learn the two-step in gym class.”

  “Well, uh, thanks for offering, Shelly, but we need—”

  “I can waltz. Fox-trot, too. I can do some swing dancing, but it can get a little tricky to remember the fancy stuff.”

  “Who taught you? Your parents?” Meg looked as if she’d like to ask a lot more questions, but Jerry didn’t have time for delving into Shelly’s mysterious past.

  “Thanks, anyway,” he told Shelly, hoping he wouldn’t hurt her feelings. “But—”

  “One of our neighbors had a school,” she said to Meg. “I used to teach the little kids when she needed help.”

  Jerry didn’t look convinced. In fact, his gaze drifted to the girl’s stomach. “I don’t know about this.”

  Meg lifted her hand. “It seems to me,” she said slowly, “if Shelly could teach small children the basics of dance, she could teach our bachelors.”

  “That’s right,” the girl said. “On one condition. Someone has to take me to the rodeo.” She took a folded piece of paper from the back pocket of her jeans. “Les’s grandfather printed this out for me. NILE starts Thursday in Billings. This is the schedule of events.”

  “I think I heard about it on the radio,” Meg told him. “Northern International Livestock Show, right? But it’s a pro rodeo. Sonny wasn’t on that level, was he?”

  “Yeah, well, it’s also the ranch rodeo finals. If he works on a ranch, and if he’s any good, you never know. He could be there.” The look on the poor kid’s face showed exactly how much she hoped he would be. “I don’t know how many ranches compete, but it’s worth a try.”

  “Consider it a done deal,” Jerry said. “Meg will make sure you get there.”

  Shelly’s face lit up and she threw her arms around Meg’s neck. “Thank you!”

  Behind Shelly’s back, Jerry shrugged at Meg’s dismayed expression. “Hey,” he said. “You can’t dance and you can’t sing, so you may as well hunt down a boyfriend.”

  * * *

  “YOU DON’T NEED this class,” Meg muttered.

  “No?” Owen twirled her with effortless precision.

  “Don’t look innocent. I’ll bet you could have taught it yourself.”

  “No, thanks. I think your students are happy with female instructors.”

  Meg didn’t want to be in Owen’s arms. She’d planned to look good and ignore him.

  She’d had the best intentions earlier this evening. Despite choosing to wear her skinny jeans and her favorite black Tony Lama boots, the ones with the red-and-purple feather stitching, and she’d told herself she didn’t care if Owen attended the dance class or not. So what if she’d finally worn her fancy ivory ruffled top? She’d have worn it anyway, because it made her waist look small and had the rare Lucia seal of approval.

  And she’d told herself it didn’t matter if she wasn’t coordinated and didn’t have a sense of rhythm. And maybe she was just the tiniest bit tone-deaf, to
o. But she could still enjoy the music and have a good time. At least her awkward two-step would make the men feel better about their own dancing.

  Jerry had personally begged every able woman in town, married or single, to serve as dance partners tonight. The Dahl had never seen so much gray hair. The place was packed, which kept Aurora and a couple of volunteer bartenders busy, but the crowded dance floor helped the students feel less self-conscious. Lucia had convinced the more talented Mama Marie to take her place tonight and had opted to stay home with her boys.

  “I’m saving myself for the Halloween party,” she’d said. Meg suspected her friend was much happier at home in her pajamas.

  Shelly was patient and kept the instructions simple. She made them go over and over the steps without music, with music, slow, fast, alone and with a partner.

  Meg thought she could almost two-step after forty-five minutes.

  Shelly, satisfied with the progress of her students, switched to the waltz.

  “One, two, three,” she said. “Slow, quick, quick.”

  When it was time for partners, Owen scooped Meg into his arms. “Have we ever danced before?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Shoot,” he muttered, taking a few moments to think. “The county fair?”

  She even remembered the song, but she would not humiliate herself by saying so. “It was a long time ago.”

  “That Tim McGraw song.” His fingers tightened around hers. “And not so long ago, not really.”

  “We were stupid.” That’s what she needed to remember, not some silly love song. They’d been kids, thrown together on the ranch, hormones vibrating off their skin, with no idea what love really was.

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” he murmured. “But we’re a lot older.”

  “Thanks for pointing that out.”

  “You know that’s not what I meant.” He chuckled. “And despite my advancing age, it still feels good to hold you in my arms.”

  “You’re holding me a little too tight.”

  “It’s a waltz.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And if I don’t hold you like this, you’ll step on my feet. You really don’t have a knack for this.”

  “You were warned.”

  “We all were. I might be the only one who took it seriously, because I didn’t have to knock anyone over to get to dance with you.”

  “Flatterer.” She lost her concentration again and stumbled.

  “Ouch.”

  “Sorry.”

  His arms tightened around her just a little bit. She wanted nothing more than to rest her head on his chest and close her eyes. He smelled good, unlike some of the others, who hadn’t followed the rule about going easy on the aftershave lotion.

  She needed to make a note about Irish Spring soap, too. Most of the men she’d danced with used it, and a little of that scent went a long way.

  Fortunately for her, since she was practically glued to his chest, Owen smelled wonderful. She wanted to sniff his neck, but that would of course be too obvious. “What kind of soap do you use?”

  “Hmm?” His chin was touching the top of her head. His body was warm and his chest was so wide. Meg sighed. She really did feel stupid, as if she was losing brain cells all over the dance floor. “What’s the sigh about?”

  “Soap,” she murmured. “What kind?”

  “Oh.” He obviously had to think about it. “Ivory? It’s white. Why?”

  “Aftershave? Cologne?”

  “Why?” He loosened his hold on her and looked down into her face.

  “I’m taking a poll.”

  “Well, tell you what, you’re invited to come on out to the ranch anytime you want to and go through my bathroom shelves. Bring a notebook, a camera, whatever. Now start counting. You’ve lost the beat again and Shelly is about to come over here and get us on track. Is it my imagination or has her, uh, belly tripled in size since last week?”

  “It’s not your imagination.” She let her cheek rest on his chest for the tiniest second, just the blink of an eye, really, before the last notes of the old Willie Nelson song faded. “I’m glad we’re friends again, Owen.”

  Gently released, she stepped out of his arms.

  “Friends,” he repeated, as if he’d never heard the word before. He kept hold of her hand as they waited for the next song to begin. It was silly to carry a grudge, Meg realized. They could be friends now. Older and wiser, she had no reason to fall in love again.

  And no desire to. Her hand felt so warm and small inside of his.

  No desire at all.

  * * *

  IT IRKED HIM to be treated like every other man in this godforsaken town. Friends? Friends! That had been his own stupid idea—he’d actually said it to Meg when he’d been trying to protect himself. He was an idiot. Because he was the same as he was years ago: he wanted to kiss that smiling mouth, wanted to hold her in his arms and protect her. He wanted to tease her until that stubborn chin of hers lifted in defiance and then he wanted to kiss her until she laughed against his mouth.

  Another song began, yet he didn’t relinquish her hand and instead tugged her back into his arms for the next waltz. He glanced around the room to see if anyone would contest his monopolizing Meg, but the rest of the dancers seemed very preoccupied with their own feet. Shelly was attempting to teach Hip and Les at the same time, and the younger man looked self-conscious but determined. Hip looked more agonized, but watched Shelly’s face instead of the simple steps she illustrated.

  “What do you suppose is going on over there?”

  Meg followed his gaze. “With Les and Hip?”

  “I hope that girl is really eighteen, otherwise we’re going to have trouble.”

  “Hip’s too old for her.”

  “And Les is too young,” Owen pointed out, at the same time realizing he’d been younger than Les when he’d tried to elope with Meg. Had he really ever been that young? That stupid?

  “She’s too young to be pregnant, too, but that doesn’t seem to bother her.”

  Owen looked down at Meg. “Have you asked the county sheriff if there’s a missing-person report on her?”

  “No.” She hesitated. “What if she’s run away from an abusive situation?”

  “What if she’s run away from a family who’s worried about her?”

  Meg sighed. “I don’t get that feeling. But she seems so lost.”

  “If she’s a minor, she needs help. Obviously. For the baby’s sake, if nothing else.”

  “You’re right. I just don’t want her to run away from here. At least here I know she’s taking care of herself.”

  “Is she still looking for the boyfriend?” He drew her closer against him and she didn’t protest, just leaned against his chest. He didn’t dare point out that she was actually managing a simple box step without stumbling.

  “Yes, but she doesn’t say much. She’s gone through the high school yearbooks. And she’s on the internet for hours at a time, with no luck. In fact, I’m taking her to the rodeo in Billings next week. She has high hopes for that.”

  “She needs to find him. He needs to take responsibility for this, but I don’t know, it doesn’t look good.” Shelly had been a foolish girl, seduced by a sweet-talking cowboy at a rodeo. She’d made a dangerous and foolish decision, and now a baby was going to pay for it.

  “I hope she does. I worry about her,” Meg said, snuggling just a bit closer as he pressed his hand gently against her back. She smelled like vanilla cookies. And cinnamon, too. “She knows where this guy is, one way or the other.”

  “That baby doesn’t have much of a chance. Not without a home. Not without a father.”

  “Some kids don’t have a choice,” she said, pulling back to look up at him.

 
He realized he’d hit a nerve. “I’m sorry.”

  “I never met my father. He disappeared before I was born. I have their wedding pictures in a drawer and that’s about it.” She lifted her chin, as if daring him to argue. “And I turned out fine.”

  “You did.” He remembered how she used to change the subject whenever anyone at the ranch asked her anything personal. She’d willingly chatted about Loralee and the café but closed up whenever asked about her childhood or the rest of her family.

  “I grew up with four stepfathers,” she said. “Not that all of them were, well, fatherly. But they were all kind in their own ways, despite their troubles. They adored my mother.”

  “Everyone did,” Owen admitted. Too much, he thought. Loralee attracted men as though they were fruit flies and she was a ripe peach. She’d never been involved with another woman’s husband, according to the town gossips, but she’d had a knack for flirtation that put a twinkle in a man’s eye. “She was very different from my mother.”

  “Your mother hated me.”

  “I wouldn’t say—”

  “I brought food,” Meg said. “After the funeral. Macaroni and cheese, with sautéed onions and bacon. Your father’s favorite.”

  “I didn’t know that,” he replied, but then he hadn’t been aware of a lot of things going on around him at the time.

  “Your mother turned me away.” She drew back in his arms and looked up at him. “She told me it was all my fault. My fault your father died. And she said you blamed me, too.” She blinked back tears and attempted to leave his embrace, but Owen wouldn’t let her go.

  “I’m sorry,” he managed to reply. He’d no idea back then that his mother was capable of such cruelty. In recent years he’d seen a different side to the woman he’d once thought devastated by the loss of her husband.

  “But you did. Blame me.”

  “Not for Dad’s death,” he admitted. He’d blamed himself for that.

  “But for everything else,” Meg said. The music faded, then ended. Before he had a chance to deny it, Meg moved away from him and into the arms of some long-haired guy with a tattoo on his forearm. Owen felt like an idiot standing there in the middle of the crowd while Shelly, perched on a bar stool with a microphone in her hand, reminded everyone to feel the beat of the music and not look at their feet.