THE BEST MAN IN TEXAS Page 2

  The bartender kept watching her as if he wasn't at all comfortable, meaning she might be a regular with a reputation for having a bad temper. Or she might be a stranger and the guy was wondering if she would be able to pay up.

  She didn't seem the least bit concerned as she drained the last of the drink through a wide straw and smiled at the bartender. "Could I have another one, please?"

  "That makes four in twenty minutes," he said, sliding the empty glass off the bar. "You sure?"

  "Sure I'm sure," she said, her voice cheerful. "I'm trying to get a life."

  "Lady," the young bartender said. "You're not going to get any kind of a life here. Why don't I pour you a cup of coffee instead?"

  "Coffee," she announced, "is for stepmothers."

  "O—kay," he shrugged. "Another daiquiri it is, then."

  Damn, she looked familiar, J.C. mused, studying her face in the dim light of the room. Someone from high school, maybe. Her cheeks were almost as pink as the drink she'd just finished and she looked as if she might have been crying.

  Coffee is for stepmothers.

  Oh, hell. It was all coming back to him now. Golden brown hair, big hazel eyes, a smile that could light up the gym, a sweet voice in algebra class and class secretary in her junior year. If she was who he thought she was, she was the last woman in July he wanted to run into. Except for her mother, maybe, the old bat who'd taught English at the high school.

  Just his luck to have found the one place in town where trouble sat. He would never have expected Delia Ball to be drinking her lunch at the Cottonwood on a Wednesday afternoon. J.C. drank his beer and hoped that the woman was tipsy enough to have trouble focusing on her drinking buddy. The bartender took his time fixing the drink; the noise the blender made almost drowned out the old Hank Williams tune coming from the radio on the shelf above the whiskey bottles. The guys in the back started yelling at each other.

  He was afraid she might be crying. Not that he blamed her, but weeping women didn't belong in bars.

  "There you go, lady." The bartender set another frozen concoction in front of Delia, who smiled at him.

  "Thank you." She took a sip from the straw and then noticed J.C. She seemed surprised that he was looking at her, so he quickly looked away and spun the stool around so he could watch the pool players. They were laughing now and J.C. hoped Delia didn't hear some of their muttered four-letter comments to each other.

  "Hey," he called to them. "There's a lady in here."

  "Oh, sorry." The scrawny kid with the baseball cap didn't look all that bothered by the warning, but for the next few moments he and his friend kept their voices down and J.C. turned back to the bar.

  "I know you," Delia said. "From high school."

  "Yeah?" He pretended to be uninterested and hoped the expression on his face could be interpreted as boredom.

  She frowned, just a little. "Are you from around here?"

  "No." He took the last swallow of his beer and set the empty glass down before reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. He set a five-dollar bill on the counter and slid off the stool.

  "But you used to be."

  He looked up and noted that those hazel eyes were a little unfocussed. He wondered how much rum was in those drinks. "Yeah."

  She swiveled to face him and almost lost her balance. One ringless hand reached for the counter. "But I do know you."

  J.C. shook his head. "It's the booze talking, sweetheart."

  "I might have had a little too much to drink," she said slowly. "But at least I got out of the house."

  He looked for help, but the bartender was leaning against the cash register with his cell phone pressed against his ear and was paying no attention to either one of his customers.

  "And," she continued. "I've never been drunk before. It's not that bad, you know. In fact, I like feeling … fizzy." As if to prove it, she took another long sip from the straw.

  "Well," he said, attempting to walk past her. "You have a nice day getting out of the house and all."

  "It's for sale."

  He stopped, which was a mistake. Because if he'd kept walking he could have been out the door in about thirty seconds. "What is?"

  "My house."

  "I'm sorry to hear that." And truly, he was, because the loss of Delia's house was another sin to set on his sister's doorstep. Now that he was closer to her he could see she wore little makeup and there was a dark smudge on her chin. She didn't look much different than she had years ago, not that he had ever gotten close to her. He would have liked to, though. She'd been shy and bookish, yet in a small town like July she'd been a popular girl. And definitely off limits to the likes of him. He'd never expected she'd end up like this, drunk as a skunk in a cowboy bar.

  "You know, I think I've had too much to drink." She pronounced each word very carefully. "I'm not sure I can get off this stool."

  "Do you want to get off this stool?" He took the hand she offered and his fingers closed around warm fingers.

  "I think—" She dropped her sneakered feet to the floor. "I think I'd better try, don't you?"

  "Well, uh, maybe you should have some coffee—"

  "No." She tilted toward him and he reached out and steadied her, his arm circling her back. "Too boring."

  "Hey," the bartender waved, his phone still against his ear. "That'll be twenty-four, seventy-five, honey."

  "Right. Money." She sighed, and bent down to pick up a bag that was on the floor. She almost succeeded in toppling them both onto the floor in the process.

  "I'll get it." He managed to keep one arm around her waist while he rescued her purse.

  "Martin always paid the bills," she muttered, taking the bag from him. She rummaged through it until she pulled out a red wallet. She held it toward J.C. "Could you find the money, please? My fingers don't seem to be working."

  He found three ten-dollar bills and left them on the counter, then put the wallet back into her bag. Before he returned it to her, he found a gold key chain with four keys attached, which he held on to. There was no way this woman was driving home. "Where's your car, Delia?"

  She gave him an odd look. "You know me?"

  "Yeah. Where's your car?"

  "In the driveway." She smelled like strawberries, but the Delia he remembered from high school would never have looked as if she was going to pass out.

  "Whose driveway?"

  "Mine."

  J.C. looked toward the bartender, who shrugged. "Can you call a taxi to take the lady home?"

  The guy shook his head. "He retired. Moved to Idaho."

  "What do you do with drunks then?"

  "I call the sheriff and he takes them home."

  "Oh, please," Delia begged, her eyes huge as she gazed up at him. 'Don't have me locked up."

  "No one is going to lock you up, sweetheart," J.C. assured her. "But I sure as hell need to help you get home."

  "Home?" Her eyes welled with team. But to his surprise, she gave him her address. "Four-oh-six Lincoln," she said. "It's too big for me."

  J.C. looked at the young bartender for help.

  "Three blocks north, corner of Main and Lincoln," the guy explained. "You could walk her home. Maybe."

  "It's white," she sighed. "And ugly. I hate the couch."

  J.C. tried one more time. "Delia, why don't you let me call a friend for you?"

  "We're friends," she said, patting J.C.'s hand. "I remember you. I let you copy my answers off the math exam."

  "And I appreciated it," he assured her, pocketing the keys. "So I guess I'd better walk you home."

  "That would be nice," she said, the words slow and succinct as if she was trying very hard to be coherent. "But I don't want to go there."

  "No?" He guided her toward the door. He sure as hell wasn't taking her anywhere else.

  "No," she said, but she tightened her grasp of his waist. "It's a horrible place. Too many boxes."

  "Right." He hoped she wouldn't pass out on him. "But we should get you there
anyway."

  She stopped again, and her face lit up as she clearly recognized him. And to his dismay, she turned and hugged him. "I might not remember your name," she said, slurring her words a bit. "But I'm glad you came home."

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  «^»

  "Joe," the man told her. "Call me Joe."

  He was tall, much taller than Martin. Her nose was against his shirt, the scent from the smooth cotton familiar. He used the same fabric softener she did, a comforting thought for someone who had spent most of her adult life doing laundry.

  "Joe?" She tried out the name, but it didn't fit the memory of algebra class and the dark-haired boy who had been seated behind her. "No," she said. "That's not right." She blinked against the harsh sunlight when he shoved open Cottonwood's front door and realized she didn't know where she was going once she stepped outside. Or with whom. Not that it mattered, she guessed, since she couldn't get anywhere by herself. She twisted to look up into his face.

  "Hey, don't let go of me now," he said, in a low voice that sounded both amused and protective.

  "You could end up facedown on the sidewalk before I can get you home."

  Once again in a short period of time, Delia realized she'd made a mistake. Sucking down four daiquiris in record time hadn't been a good plan at all. She would have to make a list, cataloguing everything she'd done wrong in the past months, but for now she needed to remember how to move her feet in a forward motion.

  She didn't want to go home. She didn't want to face the boxes and the empty rooms and the inevitable evening phone call from her mother, who would act as if Delia's life had come to an end and recite all the reasons that Delia shouldn't be depressed.

  She wasn't depressed. She was angry. At herself, mostly. She'd wasted the best years of her life and here she was, hanging on to a guy named Joe and staggering out of a bar in broad daylight

  Clearly alcohol wasn't gong to be the answer to her divorce problems.

  "Steady," he said. "We're going to move to the right and let these kids pass us."

  Three teenagers giggled at them and walked past as Delia tried to look sober. Her face was numb, her lips tingled and she couldn't feel her knees, but she figured as long as she could walk and talk she must be okay.

  "Good. Don't know them," she whispered.

  "What?"

  She looked up into a pair of green eyes that crinkled at the corners with an amused expression that was vaguely familiar.

  "Small town," she managed to say despite a tongue that seem to want to form words.

  "Yeah," he muttered. "Tell me about it."

  "Sunglasses," she said, reaching for the purse that dangled from a shoulder strap.

  "Just keep walking." His arm tightened around her waist. "We're going to cross the street soon and find your house."

  "Can't," she said, the heat making her feel as if she was going to be sick. He leaned her against the window of the Sew Good craft shop while he tried to find her glasses.

  And with that, Delia closed her eyes and gave in to the rum.

  * * *

  Georgia hung up the phone and reached for her blood pressure machine. If she hadn't skyrocketed to one-sixty it would be a miracle. She'd had three phone calls in the last hour and despite calling Delia five—no, six times, there'd been no answer from that daughter of hers.

  Which meant the rumors of Delia's drunken escapade at the old Cottonwood, a place that should have been closed down years ago, could be true.

  Which, of course, they just couldn't be. Georgia knew her daughter, had brought her up to be a lady. Not that it had been difficult, not with a lovely girl like Delia, who listened to her parents most of the time and did her homework as if she enjoyed it. She had been the perfect daughter from the day she was born. Oh, she was no beauty, not in a Miss America way, but she had always been such a pretty girl. With such nice manners and a cheerful personality.

  Cheerfulness was underrated these days, with all the attention on skinny legs and big artificial breasts and belly button rings. She didn't understand why women wanted to strut around exposing their bellies, but she was grateful that Delia wasn't one of them. Delia, thank goodness, had always been sensible. Even marrying Martin hadn't exactly been an act of rebellion. Delia had been in love and had sworn she knew what she wanted.

  Georgia waited the required amount of minutes to determine her pressure, only to discover that she was fine. A little above average, but it was early evening and certainly not unusual to have a slight rise in the numbers. And she knew she shouldn't barge over to Delia's house on the basis of a rumor. Delia was a little depressed these days and didn't need to know that folks in town were wondering if the divorce was turning her into a lush.

  She wanted to call her, wanted to hear Delia's calm voice on the other end of the phone, just to reassure herself that all was well. But when Delia didn't answer her phone after seven rings, she called Annie.

  "I need you to do me a favor," she said, right after Annie picked up the phone.

  "Georgia? What's wrong?" The television news blasted in the background, but soon quieted after Georgia assumed Annie found her remote.

  "Look across the street and see if Delia's car is there."

  "Why?"

  "Because she's not answering her phone." She didn't want to talk about what she'd heard. One shouldn't spread rumors about one's own daughter, after all, not even to one's best friend.

  "Maybe she had it disconnected."

  "She wouldn't do that. Not without telling me. Just go look, will you, Annie? Please?"

  "Hold on," she said. "I'm walking to the window now" There was a pause, then, "Her car's there. I think it's been there all day."

  "Are there lights on in the house?"

  "It's not dark out, Georgia. I can't tell."

  "Well," she stalled, wondering how else she could find out if Delia was home and not out gallivanting with a strange man. "Does it look like she's home?"

  "You want me to go over and knock on the door?" Georgia wanted to say yes, but she realized she was being ridiculous. Spying on Delia was not something that her daughter would easily forgive. "No. I guess I'm just being overprotective. Delia wouldn't be—Delia must be packing. Or taking a shower."

  "Or maybe she's gone out with a friend for supper. She wouldn't be cooking, not with all that packing she's doing."

  "You're right." Annie made perfect sense, of course. "Her friends have been very helpful that way, keeping her busy and making sure she doesn't spend too much time alone. But—"

  "But you want me to call you if I see her come home."

  "Well, yes." She tried to laugh at herself, but the sound was more like a sob. "I just hate thinking of what she's going through, Annie. And there's nothing I can do to help."

  "You can stop worrying," Annie suggested. "You're going to make yourself crazy. When Louella got divorced I thought she'd never be happy again, and what happened? She met a nice man a year later and now they're living in Houston, happy as can be."

  "Call me later," Georgia said, ignoring Annie's comment about her oldest girl. Georgia didn't want Delia meeting any other men or moving to Houston. At least not right away. She wanted her daughter to be happy, for heaven's sake, not saddled with another man to take care of.

  * * *

  Well, Joe supposed he was stuck taking care of Delia now. At least until he knew she was going to be okay. It would be just his luck to have her succumb to alcohol poisoning while he was the one responsible for her. He cursed again, more at his sister than himself this time. Julie should have been the one cleaning up the mess she made when she'd run away with that Drummond jerk, not Delia.

  He'd carried Delia the remaining blocks to her home and even managed to revive Delia long enough to walk her to her kitchen door and unlock it.

  He then lay her down on the floor, afraid to sit her in one of those cane and metal kitchen chairs for fear She'd tip right out and bang her head on the tile floor. He loo
ked for a pillow to tuck under her head and eventually found one in what seemed to be the master bedroom, a room that housed nothing but an oversize dresser, stacks of cardboard boxes and a king-size bed.

  He took his time going back to the kitchen. The house was huge, empty and very, very white. Ivory carpet, white walls, large windows and—thank God—very efficient central air conditioning. Another block in that heat and he'd have passed out along with Delia and, with his luck, they'd both have been run over by a cop car.

  "Hey, sweetheart," he said, lifting Delia's head in order to slide a pillow under it. The pillowcase was decorated with tiny embroidered blue birds and Delia smiled when her cheek touched it. Her skin felt as soft as he'd expected, but Joe didn't waste any time thinking about that luscious little mouth of hers or the way her T-shirt concealed what looked to be a damn good figure.

  No, he had better things to do, like sober the woman up so she could throw him out and he could continue on with what he hoped would be the shortest family reunion in July history.

  Ten minutes later he returned with a steaming mug of black coffee. Sitting down beside her, he shook her shoulder as much as he dared and was relieved to see her eyes open. "What on earth do you want?" she asked, as clearly as if he was a child who had awakened her from a nap.

  "I want you to sober up," he informed her. He held out the mug. "Drink this."

  "What's in it?"

  "Coffee." It hadn't been hard to make, since the coffeemaker was the only thing left on the kitchen counter. He'd found filters on top of a boxful of spices, and coffee in a tin in the freezer. "Can you sit up?"

  "Of course I—" She stopped suddenly as she attempted to sit up. Her wince of pain made Joe feel guilty, though he didn't know why. "Give me a minute."

  "Sure." He held on to the mug, and waited for Delia to prop herself against the wall next to a chrome and glass-topped table.