Blame It On Texas Page 8

  “Will he be all right out here alone?”

  “He knows to stay right there,” he said, but he glanced back at the boy as if to make sure Danny was occupied with his trucks. “He’s a good kid.”

  “Gran likes him.”

  “She’s good to him,” he said. “He needs—” and then he stopped whatever it was he was going to say.

  “Needs what?” she prompted, wishing he wouldn’t walk so fast. She’d forgotten that about him.

  “A grandmother, I guess,” was his reluctant response. “He gets lonely around here, just hanging out with me.”

  “He doesn’t look unhappy,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder at the small boy playing in the mud hole. “In fact, he looks like he’s doing exactly what a boy his age should do, don’t you think?”

  Dustin turned, and his frown deepened before he headed toward the house again. “Yeah. Sure.” But he didn’t sound convinced.

  “You’re painting the barn.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “It needs it.”

  “What else do you do around here? Gran doesn’t keep much stock anymore.”

  “We’re running some cattle now. And we’re training some of the younger horses, the ones with potential, to sell.”

  “Whose idea was that?”

  “Mine.” He stopped and looked down at her. “You got a problem with that?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And this is your business because…?”

  “Because she’s my grandmother.”

  “And she’s going to be my partner,” he said, those dark eyes holding her gaze. Oh, handsome as sin, that was Dustin, especially when he was holding his temper—or trying to.

  “Partner?” she echoed. “Since when?”

  “Since she suggested it.” He’d stopped, crossed his arms over his chest and planted his booted feet firmly on the ground. Almost as if he was daring her to try to knock him down.

  “You’ve bought into this place?”

  “The cattle operation, yes. The horses, yes. The land? Not yet.”

  “She’d never sell any part of the Lazy K.”

  “Maybe,” he said, one corner of his mouth tilting into the faintest suggestion of a smile. “Maybe not. You don’t want this place, so why are you getting mad?”

  “I’m not mad and I’ve never said I don’t want this ranch.” She fought the urge to give his chest a shove, just on the off chance that he would topple backward into the dirt.

  One eyebrow rose and he still wore that mocking expression. “So that’s why you moved to New York and only come back once a year. You really love ranching, I guess.”

  It was twice a year, but even that sounded pathetic, so Kate kept her mouth shut as Dustin continued. “And when you come back to Texas to stroll around in your designer jeans and your expensive snakeskin boots you manage to put in fifteen hour days getting the place squared away?”

  “Do I sense some animosity?”

  He smiled then, a full charming smile that made her blink as she looked up into his face. “No, sweetheart. I don’t have time for animosity. I’ve got a ranch to run.”

  “Yes,” she said, hoping she sounded sickeningly sweet. “That’s what you’re getting paid for, isn’t it.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, all exaggerated politeness. “Now get your sweet little ass out of my way.”

  Kate stepped aside. Dustin Jones wasn’t anywhere near as nice as he had been nine years ago. “You’ve changed,” she muttered.

  “Yeah.”

  “I suppose we both have.”

  “Nine years is a long time,” he said, as they reached the house and he opened the kitchen door for her. “A lot changes.”

  “For instance?”

  “Well, for one thing, we just spent five minutes together and kept our clothes on.”

  Kate let out a surprised laugh. “You’re right,” she said, hoping the heat she felt on her face didn’t show. “I’d forgotten—”

  “No, you haven’t,” he said, following her into the kitchen. “You’re blushing.”

  “It’s the heat,” she said, fanning her face with her hand as if there were a remote chance that would cool her skin. “I’ll fix us something cold to drink. Water, iced tea, coffee?”

  “Ice water’s fine,” he said, stepping through the kitchen to stand in the doorway of the parlor. “Geez, Gert, what are you doing?”

  “Working on my book. Kate’s going to teach me how to use her computer and I’m going to get rich.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” he agreed. “Where are those trunks you want moved?”

  “In the attic. Once you’re on the second floor, you’ll see a door opposite the bathroom. That’s the attic. You think you can carry them yourself?”

  “If I can’t I’ll come back down and get Kate,” he assured her, and Kate heard his footsteps on the stairs as she set iced drinks on the kitchen table.

  “He’s a good man,” Gran said, looking pointedly at her granddaughter. “A woman could do a lot worse, and believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Your first husband, you mean?”

  “He was a drinker. Never grew up. I think the war had a lot to do with it. Or that’s the excuse I’ve given him all these years.” She picked up a black-and-white photograph and handed it to Kate. “Our wedding day. Don’t we look young, Mr. and Mrs. Hal Johnson?”

  Kate studied the photo, especially her grandmother’s unlined face. Her hair was pulled back under a wide-brimmed hat, her dress was floaty and ankle-length. “How old were you?”

  “Just seventeen. My parents were furious, but there wasn’t anything they could do.”

  “Why? Did you elope?”

  “We did,” Gert agreed, “but I was two months’ pregnant at the time. Anything less than marriage would have caused a great scandal, and my parents didn’t approve of scandals.”

  “I never knew you had to get married,” Kate said, studying Hal Johnson’s square face. His expression was defiant and proud as he held his wife’s arm.

  “You think your generation invented sex?”

  “Of course not, though we did put it on television,” Kate admitted, chuckling. “Are you putting that in your book, too?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. I suppose I should.”

  “That’s up to you.” And perhaps why her mother was against this “story of my life” project. “Does Mom know?”

  Gert shrugged. “I haven’t a clue, Katie. She didn’t think much of Hank, not that I blamed her. He was a hard boy to like sometimes, so wild and full of the dickens.”

  Dustin appeared on the stairs, an old brown trunk in his arms. “Where do you want this?”

  “Set it down anywhere,” Gert said, indicating a floor covered in papers.

  “Maybe under the window?” Kate suggested, wondering how much that trunk weighed. Dustin carried it easily, but then again he was used to hay bales.

  “Who were you talking about?” He set the trunk down and fiddled with the padlock until it fell open.

  “Mom’s half brother,” Kate said. “Hank Johnson.”

  Dustin lifted the lid of the trunk. “Jake’s father?”

  “And my son,” Gert said. “Though he wasn’t much to be proud of. He had too much of his father in him, I suppose. I divorced Hal in 1930—write that down, will you, Kate?—which was a big scandal in those days.”

  “I’ll bet.” Dustin sneezed. “You must have kept the Beauville gossips busy.”

  “Bless you,” the old woman said. “And yes, the old folks were scandalized. My mother swore she’d never get over the shame of it all.”

  “Do you want the other trunks down here, too? I think there are three more.” He put his hands on his narrow hips, the typical pose of a man waiting for instructions. He stood there patiently, his shoulders impossibly wide, his jeans snug on his long legs. His look of innocence didn’t fool Kate. He was the same person who had once ripped off the button
s on her best blouse.

  “As long as you’re here…” Gert said, leaning over to poke at the contents of the trunk. “I think these are some of the ranch account books. Looks like my father’s writing. Go with him, Kate. See if you can find any more photo albums. After the divorce I put a lot of things up in the attic.”

  Wonderful. She would be in a dimly lit, stuffy attic, alone with a man who’d reminded her that they’d had a, um, physical relationship at one time. A long time ago, she told herself, feeling awkward and uncomfortable, amazingly like the way she’d felt the first time she’d gone out with him.

  She stepped outside of the refreshment building at the drive-in, her popcorn and soda pop purchased after waiting in a long line of silly junior high kids, only to discover in the growing darkness that her friends had left her. Emily wasn’t with them tonight—she was working late at the grocery store and then George was picking her up—so she wasn’t there to give her a ride home.

  “Hey,” Dusty Jones said, from the open window of a banged-up Buick sedan. He was certainly handsome, with a reputation for wildness, though he’d never seemed anything but quiet in the English class they’d shared during her junior year, or the history class when they were seniors. She had never talked to him outside of school before. The Jones boys were the kind that fathers wouldn’t permit to hang around their daughters, but right now Dustin looked pretty safe to Kate, safer than standing all alone in the empty space where Patti Lou’s station wagon had been parked.

  “Hey,” she answered, trying to sound sophisticated yet knowing her only option now was to call her father for a ride.

  “Your friends left ten minutes ago,” Dusty said. “They were in a big hurry.”

  “Great,” Kate said, disgusted with herself for hanging out with a group of cheerleaders. Emily had tried to warn her, but Kate really wanted to see this movie and couldn’t bear the thought of another Friday night at home watching television with her parents.

  “Get in,” Dustin said, and she watched as he leaned over and opened the passenger door. “Before the bugs get you.”

  She did, of course, with her popcorn and drink balanced carefully so she wouldn’t spill on the seat of his car. He took the drink from her fingers and put it in the cup holder by the dashboard. “There,” he said. “You might as well stay and watch the movie.”

  “What about your date?”

  He shrugged. “I guess you’re it.”

  “Oh.” Now that was stranger than Patti Lou driving off and leaving her stuck. Every girl Kate knew thought he was the most handsome boy in the class, though he kept to himself pretty much and dated some of the wilder girls in the county. Why would he want to be nice to her, the brainy geek with small breasts?

  “Or,” he said, looking at her with something she swore was disappointment. “I could drive you home.”

  And miss out on something exciting to tell Emily tomorrow? No way. She wanted to see this movie. And she didn’t want to go home.

  She held out the box of popcorn toward him. “Want some?”

  “What?” Dustin turned around and looked down at her as she climbed the last of the stairs.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “I thought you did.” He gave her an odd look and then turned around and headed toward another trunk. “Maybe you were just panting.”

  “I wasn’t panting. I walk three miles a day.”

  “Groaning, then.”

  She ignored him. The attic looked almost exactly the same as she remembered it from fifteen or twenty years ago. A treasure trove of family paraphernalia, it was an antique-lover’s dream. Chairs, tables, boxes and odd containers were jumbled together against the outer walls, though the piles weren’t as high farther away from the door. Gran must have dumped things she didn’t want to throw away just inside the door. A few dusty paths wound through the mess, and a streak of painted brown floor showed where Dustin had dragged the trunk to where he could lift it.

  “I guess it doesn’t matter which one,” he said, bending toward another dust-covered trunk. “I wonder how long this stuff has been up here.”

  “I don’t think they threw anything out, do you?”

  “You come from a long line of pack rats.”

  “It does run in the family,” she confessed, thinking of her closet in the Apple Street house. “If my mother really does move into those retirement villas, I’m in deep trouble. What about you?”

  “Our family didn’t have much of anything to begin with, never mind anything worth saving for thirty or forty years.” He started dragging the trunk toward the door, so Kate moved some boxes aside to give him more room. She backed into something hard and heavy that fell sideways, toward Dustin’s shoulder.

  They both grabbed the ironing board at the same time, which sent the trunk thudding to the floor. Kate’s fingers ended up underneath Dustin’s as they prevented the board from falling. His hand was very warm, she noticed, wondering how to move away without dropping the old wooden board on his head. And when she looked up at him, his gaze was on her mouth, and then her eyes.

  He looked as surprised as she felt, Kate realized, unable to move. He was very close. Too close, or maybe not close enough, she thought. The muscles in his jaw tightened, as if he was trying to control his temper. And then he said, “Let go. I’ve got it.”

  He shifted his hand, breaking contact. And he looked away, stabilized the ironing board against the wall, and then he bent over to grab the handle of the trunk again.

  “Katie?”

  “Yes?” She’d forgotten how dark his eyes were, forgotten the dimple in his chin and the way his voice dipped lower when he spoke to her.

  “You have to get out of the way.”

  “Sure.” Kate climbed onto an old stool and let him haul the trunk toward the attic door.

  She hated feeling like this. She was a successful television writer. She’d graduated from NYU, wrangled an internship with Loves of Our Lives, and made herself indispensable when her boss needed advice from “a younger generation.” She’d worked her way up from assistant to the assistant producer to one of the staff writers on a daytime soap that was consistently ranked in fourth place in the ratings. They’d even been bumped up to third for one two-week period, during the culmination of a story line that Kate had helped develop. She lived alone in a trendy apartment, knew her way around New York well enough to give the taxi drivers directions, had friends on three continents and attended the daytime Emmy awards four years in a row. She went to parties with her friends from the show and got her facials at Elizabeth Arden.

  She didn’t need sex with Dustin Jones, too.

  CHAPTER NINE

  HE DIDN’T HAVE time for this. Didn’t have extra hours for emptying an attic and digging through old papers. Gert was one hell of a fine old woman, and she and her granddaughter could spend their days messing around with Texas history, but he had a ranch to run. He had a ranch to build. Just the thought of making something for himself and Danny made him want to work twenty-four hours a day.

  “What do you think?” Gert was asking, looking across the room at him while he took one step backward, closer to the kitchen and freedom. “Should I start with the town’s beginnings or should I start from the present—me at ninety—and work back?”

  “Flashbacks,” Kate mused, sitting cross-legged on the floor while she emptied a trunk. “That could be interesting.”

  “Well,” Dustin said, moving another step closer to the kitchen. “I guess you could do it either way, Gert. I don’t think it matters a whole lot.” He was a rancher, not a writer, for God’s sake. And he didn’t want to be within touching distance of Kate McIntosh. He’d gone down that road once and it had cost him.

  “It matters,” the old woman said. “Kate says I have to ‘hook the reader.”’

  “Oh.” He resettled his hat on his head. “I’d better check on Danny.”

  “He’s coming toward the back door now,” Gert said. “I can see him from this chai
r.” Dustin turned and, sure enough, the boy was just about to knock on the door. “That’s why I like this chair the way it is,” Gert added. “I can see just about everything that goes on, from who’s coming up the road to who’s coming to the door. It’s a pretty good view of the world when your feet hurt.”

  Kate looked up. “Do your feet hurt?”

  “Honey, everyone’s feet hurt once in a while. Dustin?” She looked at him and Dustin could swear her eyes twinkled. The old lady was enjoying this. “Your feet hurt?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Sometimes they do.”

  “I like a good foot rub,” Gert declared. “My second husband was sure good at that.” She raised her voice. “Come on in, Danny!”

  The boy didn’t need to be told twice. Dustin watched the kid hurry toward them. He’d left the truck outside the way Dustin had told him, which was good. He was catching on to all sorts of things: manners, conversation, chewing with his mouth closed and remembering to flush. His mother hadn’t spent much time teaching him the basics; she couldn’t raise a kid and drink herself into a stupor at the same time.

  “Did you wipe your feet?”

  “Yep.” Danny smiled up at him, one of those rare smiles that made Dustin wonder how the boy had survived living with Lisa and her assorted boyfriends. “I sure did. There was mud and everything.” He looked past his father to Gert. “Wow, you’ve made a mess.”

  “We’re working on my book,” Gert told him. “I’m telling my stories to Kate and she’s going to type them into her computer for me.”

  “Cool.”

  “Well,” Dustin said, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder to keep him from entering the room, “if there’s nothing else to carry, we should get going.”

  “You could help sort.” Gert pointed to an unopened trunk. “We’re dividing things by decades.”

  “Decades?” Danny frowned. “I don’t know much about ‘decades.”’

  “That means every ten years,” Kate said, giving the child the kind of smile that Dustin had taken for granted nine years ago. “Like 1970s, 1980s…”