Читать книгу Lone Star Rising - Darlene Graham - Страница 10

UP EARLY. Despite bouts of insomnia, I keep telling myself I’m doing better day by day. I only think of Danny every day now instead of every hour. I can’t figure out if all widows do this, or if it’s worse for me because I’m carrying Danny’s child, but it’s like I can still feel him with me sometimes.

Like yesterday, when Zack Trueblood was leaving. I swear, I got the funniest feeling, like a subtle presence or something. As if Danny’s ghost was swirling around us or something. Danny used to get so jealous if I so much as talked to another guy. And when Zack grabbed my arm, I felt the strangest conflicting sensations. Like I was too aware of how good it felt to be touched again, and then immediately I felt sort of guilty, like I was still married or something.

Maybe it was just all this static electricity in the air. We had thunderstorms all night. I woke up about a kazillion times. Kept hearing noises. I have like a double whammy of paranoia—the usual kind that sets in when your pregnant and anxious about anything that might threaten your baby, plus a good dose of the usual widow’s insecurities on top of that. It got really windy again a minute ago and now there’s lightning like crazy. Well, time to quit scribbling in this diary and get ready for work, storm or no storm.

I hate leaving the boys to get themselves off to school when the weather’s like this.

And you, little baby, you just stay all tucked away safe and sound, right here inside your mommy. Whatever am I gonna do when you decide to come out?

ROBBIE CLOSED the cover on her journal—a cheap thing with a picture of a puppy on it. She tucked it under her pillow, then she swung her feet over the side of her bed. A chill ran through her as she pulled free of the soft sheets and her toes touched down on cold floorboards. She vowed again that she would find her area rugs and spread them out tonight. But each day her good intentions slipped through her fingers like shifting sand, where one urgent thing morphed into another and no task was ever completed until finally, each and every night, she fell into bed, exhausted.

Taking this job was probably a bad idea, but what choice did she have? If she had waited, Parson would have been forced to fill the position with somebody else. A twist of resentment curled up again as she thought how irresponsible she’d been to let Danny cut corners by dropping his life insurance. But after years of marriage she’d been worn down, arguing with the man about every single hare-brained decision he made.

In the bathroom adjoining to the cavernous, high-ceilinged master bedroom, she studied herself in the oval mirror above the pedestal sink. She’d slept a little better last night—a few hours—with that window properly repaired, but even so she was developing permanent dark circles under her eyes.

This bathroom—there were two upstairs, one downstairs, and none of them were in good repair—was dingy, as bland as clabbered milk. White on white on white, from the tile to the tub to the limp curtain someone had left hanging crookedly at the narrow window. She made some mental notes about adding color as she washed her face.

Most small towns in the Hill Country had old houses like this one: rambling nineteenth-century monstrosities that had devolved into bleak rentals, passed from hand to hand. In the towns where historic restoration caught on, these houses got rebirthed into awesome show-places. Painted Ladies, the civic-types called them. Robbie could envision this one that way, a beauty that shone with civic pride, only three blocks off Main Street.

After she patted her face dry, she attacked her hair with a big brush. Then her fingers went to work, efficiently plaiting the masses of reddish blond curls into a neat French braid.

As she braided, Robbie continued envisioning the house through artistic eyes. What this bathroom needed was one dramatic focal point. Like a giant stained-glass window instead of that scratched-up square of frosted Plexiglas that covered the window above the tub.

And wouldn’t it be cute, she thought, to find an old velvet straight-backed sofa to tuck under the high windows in the kitchen? Wouldn’t it be nice to refinish all these deep window boxes in this house in a coat of purest white and just leave the panes bare and let the sun pour in? Wouldn’t polished mahogany countertops set off those high kitchen cabinets?

When she caught herself thinking like this, she always brought herself up short. Number one, she wasn’t living in an HGTV show. This was life on the broke side of widowhood. Number two, old man Mestor, the crook, would never consent to doing anything expensive or upbeat to the house. Number three…baby.

The little darling kicked as Robbie pulled the stretchy panel of her well-used maternity jeans up over her belly. For a top she pulled on a boxy white shirt. Yesterday, Parson had gently objected to the overalls. Whatever.

She struggled into a pair of thick white socks and slipped her feet into her athletic shoes, and when she had trouble bending to lace them, she suffered a brief sting of tears. Danny had always tied her shoes for her this late in her pregnancies. Stop it, she told herself. You have a lot to do before you go to work.

Downstairs, she chugged down a glass of orange juice. Breakfast could be grabbed at the diner later. She put out bowls and spoons for the boys’ cereal, set out the sack lunches she’d made the night before and stapled a detailed note with instructions to Mark’s, then put the stapler right back where it belonged in her “grand central,” her super-organized lap desk. She had done the tole painting that decorated the flip top herself. Very cute, she often thought—an elaborate pattern, a sort of blend between country quilt and Mexican mandala. Inside the lap desk was the simple system she’d been using to run this family for years and it had never failed her. With her sudden move to town, she was grateful that the whole thing was portable enough to be tossed onto the seat of her minivan.

Lightning flashed, and when hard rain lashed at the window Zack Trueblood had installed only yesterday, Robbie’s thoughts went back to him. She had to admit she longed to see him, if she was honest with herself. Lord, she hated this business of being alone. She had never spent one day alone in her life. Danny had asked her to go on a hayride when they were in the eighth grade and they’d stayed together like hand-in-glove ever after.

Other guys had tried to get her attention, even tried to win her affections, but Robbie was loyal to Danny, always—even later when his irresponsibility began to let her down. Now that he was gone, she felt incredibly disloyal for the way she had been thinking about Zack Trueblood. But my gosh, that firefighter had the dreamiest coal-black eyes on God’s green earth. Well, this was plain silly.

She grabbed her jacket and headed out into the storm. The rain, a driving Hill Country deluge that would flood hard-packed roads and wash out rocky ravines, hit her face and wet her hair despite the hood on her little red jacket. Her front got soaked, too, because the jacket was too small to cover her belly.

She slammed the door of her van and plucked at the soaked white fabric where her belly button poked out like a gumdrop. Nice. Thank God she would slap on an apron as soon as she got to work.

The minivan had to be cranked three times before it sputtered to life. A new worry: car trouble. She couldn’t afford that now. Then it hit her. Who would drive her to the hospital when the time came? She only had five weeks. The days were racing by like ticks of a second hand. Daddy would come, of course, whenever she called him, day or night. But the McBride farm was a good seven miles out of town, and with a fourth baby, labor could be shockingly rapid.

Besides, if she called Daddy, Mother would insist on coming with him. There would be no peaceful labor and delivery then. Oh, no. Mother would boss. She’d boss Daddy. The nurses. Maybe even the doctor. Most of all Marynell would boss Robbie.

Peering out the rain-sheeted windshield and thinking of her mother’s pinched face, Robbie muttered aloud, “Hurry up and get back, Markie. I’ll feel a darn sight safer then.” She could not wait until her sister returned from her honeymoon. Everything would be all right then. None of Robbie’s other babies had come early. Markie would be home in plenty of time and then her strong, competent sister would help her.

It was only three short blocks to the gravel alley that ran behind the Hungry Aggie, but still Robbie breathed a sigh of relief as she pulled into the small lot out back, amazed that she’d made it without stalling out in high water. She slammed the van door again and dashed around rivulets of water and enormous puddles to the back door, where Parson stood holding it open.

“Come on, girl!” he hollered over the din of the pattering rain. “Before you catch your death.”

“You ought not to have come in on a morning like this,” he scolded when Robbie got inside. He was already helping her out of her jacket. For decades, Virgil Parson had been the only black man living or working in Five Points. But Parson never mentioned that fact, and neither did anybody else. He actually lived in another town with a sweet wife and numerous kids and grandkids. He drove to work in Five Points because at the Hungry Aggie he got to do what he did best—dish up food like an old-time chuck wagon cook, though he’d actually learned the art of slinging out large quantities of food for hungry men while serving in the Navy.

“I know how these rainy mornings go,” Robbie said as she smoothed back her damp, frizzy hair. “All the farmers will come into town to get away from their wives. And they’ll end up sitting right here in our booths, jawing ’til the rain stops. We will be busy filling coffee cups until noon.”

Parson chuckled as if that idea plumb tickled him. “That’s a fact. And it’s why I came in early to make some extra pies.” His black eyes sparkled in a face as furrowed as a fresh-plowed field.

Virgil Parson loved nothing so much as being prepared and making money. And he made buckets full off the regulars at the Hungry Aggie, not to mention the seasonal tourists who wandered from town to town in the Hill Country, looking for that perfect piece of chess pie. At the Hungry Aggie they found the chess pie and much more. Barbecued chicken, baked ham, sweet potato pudding, red beans and rice, hot rolls with peach peel jelly.

Robbie tied on one of the clean white aprons that the efficient old cook had already hung on hooks next to the walk-in refrigerator. Her wet shirt felt clammy against her tummy, but she was relieved that the moisture didn’t soak through the starched apron.

“You’re getting better at this, girl. You even beat old Nattie Rose in here this morning,” Parson informed her.

Robbie gave Parson a grimace. Nattie Rose was not old. She went to high school with Robbie’s younger sister, Markie. And Nattie Rose was never late. “Hope she’s not trapped out on some low water bridge,” Robbie said. Nattie Rose and her husband Earl lived on Earl’s family’s ranch, way out on a remote ranch road. Without Nattie Rose as a rudder, Robbie’s job would be hell today.

She and Parson fell into the rhythm of work in the brightly lit kitchen. He cut biscuits. She filled the two big coffeemakers. Together, they laid out bacon strips onto large jelly-roll pans. Parson always slow-baked the bacon in the kitchen’s huge cast-iron ovens because he claimed that was the aroma that brought in “The Boys,” as he called the customers.

When they’d gotten things organized, Parson pulled up a stool for Robbie to perch upon. “You and Hootcheecoo better take a load off while you all can.”

Parson, who made up a nickname for everybody, had taken to calling the baby Hootcheecoo, which amused Robbie, since she hadn’t been able to come up with a proper name for the baby yet. In the same way that Frances, Roberta and Margaret McBride were named after their aunts, Robbie’s three sons had been named the masculine versions of the McBride sisters. Frank after Frankie, Rob after Robbie, and Mark after Markie. Robbie supposed she would be breaking up the family rhythm with this fourth surprise baby.

Their routine had been for Parson to scramble Robbie some eggs as soon as the grill was hot. He set a pat of butter to sizzling, tossed on peppers, onions and tomatoes, poured the whipped eggs over the pile and added a handful of chopped cilantro and a dash of picante sauce. Robbie’s mouth started to water. Parson cooked a finer omelet than any four-star chef.

“Did you get that window fixed?” He wiped his hands on his apron while the eggs started to bubble.

“Yes,” Robbie said glumly. Not because she was thinking about the window, but because of the man who had fixed it. Thinking about how he was too gorgeous, and she was too frumpy. She was starting to wish Zack Trueblood had never come around to further complicate her life.

“What’s wrong?” Parson eyed her, then poked a spatula at the edge of the omelet. “You needin’ a little cash money for that window, child?”

“No.” Well, actually she did, but that was not Parson’s problem, bless his generous old heart. “Zack Trueblood fixed it for free.”

“Zack Trueblood? The one that comes in here and eats up everything but the sink? That big firefighter boy that looks about half Indian?”

Robbie winced. Nobody would dare hazard the mention of race to Parson, but such matters weren’t sacrosanct to the old man. His were the old ways, plain-spoken, uncomplicated by worries about such matters as political correctness.

“What’s ailing you? You look like you just bit a sour pickle.” The spatula halted in midair as if a thought hit him. “You ain’t having pains already, are you?”

“No.” Robbie smoothed the crisp white apron over her tummy then squirmed up onto the stool. “It’s just…oh, it’s nothing.”

“It is too something.” Parson plunked a heavy plate with the steaming omelet before her. “And you ought not to hold it in, lest you pop or somethin’.”

Robbie took up the fork and slid in a mouthful of omelet. It was absolutely perfect. Parson eyed her while she chewed, so after she took a sip of the milk he’d poured for her, she conceded, “It’s Zack Trueblood. He…I don’t know. He makes me…uncomfortable.” Robbie couldn’t admit, even to herself much less to Parson, that the word she was really searching for was more like bothered. Hot and bothered, actually.

“Uncomfortable? He ain’t pressing himself on you or something?” Plainspoken for sure, that’s what Parson was.

“No! Zack would never press himself on anybody!” Robbie wasn’t sure why she defended the man so strongly. The heroic way he’d tried to save Danny, she supposed. She took another bite of omelet.

“Then how come your cheeks is redder’n a hot chili pepper? Listen, little sister, if he’s coming around all nice like, doing favors and all, you’d best watch yourself. Ain’t no woman as defenseless as a widow with—”

“Woo! Lordy!” Nattie Rose’s cheery voice cut off Parson’s rant as the diner’s other waitress burst through the back door. “It is raining pitchforks out there! Bet we’ll be swamped today!” Nattie Rose Neuberger—always called by both nicknames and never by her given one, Natalie—bustled into the kitchen, perfectly groomed in tight-fitting jeans and a starched Western shirt, raring to go, as always. She was carrying a pair of immaculate white athletic shoes with fire-red laces. She plopped onto a stool and tugged off battered, rain-soaked cowgirl boots.

Robbie shoveled in the last of her eggs, grateful to be delivered from Parson’s meddling lecture. From out in the restaurant came male voices, the sounds of the first customers trickling in. Robbie peeked out of the swinging door to see Zack Trueblood and his friends sliding into their usual booth.

“Can you take care of those guys?” Nattie Rose said. She was still tying her red laces.

“Somebody needs to take care of those guys,” Robbie mumbled as she squeezed past Nattie Rose’s perch on her way out with the coffee. All three of the single firefighters were well-known about town as the most eligible of the eligible bachelors in Five Points. Nobody knew, except Parson of course, that the most handsome of them had been to Robbie’s house twice now. And nobody needed to know. Robbie adopted a carefully neutral expression as she approached the booth.

“I saw her in there hanging out with some guy with a popped collar,” the one named Mason was saying. “I swear the dude had a manicure.”

Zack and his two friends chuckled. Then the firefighters all turned to Robbie, mumbling, “Hey, Robbie,” like they did every morning.

“Hi, fellas.” Robbie angled her washtub of a belly away from the table as she poured the first mug of coffee and the men resumed their chatter. They were all good-looking guys. Not pretty boys, but handsome in a rough-cut way with easy smiles and square jaws. And Zack Trueblood was by far the best-looking of them.

“So. What’s she doing with some weirdo at the bookstore,” the third guy was saying. “I thought you two had a thing going.”

“Nah.” The resonance of Zack Trueblood’s voice so near to her body sent a tiny thrill through Robbie, but she wouldn’t let herself look at him, bad as she wanted to. Not in front of these men. “I don’t have any claim on Lynette. She can hang out with whoever she wants.”

Robbie felt a rush of heat to her cheeks as she realized they were talking about some woman Zack must be seeing. She found she had to steady her hand as she proceeded to pour the last two mugs full.

“It doesn’t bother you, even if the guy’s some kind of metrosexual pinko?” Mason pressed.

“Metrosexual?” the third firefighter scoffed.

“That’s urban talk for girly-man.” Zack grinned. The men chuckled again.

Mason waved a paw at Zack. “Ah. Right. I forget. The great Zack Trueblood doesn’t have to worry about competition, especially from some girly-man. Bet you’ve already turned down old Lynette every night of the week.”

“Mason—” Zack’s tone turned the name into a warning “—cool it.”

Robbie didn’t look at him, but she could sense Zack giving her an embarrassed glance.

“I dunno,” the third firefighter went on in a longsuffering tone. “Much as I want to see you get that award, Zack buddy, it’s always a pain to round up a woman to take to these formal dress-up things. How am I supposed to find a lady who knows how to wear anything besides jeans in a town like Five Points?”

“Hey.” Mason pointed at him like he’d just had a bright idea. “Maybe you could take the metrosexual.” They all guffawed at the joke as Robbie started pouring the last mug.

“You’ve got to take ’em out a time or two beforehand,” Mason advised. “Give ’em time to get all excited and shop for a dress. Or you could be like Zack here and find yourself a rich divorcée.” He turned to his friend. “So, you’re still taking her out tonight?”

Robbie’s eyes grew more alert and involuntarily cut to Zack. He was frowning up at her. And she was pouring coffee over the side of the mug and all over the table.

“Whoa!” Mason cried at the same time Robbie realized what she’d done.

“Sorry. Sorry,” Robbie said as the firefighters snatched wads of napkins out of the holder.

“It’s all right, sugar.” The third one pressed some napkins into the mess.

As she nervously sopped up the coffee, Robbie could feel Zack Trueblood’s hot black eyes examining her closely, but she refused to look directly at him. Her hands shook as the faces of all the single women in Five Points flipped through her mind like cards in a Rolodex.

“Hey, girl. You feeling okay?” Mason seemed to notice the depth of her distress for the first time. He took over with the napkins, bless him.

“I’m fine.” Robbie sighed. “It’s just this crazy weather. I was just thinking about my boys—hoping they don’t get soaked waiting on the school bus.” Oh, sure. Now she was thinking about her boys. Thinking how she had no business worrying about whether Zack Trueblood was dating some woman or not. She glanced at Zack’s face. He was still frowning at her.

Mason peered out the window as fresh sheets of rain beat the windows. “Personally, I just love it when it does this,” he said sarcastically.

“Yeah,” his friend, equally sarcastic, chimed in. “You know we’re gonna get called out to fish some yahoo out of a ditch.” And then the men were off and running again, complaining about the weather and the constant problem of flooding roads and bridges in the Hill Country.

Except Zack was still looking at Robbie with an expression that said he was worried about her. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed outside the window as he said quietly, “Everything okay, Robbie?”

Robbie nodded, swallowed. Don’t look at me like that, she wanted to say. It makes me weak in the knees and I have work to do here.

“You guys want the farmer breakfast?” Robbie said as she gathered up the last of the soggy napkins.

“Yep,” Mason answered for them all.

Nattie Rose’s round face popped under the pass-through space. “I’ve gotta help Parson back here, honey. Could you take care of those guys at table nine?” That’s where the Rotary-types were and Robbie was well aware that Nattie Rose was making sure Robbie got the generous tips today.

The men at that table kept up a jovial banter about the weather as Robbie poured coffee into upturned mugs for all four.

“The usual for you guys?” Robbie said with a falsely light tone.

When the men nodded she was glad to dash off to the kitchen.

Back in the safety of Parson’s domain, she nearly collapsed against the center island. She’d made a complete fool of herself, pouring tea for Zack in her slummy little kitchen yesterday, basking in the warmth of his attention, telling him how she’d love to cook spaghetti for him sometime, when all the time the man had a hot date lined up for tonight.

“What’s wrong?” Parson asked.

Lord, Robbie was sick of people asking her what was wrong.

Nattie Rose zipped around, already getting flushed with the challenges of the day. “Look sharp, my lovelies. The masses are hungry.”

Parson turned back to the grill.

Robbie took down three plates and started to fill them. Biscuit. Biscuit. Biscuit. She took up the ladle. Gravy. Gravy. Gravy.

Nattie Rose joined her at the island to work up some of the orders.

“Do you know who Zack Trueblood is dating these days?” Robbie asked casually, while her heart hammered with a fresh wave of humiliation.

“Some gal from over at Wildhorse. Divorced. I hear she’s got a big ranch.”

Robbie’s hands kept working but her heart felt like it had clutched to a standstill. A rich woman with a ranch. Isn’t that just what any man would want?

OUT OF THE CORNER of his eye, Zack noted Arlen Mestor’s plodding progress as he lumbered into the restaurant. The old man shook off the rain, then ambled up on his usual stool like a grumpy grizzly bear.

“Excuse me a minute, fellas.” Zack pushed up from the table and crossed the room.

He slid up on the stool next to Arlen at the counter. “Mestor.”

“Trueblood.” The two were acquainted, but had not been on friendly terms since the night some months prior when Zack had lectured the older man about the faulty wiring in a rental house that had burned to the ground. The family was not home at the time, but the sight of a baby doll with a melted face had set Zack’s blood to boiling. Zack had already pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket. He snapped it onto the Formica in front of Arlen.

Zack tapped the card, which Mestor hadn’t acknowledged. “I’ll give you a discount if you let me do the repairs on that house Robbie Tellchick just rented from you.”

“Nattie Rose!” Mestor bellowed toward the pass-through window as if Zack hadn’t spoken. “What does a man have to do to get a cup of coffee in this joint?”

Finally, Mestor sneered at the card. “What repairs would that be?” The way his nostrils flared when he spoke reminded Zack of a snuffling pig.

“A few things here and there. Safety issues, mostly.” Zack had said the word “safety” pointedly. He knew Mestor remembered well the fire that consumed one of his rental houses, if for no other reason than the financial ones.

Nattie Rose sashayed out of the kitchen brandishing a carafe of coffee. “You want a cup up here at the counter, too, Zack?” she said as she poured Mestor’s.

“I’m fine,” Zack said mildly.

“Sugar.” Mestor tapped the counter with a stubby finger, his tone was demanding.

Nattie Rose shoved the sugar jar, which was all of a foot away, toward Mestor, and then gave him a poisonous parting look before she disappeared through the swinging door to the kitchen.

“Well,” Zack pressed, “how about it? I’ll only charge you for the materials, throw in my labor for free. You won’t have to do a thing.”

Mestor dumped a hideous amount of sugar into his coffee before he answered. “Why are you so all-fired up to work on that old house?”

“Because it needs it,” Zack answered simply. “The place is an eyesore.”

“Always poking your nose in where it don’t belong, ain’t you, Trueblood?” Mestor stirred his coffee slowly, frowning as if considering something. “I ain’t sure I want you messin’ with my property. And I’d still like to know why you even want to. It’s that pretty little pregnant lady, ain’t it?” Mestor asked the question loudly, so as to be addressing the whole restaurant.

Before Zack could answer, Mestor continued even louder. “Or should I say it’s that prime piece of land that little pregnant lady has out there by the river?”

By an act of will, Zack kept his own voice low. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but—”

“I ain’t implying nothin’. I am saying flat out that you have always wanted a piece of farmland out on the Blue River ever since your granddad lost his place. Your granddad used to tell me all the time how blessed he was to have a boy like you to take over his farm when he was gone.”

Zack stared straight ahead, the muscles in his jaw working furiously. He could imagine that conversation, all right. Mestor had probably made some ill-advised crack about Zack’s mother and her illegitimate kid, and Zack’s granddad had defended them. He wondered if that accounted for Mestor’s missing teeth.

“Well, old granddad’s gone now, and so is his farm. Am I right?” Mestor was fairly bellowing now. “And now you’re looking to replace it. But if you have some cockeyed notion that running around doing favors for the Tellchick woman will get her to sell you that land for a song, you’re nothing but a fool, boy.”

Nobody called Zack a fool, least of all a blustery out-of-shape middle-aged man who really was one. Mestor had a lived a life tainted by alcoholism, chronic foul moods and various run-ins with the law. A notorious tightwad, the man was twice divorced and made a nuisance of himself with ladies he eventually claimed were only after his money. Even the old man’s own children avoided him. He ran around town acting like he had connections with the movers and shakers, but Zack remembered his granddad saying that among that crowd Arlen Mestor stood out like a goat in a flock of sheep.

Zack slid off the stool and stood to his full height. “Arlen, you talk too much.”

“That’s because I know too much.”

When Mestor leaned toward Zack threateningly, Zack detected a whiff of alcohol. The residue from last night’s binge maybe? Or maybe Mestor had already had his first Bloody Mary of the day.

“It is no surprise to me,” Mestor went on without encouragement from anybody in particular, “that you approached the bank about taking over the loan on that farm. Seeing as how you could never afford the down payment in a million years, I expect you’ll be awful disappointed to know that Congressman Kilgore has already foreclosed on it.”

“What?” This truly was news to Zack.

“Oh, yes. I have it on good authority. Me and the congressman have been on a first-name basis for years. But you didn’t know that, did you? I expect the place will just sit there now, going fallow. If you want it, you’ll have to deal with the old man up in Washington, not some defenseless little widow.”

Sensing trouble, the two firefighters with Zack had crossed the room and positioned themselves strategically near the two men at the bar.

But Mestor didn’t seem to notice them. He was too busy running his gums. “Why, if I didn’t know firsthand how worked up and self-righteous you like to get, I’d be of a mind to even wonder about that barn fire. That’s an awful lot of gasoline to get spilt in a simple acciden—”

That’s when Zack decked Arlen Mestor.

One second the old porker was twisting sideways on the barstool, sneering at Zack, and the next he was sprawled on his fleshy backside on the diner’s green and white linoleum floor.

People at the nearby tables yelled and jumped out of the way as Mestor crawfished backward and Zack loomed over him, fists clenched for another blow.

Parson came busting through the swinging doors of the kitchen shouting, “There’ll be no fistfights in this here establishment!”

Zack’s friends restrained him from doing further damage, though it took both of them to bodily remove him from the premises.

BACK IN THE KITCHEN, Robbie stood with palms pressed on the butcher block and her downcast face burning like fire. The baby had set up a panicky little dance inside of her, reacting, no doubt, to the shot of adrenaline his mommy was feeling as well.

“You okay, sweetie?” Nattie Rose asked anxiously, her hands suspended in the act of slinging home fries onto platters.

“Oh, fine. I’m fine. Really. I mean, hearing two men coming to blows because of me. That’s cool. Kind of flattering, you know?”

“Honey, you don’t believe what Mestor just said about Zack for one instant do you?”

“Of course not.” Robbie straightened. “Nobody puts much stock in anything Mestor says.”

“Well, then.” Nattie Rose continued shoveling out home fries.

But Robbie stood stock-still, her mind still reeling with too much new information, too many new emotions. “Who is this woman he has a date with tonight?”

“Huh?” Nattie Rose stopped loading the plates and looked perplexed.

“A date. Tonight. I heard the guys talking about it earlier.”

“You mean Zack?”

“No. Mestor.” Robbie looked sideways with a sarcastic squint.

“I told you about all I know, sweetie. She’s got a lot of money, but just between you and me, not much class. Kind of a sexpot, far as I can tell. But it’s no surprise if the man isn’t exactly a monk. I mean, just look at him. What in the world does Zack’s social life have to do with…”

“Don’t you know anything else about her?” Robbie cut in sharply. “Does she have any kids or anything?”

“Why, I wouldn’t know. Let’s see.” Nattie Rose strove to cooperate. “Her name’s Lynette something or other. She’s been in here a time or two, looking for Zack, but he—”

“She lives across the river?” Robbie interrupted.

“Yeah, I guess so. Over at Wildhorse.”

“And she has a ranch out there?”

“Yes. That’s all pretty much ranching country.”

“Well, then.” Robbie grabbed up some loaded plates, balancing them along her arms, against her tummy. “If he likes to mess with women who’ve got land, I reckon he’s all done with me, now that Mr. Mestor has informed him of the sad facts about my farm.”