Chapter Ten

“Jazz, I had to be sure,” Anne-Marie repeated, keeping her voice calm and level, despite the surging emotions within her.

“You should have come to me the minute the thought even entered your head,” Jazz snapped, turning away, staring out the window. “Damn it, Annie. He could have hurt you. Hell, most likely that’s why he shot your daddy.”

Lowering her head, Anne-Marie peered at her nails, a nervous habit. Studying the polish, flamingo pink this week, she carefully said, “I don’t think Larry Muldoon did it. He doesn’t have the guts or the brains.”

“He had a motive.”

“Every KKK member had a motive for killing Martin Luther King, Jr.,” Anne replied dryly. “Motive doesn’t mean jack if you don’t have the brain power. Come on, Jazz, you know as well as I do, Larry Muldoon couldn’t think his way out of a wet paper bag if he had a map and a blowtorch.”

She drew her knees up under her, facing Jazz’s angry eyes squarely. “This doesn’t really have anything to do with Larry, does it? You are mad at me because I didn’t come to you first, instead of looking for myself.”

“I’ve spent the last sixteen years thinking I killed my best friend, Anne-Marie.”

“Exactly. I didn’t want to give you false hope if I was wrong. Why can’t you understand that?”

“You knew why I came back here. I had to find this out for myself.”

Anne blew out a disgusted breath, rising to her feet. She walked over to the window, staring out into the night. “Jazz, if I was wrong, it would have torn you apart. I didn’t want to do that. I had to be sure.”

“You didn’t trust me.”

“Oh, that’s crap,” Anne snapped, whirling around, glaring at him. Eyes flashing, she marched up to him and poked her index finger into his chest. “In my heart, I never believed you’d been driving. I wasn’t doing it to check up on you.”

“So you go to my cousin, instead of me.”

“He’s the sheriff. And for that matter, I didn’t go to Tate. I bearded the lion in his den, which just happened to be where Tate works.” Staring at him, into those simmering, brown eyes, Anne threw up her hands. “I give up. You want to be mad at me for this, you go right ahead. But I don’t have to hang around.” Snatching her purse and keys from the table, she stomped away.

With an arched brow, Jazz watched as she stormed to the door. “This is your house,” he mildly reminded her.

Whirling around, face flushed, Anne said, “Then you get out of it. I don’t want to put up with you while you are in this kind of mood.”

“I’m not ready to leave.”

“I am not ready to have you belittle me for this. What, did I hurt your pride or something? Did you want to come back to town, guns blazing, to clear your name?” she demanded, throwing her purse and keys to the yellow and white striped couch.

Yes.

Watching her, Jazz decided that was the whole problem right there. She had done what he had wanted to do, and in no time flat. Before he had even figured out how he had to get started, she had asked all the right questions, looked in all the right places, and boom, problem solved.

She’d hit a nerve, Anne-Marie realized. She planted her hands on her hips and studied him with cool eyes. “That’s it, isn’t it?” she asked levelly. When he looked away, she said, “I’ve got a brain, Jazz. And I have my own sense of honor. Did it ever occur to you that I felt I owed you this, for what you’ve suffered?”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“That’s not how I see it.”

Turning back to her, Jazz asked woodenly, “So is that what the past few weeks have been about? You trying to make it up to me? I wouldn’t take money or anything, so you provided free bed-warming services?”

Her hands fell slackly to her sides, mouth open in a silent ‘o’, eyes going dark with surprised hurt. Roughly, she whispered, “Damn you, Jazz.” Tears rose in her eyes before she blinked them away. Face pale, hands shaking, Anne-Marie turned away. “Get out.”

“Anne—”

“Get out,” she hissed, whirling around to face him. “If that’s your opinion of me, then get out.”

Reaching for her, bitter regret burning through him, Jazz whispered, “I’m sorry, Annie. I shouldn’t have said that.”

She evaded his hands, raising her own to ward him off. “If you hadn’t thought it, you wouldn’t have said it. Apparently, these past few weeks haven’t meant the same thing to you that they meant to me. We’ve nothing more to say to each other.”

“Annie—”

“Get out!” she shouted, pulling back and turning on her heel. Tears spilling over, she tore up the stairs and threw herself on the bed.

 

 

Vindication didn’t feel as good as it should have, Jazz was discovering. Not only was Anne-Marie still avoiding him after more than a week, he couldn’t go anywhere without being hailed down for a twenty minutes conversation.

Walking down the street was a chore. People he hardly knew and people he did know and disliked, all stopped him to chat, overly friendly and contrite. Jazz stood woodenly, staring into space while Betsy Crane went on and on about how she sensed something was wrong, you know?

Finally, he glanced at his bare wrist. “Oh, look at the time,” Jazz drawled. “I’m supposed to meet my cousin in just a few minutes.” He took off down the sidewalk at a fast walk, his jaw clenched.

“Jazz.”

His rapid stride slowed, and then stopped. Looking in the doorway of Greene County Cardiology, he met the dark green eyes of Desmond Kincaid. Eyes that were sad and very tired. Eyes so like Anne-Marie’s, it hurt him to even look at them.

“Doc Kincaid,” he greeted, linking his hands behind his back to keep from fidgeting.

“I’ve been wanting to speak with you,” Desmond said, reaching into his pocket for a cigar. He gestured with it and gave a half-hearted smile. “You won’t go telling Anne-Marie now, will you?”

With a negligent shrug of his shoulders, Jazz remained silent, waiting.

“Oh, that’s right. You two haven’t been speaking much of late, have you?”

When Jazz didn’t answer, Desmond sighed. “Why don’t you come inside a bit?”

The refusal that leaped to the tip of his tongue wouldn’t come out. After so many years of listening to, obeying and respecting Desmond Kincaid, Jazz simply couldn’t turn his back on the man. He followed him up the stairs, through the waiting room, down a hall into an office done in blues and grays.

Desmond took his seat behind his desk, shoving a pile of charts to the side. With an absent frown, he jotted something on a sticky note and put it on the front of a particularly fat chart.

“I came in to check on a few things. A colleague of mine has been handling my patients.” His emerald green eyes met Jazz’s over the tops of his glasses. “Did Anne-Marie tell you I’m selling the practice?”

“Ah, no. No, she didn’t.”

“Yes. Dr. Moss is taking over in the fall. Grew up about forty miles away from here and wanted to come home to set up his own practice. I took care of him, oh, say about thirty-five years ago. He had a Tetratrology of Fallot, a nasty mess his heart was. Back then, it was a considered a miracle if the child made it. His mother, now…she says I was her miracle. But I don’t see it that way. He was mine. They all were, in every way, their own little miracles. The boy says I was his inspiration.

“Now he’s been a miracle two times over. He’s been the answer to my prayers.” Desmond’s eyes fell to his wide-palmed, long-fingered hands. The fingers flexed and spread before clenching into fists. With a slight chuckle, Desmond looked up. “My hands are starting to shake, you know. It was there for a while, but it’s gotten worse since…since that night. I’ve already done my last surgery.”

“I’m sorry.”

Sighing, Desmond leaned back into the navy blue leather, his head falling back to stare up at the ceiling. “So am I. I’ll miss this. But once a surgeon’s hands start to shake, that’s it.” With a negligent shrug of his shoulders, he straightened in the chair and folded his hands on the desk top. “There was a time when I hoped Anne-Marie would follow in my footsteps, be a cardiologist. But she’s found her niche, I must say.”

“She’s an excellent doctor,” Jazz said, remembering the follow up visit. Anne had handled the nervous Mariah like an old pro. “Kids love her.”

“My Annie is a very lovable person all around,” Desmond said, his eyes knowing. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk with you about.” The humor, the pride, the love all melted from his face, replaced by an achingly sad expression.

“I owe you an apology, Jasper. Not just for not questioning this, but for the crash that my son caused,” Desmond said, grief lining his face, weighing heavily on his shoulders.

“You had no reason not to believe an officer of the law,” Jazz responded in a flat voice, jamming his fisted hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“Oh, hell. Don’t give me that, boy,” Desmond snapped. “I’ve seen cockroaches more capable than Larry Muldoon. And I was an idiot for not calling him out. I knew something wasn’t right.” Pausing, he ran a shaky hand through his salt and pepper hair.

“I knew it,” he repeated huskily. “But I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to think that Alex was responsible for the accident. It was easier to deal with when I had somebody to blame.”

Jazz turned away, focusing his stinging eyes on a weepy watercolor. “Doc, it’s all over now. Over and done with.”

“But my mistakes are still there. I should have believed in you. Some people did from the start.” Desmond looked down at a framed picture of Anne-Marie. Reaching out, he touched his fingers to the image of his daughter’s face. “And I should have, as well.”

Clamping the cigar in his teeth, Desmond raised his head, met Jazz’s eyes. “She did it the way she felt she had to, Jazz. For you. Not for herself, not for Alex. Not even for me. But for you. Muldoon wronged you and she wanted him to pay. Had she gone to you, you would have handed him his punishment. And she felt it was her responsibility.

“Don’t blame her for doing the same thing you would have done,” Desmond said quietly.

“She won’t talk to me,” Jazz burst out, shooting up out of his chair. “What in the hell am I supposed to do?”

“How about admitting you’re wrong?” Desmond suggested, raising a bushy, black brow.

“Damn it, she should have told me! Sharing my bed—”

Any discomfort Desmond might have felt faded at the stunned embarrassment that filled Jazz’s eyes and colored his dark face. Chuckling, he tapped out his half-finished Cuban as he said, “If you think I don’t see what’s been going on between you two, then you must also think I’m a fool.”

Jazz’s mouth opened and closed noiselessly and he finally gave up, jamming his hands in his pockets and turning away.

“Sharing your bed, sharing your life, that’s all the more reason for her to want to do right by you, Jazz. Your pride may be hurt, you not handling Muldoon personally. But Anne’s a modern woman; she wants a partner, not a man to protect her.”

 

 

The door to her office flew open, revealing Jazz standing there glaring at her, brows low over his eyes, hostility radiating from him. “I was wrong,” he growled. “You were right about my pride being hurt and I took it out on you.”

Leaning back in her chair, her calm face revealing nothing, Anne-Marie said, “Nice to see you, too, Jazz. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Nine days, twelve hours and forty minutes, she thought. But who was counting?

“Don’t give me that look,” he warned, pointing at her. “You and your dad, lifting that eyebrow, royalty facing the serfs.”

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“Damn it, if you don’t want my apology, then just say so,” he shouted, storming into the tiny office. Eyes narrowed, he leaned forward and planted his hands on her neatly organized desk.

“An apology? Is that what this is?”

“Why in hell else would I be here?” he growled.

“Well, from the looks of it, I’d say you’re here to yell at me some more,” Anne-Marie replied, her eyes drifting down to the palms on her desk. “Usually apologies aren’t handled by barging into somebody’s office and yelling at them.”

Jazz’s eyes dropped to his hands, before glancing behind him to the interested audience just outside the door. Slowly, he took a deep breath and then blew it out.

“Can we go someplace private?”

Flicking her gaze to the staff that gathered just beyond her door, listening with obvious and unapologetic curiosity, Anne-Marie feigned indifference. “This is about as much privacy as I figure we are going to need. I’ve patients yet to see.”

“We need to talk,” Jazz said, keeping his voice low and calm.

She raised her solemn gaze to those outside her door, lifted that regal brow at them. As they drifted away, ears still straining, Anne-Marie lifted a silver-barreled pen and spun it idly between her palms. After a moment, when she was sure her voice would be composed, she said, “I needed you to believe in me, to try to understand.”

“I’m sorry.”

Looking at him, Anne-Marie said, “I know you are. And I can understand why you were upset, why you were hurt. I know I hurt your pride and I’m sorry it happened. But I did it the way I felt was right. The way that kept you out of jail.” Pausing, she nibbled at her lip, thinking, picking her way through her tangled emotions. “You would have gone after him, Jazz. And quite possibly killed him. That wouldn’t have gained you anything.”

“I was wrong, Annie. That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Jazz said.

“Apology accepted.” With a sigh, she turned her attention back to the open chart in front of her, the words blurring together while he stared at her lowered head.

“Then why aren’t you looking at me? Why don’t you stand up and come to me?” Jazz asked.

“There’s no reason. You think I spent all that time with you just to make up for the past sixteen years. With you feeling that way, it made me realize we don’t have what I was thinking, hoping, we might.”

“Don’t shut me out, Annie,” Jazz whispered, shoulders slumping as he turned away and pressed his hands against his eyes. “That was a damned fool thing to say. I don’t believe that’s what’s been going on between us.”

“What is going on between us?”

Raising his head, he met her eyes. “I don’t know. But I don’t want it to end like this. And I don’t want to go on the rest of my life wondering what might have happened if I wasn’t an idiot.”

She didn’t move at first, didn’t speak. Then she started towards him and slowly, he felt his heart start to beat again. He could breathe again. She slid her arms around his waist and he finally felt whole.

“I think maybe you should stop being an idiot so we can figure this thing out,” Anne-Marie suggested.

He could have laughed with relief, but he was too busy kissing her.

 

 

Tate’s voice echoed through the station house as he shouted at Jazz. “I’ve still got an unsolved attempted murder on my hands. And an unsolved murder. I’ve got to deal with Eleanor Park, and God knows, she is a full-blown lunatic. I ain’t got time to sit around babysitting you, Cousin.”

Eye to eye, snarl to snarl, Jazz responded to Tate’s comment with a sneer. “Babysitting?” Jazz shouted, poking Tate in the chest. “Boy, I hauled your chubby butt out of the fire more times than I can count. I don’t need a damned babysitter and I got a damned right to know what in the hell is going on with the investigation.”

“The hell you do. You’re no blood kin to him, thank God. And you’re neither a suspect or a witness. You’ll hear something when I have something to say,” Tate said, his voice cold and flat.

From the doorway, Marlie bit back a sigh of appreciation as Jazz responded with a rather rude suggestion. Tate’s response was, “Is that some sick fetish you picked up in the big city?”

How could there be two men that good-looking in one small town?

“They are something, aren’t they?”

Startled, Marlie turned her head and stared into the amused eyes of Dr. Anne-Marie Kincaid. “Um, well, yes. I guess so.”

Chuckling, Anne-Marie said, “Girl, you got eyes. You can do better than that.” She propped one blazer-clad shoulder against the doorframe, her eyes resting on Jazz’s profile. “I know I’ve noticed it more than once myself.”

“They are gorgeous,” Marlie said under her breath, rolling her eyes at Anne-Marie’s friendly laugh.

“How long have you been in love with him?”

“I…I beg your pardon?”

With a nonchalant shrug, Anne-Marie said, “I’ve been in love with Jazz most of my life. I know the symptoms. Does he know?”

“Of course not,” Marlie replied, shoulders slumping. “It’s too pathetic to even think about.”

“I don’t think it’s pathetic at all.”

Turning her head, Marlie stared into kind, knowing eyes. “He’s the sheriff, the son of a good, decent woman and a man who died rescuing a woman he didn’t know from Eve,” Marlie said softly, shaking her head. “I’m the daughter of the town drunk and bully, and Mama, God bless her, was the town tramp. I barely managed to graduate from high school and he’s the town sheriff. It’s beyond pathetic.”

“I doubt Tate sees it that way,” Anne-Marie said. Making an impulsive decision, she linked arms with Marlie and called out, “Well, if that sight don’t just set my heart all aflutter.”

The shouting-getting-ready-to-turn-into-shoving-match halted and two identical, dark pair of eyes turned their way. Each pair of eyes lit and traveled over the attractive pair in the doorway. All silver and blonde and dark blue eyes, Marlie wore a simple pink blouse tucked into white denim shorts. And Anne-Marie, ebony hair and emerald green eyes, with her confident smile and elegant clothes.

Both men felt their hearts stutter in their chest as they backed away from each other.

“Marlie and I ran into each other and thought you two would join us for lunch,” Anne-Marlie said, none too subtly dragging Marlie forward. “It’s Saturday, after all. Tate surely you know what they say about all work and no play.”

“Now, Doc Kincaid, you and I both know the job of serving the public isn’t one that runs on a forty-hour work week,” Tate drawled before looking at Marlie. She was so damned pretty, he thought. And not a good actress at all. The nerves and embarrassment in her dark blue eyes was every bit as apparent as the humor in Anne-Marie’s green ones. “Marlie, how are you?”

“I…I’m fine, Tate. Thank you,” she murmured, apparently giving up on the attempt to free her arm from Anne-Marie’s. Her cheeks turned fiery red when Jazz said, “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I turn down the chance to spend an afternoon with a couple of lovely ladies.”

Marlie’s eyes darted away as Jazz captured Anne-Marie’s free hand and brushed her cheek with a soft kiss. “How are you holding up, Miz Muldoon?” he asked, raising his head and smiling gently at her.

“I’m fine, thank you, Mr. McNeil,” she said softly.

“Mr. McNeil?” he repeated, a smile lighting his face. “Hell, Marlie. We’re family, in a distant, convoluted sort of way. You can call me Jazz.”

It was the first time that Anne-Marie knew of that he referred to the Muldoon family with anything other than hate and bitterness. But she knew Jazz; he was too kind to dislike Marlie simply because she was unfortunate enough to be born into the Muldoon family. “So, are you two coming to lunch or what?” she asked, tipping her head back and smiling at him.

“Only if I can sit next to the pretty doctor,” Jazz answered. Tossing his cousin an irritated look, he said, “You can stay here and work your ass off, Tate. We can finish this later.”

“Nothing to finish,” Tate responded amiably. “You think I’m going to let you loose on these two ladies?”

 

 

“What was that all about?” Anne-Marie asked, glancing in her rearview mirror before backing out of the parking space. Just ahead of her, Tate and Marlie were pulling away from the curb.

“What?”

“That shouting match between you and Tate. Or maybe it wasn’t a match. You were doing all the shouting.” Looking at him sideways, Anne-Marie asked, “Was it about Larry Muldoon?”

Sighing, Jazz said, “It was about the whole damned thing. Your dad, Larry. I’m tired of being in the dark.”

“It’s a job for the law, Jazz. Not you.”

“It concerns me every bit as much it does Tate. More, because it affects you.”

“And why does that matter so much?” she asked quietly.

“Because I love you,” Jazz said, turning his head to look at her.

Her foot slammed down on the brake and she stared at him, her cheeks unusually pale.

“Ex…excuse me?”

“You’re blocking traffic,” Jazz responded mildly.

“What did you say?” she demanded, throwing the car into park and turning to him while cars stopped behind her and a passerby stopped to stare with avid interest.

One shoulder raised and lowered in a casual shrug. “I said, I love you.” Turning his head, he stared at her with blank eyes. “Is there a problem with that?”

“How…” She paused, licked her lips, cleared her throat. “How long?”

“Seems like my entire life.”

“Are you talking like, real love, or the brother-sister kind of love?”

“You’re not my sister and I’m not your brother,” he answered. She looked mighty nervous, he decided. Mighty scared. Why was that?

Softly, she whispered, “The real kind?”

“For more than half my life,” he told her, reaching out and brushing a stray lock of hair back from her face. “Is there a problem?”

He was unprepared when she launched herself across the console at him, her arms going tight around his neck. “I never thought I’d hear that from you,” she whispered, burying her face against his neck. “I spent almost all my life hoping you’d come back home. But I never thought you’d actually love me.”

Closing his eyes, Jazz rested his cheek against her black cloud of hair. “I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you, standing there in your daddy’s kitchen, hugging that book to your chest.”

“Oh, God, Jazz,” she sobbed, pulling back far enough to see his face. Pressing her lips to his, she stifled a giggle while tears streamed from her eyes. “I loved you before I saw you. Before I was even born, I think. I feel things for you that I’ve never felt.”

“Even when you thought I was driving the car?”

Anne-Marie stared at him out of teary eyes. “I never thought you were driving, Jazz. I was too afraid to say anything, because of what it meant if you weren’t driving. You’d never get drunk enough to lose control like that. Not after Beau.”

Shaken, he pulled her back against him, cursing the tight confines of the car. So many years wasted, he thought as he stroked her hair. “Marry me, Annie,” he said abruptly, taking her arms and pulling away from her to stare down at her face. “Marry me.”

Her eyes closed and she sighed, a slow smile curving her lips upward. “In a heartbeat, Jazz. Just name the place.”

 

 

“Daddy?”

Desmond looked up from his book, a smile lighting his face as Anne-Marie entered the room. The smile dimmed a bit when he saw Jazz standing behind her, but it didn’t fade. “Jasper. It’s been some time since you’ve been inside this house, hasn’t it, son?”

“Yes, sir,” Jazz replied. It looked the same, painted a dark green with red accents and mahogany furniture; it still smelled the same, of those cigars Desmond pretended Anne-Marie didn’t know about.

Even the old man sitting in the chair by the window looked pretty much the same, just a little older, a little sadder. And as he pushed himself to his feet, Jazz added silently, a little slower.

“Still a man of many words, aren’t you, Jazz?” Desmond asked.

“A man I knew when I was a kid always told me ‘Better to keep your mouth closed, and look the fool, than to open it and remove all doubt’,” Jazz replied, the tension slowly draining from his body.

The old man knew. It was there in the sharp green eyes, in the way he reached out to stroke a hand down Anne-Marie’s hair. When Desmond looked at Jazz, he gave a single, simple nod of approval.

“Well, Annie, have you got something you want to say to me?” he asked, leaning back against his desk, arms folded across his chest to keep from reaching out to her. His baby had grown up. And was getting ready to leave him; never mind that she had lived on her own for nearly five years now.

This was different.

“What makes you think that?” Anne-Marie asked.

“Girl, you never were able to keep a secret, especially not from me,” Desmond said, wagging a finger at her. “Don’t ever play poker. Those eyes can’t hold secrets.”

“Dad…” Her voice trailed off as she stared at him.

“Anne-Marie.” He said her name quietly, a smile lifting one corner of his mouth.

Anne-Marie left Jazz’s arms to go to her father, wrapping her arms around him, inhaling the scent of aromatic tobacco, peppermint and Old Spice. “I’m going to marry him, Daddy,” she whispered into his shirtfront.

“Somehow, darlin’, I already knew that,” Desmond said quietly, stroking his hand down the wild tumble of raven curls. “You set your sights on him long ago, and you’ve always gotten everything you wanted.”

Jazz stood in the doorway, hands tucked inside his pockets. He met Desmond’s eyes and swore, “I’ll take care of her. I’ll love her until the day I die.”

“Shoot, boy. You’ve loved her from the minute you first laid eyes on her. I don’t reckon that’s going to change at this late date,” Desmond said, shaking his head and he leaned back from Anne-Marie, studied her glowing face and damp eyes. “Fool kids, thinking you can hide that kind of thing from your old man.

“I wish Alex could be here,” Desmond whispered, drying a damp tear track with his thumb. “He always knew this would happen, you know. He knew it before I did. I just wish he was here to see it.”

 

 

“It ain’t fitting, if you ask me,” Betsy snapped, folding her magazine and laying it in her lap. In the mirror, she met Laura’s eyes. “Why, his uncle’s been dead in the ground only a few weeks and here they are planning a wedding.”

What bothered Betsy most was the fact that she hadn’t been the one to share the news with the women at the beauty parlor. Why, she hadn’t even known about it until old Mabel up and announce her granddaughter, Tabby, and Mariah were both going to be flower girls.

Imagine, inviting a colored child to participate in the wedding. It was one thing to invite the Winslow family, but to actually have one of them in the wedding… Betsy shuddered, casting a sideways glance at Mabel.

Well aware of what was going on behind those catty, blue eyes, Mabel ignored Betsy as she described the dresses Anne-Marie had in mind for Tabby and Mariah.

“Why, it’s sort of sickening, actually. Those two are practically related, with Doc Kincaid raising Jazz on his own and all.” Betsy huffed and resettled in her chair while Laura skillfully made allowances for her restless customer. Exchanging a sideways glance with Mabel, she pressed her lips together and pasted an interested expression on her freckled face. “Makes you wonder what was going on in that house before Jazz left.”

“Now, those two are no more related than you and me,” Mabel said, her dark face creasing as a smile spread across her lips. “I think it’s about damned time. Any fool can see that those two should be together. Dr. Anne was just waiting and biding her time for him to come home anyhow.”

“Up until a few weeks ago, he was guilty of killing her brother,” Betsy responded righteously, admiring the way the new red curls fell over her forehead. She’d need to dye her brows to match, though. “What woman would marry the man guilty of killing her brother?”

“Anne-Marie Kincaid never believed Jazz killed Alex,” a sultry, low voice announced. Sandy Pritchard stood in the doorway of the salon, eyeing Betsy with obvious disdain. “Neither did I.”

“Believe or not, what would people think?”

“I doubt Anne-Marie is overly concerned with what people think,” Sandy replied with a casual shrug of her well-tanned, nearly naked shoulders. Smoothing down the front of her lacy camisole-styled blouse, Sandy asked, “Laura, are you able to fit me in?”

“Soon as I finish with Miss Betsy, Sandy.”

With narrowed eyes, Betsy looked at her reflections. “The color is too bright, Laura. We’ll have to fix that before I could ever leave. It looks unnatural.”

With a smirk, Sandy turned away. Any seventy-two-year-old woman prancing around with red hair was going to look unnatural, no matter how bright the color. Settling languidly into a chair, Sandy said, “No rush. I just wanted to get my hair cut before the weekend rolled around.”

“What sorta plans you got goin’, girl?” Mabel asked. Hands covered with suds, she rinsed the shampoo from Willa Davies’ hair.

“If I know Sandy,” Willa said from the sink, “We may not need to know what sort of plans she has. I doubt mine or Betsy’s heart could handle them.”

“Shoot, girl. You’d better tell. Your life is what keeps mine interesting,” Mabel said, with a loud laugh.

With a small smile, Sandy looked up from her magazine and said, “I plan on lassoing myself a sheriff this weekend. Gotta look my best.”

From the corner, Marlie’s hands stilled for only the smallest of moments as she started applying a topcoat to Linda Devane’s nails. “I think this shade of pink really suits you, Linda,” Marlie said quietly, her eyelids barely flickering as Sandy described her plans for the weekend.

A bittersweet smile on her face, Marlie acknowledged that of course Tate would be interested in Sandy, gorgeous as all get out, funny, smart, brave. She wasn’t plain white trash and she had gone to college. Currently, she was the sole lawyer in a twenty-mile radius. They even had the law in common.

But, God, it hurt.

“—true, Marlie?”

Glancing up, Marlie met Sandy’s friendly brown eyes. Bad enough she was so beautiful, Marlie thought. She was also as nice as she could be. “I’m sorry, my mind was wandering, Sandy. I didn’t hear what you said.”

“I’d heard you were looking into moving to Lexington. Is that so?”

With money from Larry’s life insurance and the pay they would collect from the state, Marlie and her mama had quite a nest egg now. Enough to put a hefty down payment on a little house somewhere far away from Briarwood, and everybody who knew the Muldoons. It was only fitting, Marlie decided, for her brother to give her this fresh start.

After all, if it hadn’t been for her hellish family, her life might not be such a mess. She might not be such a mess.

“I’m looking into it,” Marlie responded, looking down, shaping Linda’s nails up just a bit more.

“Can’t say I blame you, Marlie. It must be so humiliating for you, you poor thing, after what your family went and did to Jasper,” Betsy stated loudly, glancing Marlie’s way.

Even as Sandy opened her mouth to respond, even as Mabel’s eyes narrowed and Laura’s mouth firmed, Marlie laid down the nail file and stood up. Her voice quiet but firm she said, “Larry did it, not me, not my mama. Larry, and Larry alone. I feel terrible for Jazz, I truly do, but I had nothing to do with it.”

“Now, child, I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” Marlie interrupted. “You darned well did mean. And don’t bother apologizing. I’ve had it up to here,” she slashed at her neck with an impatient hand, “with people offering me false apologies, false sympathy and false friendships. Don’t waste your breath.”

Not looking at anybody, Marlie settled back down in her chair, added a final touch to Linda’s nails, and said, “There you go. You’re set for the dance this weekend.”

“Well, I never—” Betsy said, her mouth working silently for a moment before she was finally able to speak. “Girl, you have got nerve, talking to me like that. After all I have done to try and help you out of your unfortunate situation.”

“I don’t call having your granddaughter send her worn-out rags my way helping out, Betsy. Or telling me that I can have the leftovers from your holiday meals if I’d come over and help you serve,” Marlie said in a calm voice, even though inside, she was shaking.

“Just doing my Christian duty, girl—”

“Christian duty has nothing to do with what you do. You merely rub in how fortunate and lucky you are, and how unfortunate me and my mama, have always been. I’ll say nothing more on the matter, Betsy.”

“Way to go, Marlie, honey,” Sandy called out, applauding, approval in her dark eyes.

Marlie ignored her, wished Linda a good day and gathered her supplies, stowing them under the table. Moments later, she was hurrying down the sidewalk, tears stinging her eyes.

Unfortunate? Marlie thought bleakly.

Pathetic is more like it.

“Whoa, there,” Jazz said as he crashed right into a tiny blonde. When she raised her eyes to his, he was somewhat startled to recognize Marlie Jo, her indigo eyes awash with tears, her cheeks whiter than death.

“Marlie, what’s wrong?” Jazz asked, guiding her into the doorway of the consignment shop, out of the way of the midday sidewalk traffic.

“Nothing,” she whispered harshly, dashing a hand across the tears streaking down her face. “Let me go, Jasper.”

He tightened his grip on her shoulders, studying her averted face. “What’s got you so upset, Marlie?” he asked again, frowning. “What happened?”

Marlie laughed, a brittle, pain-filled sound. “Happened?” she repeated. “Nothing new has happened.” With a sudden jerk, she tore free from his hands. “It’s the same damned thing that has been haunting me for years. And you know what? I’m tired of it.”

“Marlie—”

“Leave me alone,” she ordered, her voice rough. Turning on her heel, she strode away from him as fast as her legs could carry her.

 

 

Tate sipped at his beer and gave Sandy Pritchard an absent look as she ran her red-tipped nails through her fall of thick russet hair. Her brown eyes were full of appreciation and humor, but Tate was only mildly interested. He knew what she was after; he couldn’t say he wasn’t flattered.

He just wasn’t interested.

Full breasts strained against the bodice of her sundress and her perfume was subtle and sexy, but all Tate could think of was silvery blonde hair and sad eyes

Just then, that familiar, silvery blonde head crossed his line of vision and Tate’s head whipped around, following Marlie as she led her mother across the church grounds. She’d finally gotten the old woman out of the house. He couldn’t believe it.

When an irritated sigh came from across the table, Tate turned his eyes back to Sandy’s. She had a smile dancing around her full, deep red mouth as she watched him. Tapping out her cigarette, Sandy said, “It’s starting to look like a McNeil man is not in my future.”

He closed his eyes for a minute and then looked back at Sandy, “I’ve always liked you, Sandy. But—”

“But, nothing,” she cut him off, shrugging. “No harm done. At least, not to me.” She was remembering the look in Marlie’s eyes several days earlier. “Does she know how you feel?”

“I’ve never told her,” he said, slumping in his chair and staring up at the painfully blue sky.

“I’d suggest you do it and do it quick. That girl is aiming on getting out of this town, Tate. And leaving you and everybody else behind her.”

With a laugh, Tate brushed that aside. “She won’t leave here. She’s been thinking about it for years, and she’s never done it.”

“Until recently, she didn’t have the means available,” Sandy said. “With Larry being a civil servant and up and dying, well, it’s my guess she has a lot more money than before.”

“Sonovabitch!” Tate hissed under his breath as he realized how true Sandy’s words were. With the life insurance policy alone, Marlie could live for several years without having to lift a finger, if she so chose.

His eyes darted helplessly in Marlie’s direction.

With a self-deprecating laugh, Sandy waved him away. “Go on. Wearing your heart on your sleeve like that, you’re a waste of my time, anyway.”

 

 

Marlie Jo smiled down at her mama as the old woman stroked a finger over the silky dress of the porcelain doll Marlie had bought her. “She sure is pretty, Marlie. You sure your daddy won’t mind us getting her?”

“Daddy’s dead, Mama. He’s past caring now,” she reminded her mother, aching to see that fear leave her eyes once and for all. But Marlie didn’t know that fear would ever completely go away. “Come on, now, Mama. Get in the car.” She opened the door and helped her mother into the car. Marlie bent over and tucked her mother skirt in so it wouldn’t catch in the door.

“Dead?”

Crouching down, Marlie touched her mother’s arm. “Yes, Mama. He’s dead. He died a while back. Remember?”

“Oh. Oh, yes. I remember now.” But she didn’t, not really. Yet, she was happy, stroking the lovely Gibson Girl-styled doll. Mama had always liked pretty things, just had never gotten any of them.

Until now, Marlie thought, thinking of the money sitting in the bank. They’d have a pretty, little house, pretty furniture that wouldn’t get torn to shreds, and maybe even another pet.

“Marlie.”

Straightening, she gently reminded, “Fasten the seat belt, Mama.”

“Yes. Yes, I will,” Naomi promised, her faded, green eyes focused on the doll.

Marlie turned slowly, meeting Tate’s eyes only after she had carefully blanked hers. “Hello, Tate. Are you enjoying yourself?” she asked him, taking a deep breath, inhaling the scents of fried chicken, cotton candy and summer.

Tate’s scent was there as well, heated male and long cool nights, all blended together. Even as the smell of him sent little darts of heat through her belly, she shuddered and fought against letting him see how much his nearness affected her.

“I’ve heard you still plan on moving to the city,” Tate said, jamming his hands in his pockets, watching her with unreadable eyes.

Checking to make sure Naomi’s feet weren’t dangling outside the car, Marlie shut the door and walked around to the other side. “That’s right. I’m going Sunday to look at a house. I think Mama would like it.”

“No, she won’t. Neither would you. Briarwood is your home, Marlie.”

Opening the primer-gray door to the Ford Pinto, Marlie slid into the car as she said, “This isn’t home to me, Tate. And I’d be happier anywhere else besides here.”

“Marlie—”

“See you around, Tate,” she said, jerking the door closed.

“That was rude, Marlie. The boy likes you,” Naomi said softly, still stroking the doll. Her misty green eyes were not as distant and dreamy as usual.

But Marlie was lost, too lost in despair to even notice.

 

 

She hadn’t just driven away while he was talking to her?

Tate insisted that to himself three times before he finally forced himself to admit that the evidence was to the contrary. The dust from her leaving had already faded, he couldn’t see the rusty red tail of the car, and most importantly, Tate was standing there in an empty field full of cars, by himself. No Marlie.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered to himself, turning on his heel.

 

 

“Sandy, where did that son of mine run off to?”

Glancing up from her beer, Sandy smiled at Ella. “He went chasing after your future daughter-in-law; at least, that would be my guess.”

Those lovely, blue eyes went wide and Ella asked, “Excuse me?”

Lifting the bottle in a toast, Sandy sipped at it before saying, “He went tearing off after Marlie Jo. Unless I am seriously mistaken, he wasn’t going to come back unless it was with her.”

“Marlie…Jo?” Ella repeated, somewhat numbly. “Tate went after Marlie Jo Muldoon?”

“Yep.” Sandy shrugged. “I keep getting thrown over for delicate, petite things. I mentioned something about Marlie Jo wanting to move to Lexington or Frankfort and once Tate realized I meant she was seriously wanting to leave, he took off.”

One slim hand rose to fiddle with the strand of pearls she wore at her neck as Ella slowly lowered herself to the empty folding chair next to Sandy. “I never realized he had those sort of feelings for Marlie. She’s so fragile.”

Sandy chuckled and shook her head. “No, ma’am. Fragile, Marlie is not. Delicate, yes. Quiet, yes. But she’s not fragile.” After another laugh, she launched into a detailed account of the encounter between Miss Betsy and Marlie just two days earlier.

“So, you think she has feelings for him as well,” Ella said after Sandy had finished.

“Powerful feelings, unless I am mistaken. If I’d have known, I wouldn’t have mentioned today in front of her. She looked so sad, and it just now dawned on me why.”

“But you care for Tate.”

“Not like she does.” Turning her eyes away to study the crowd, Sandy said, “I’m looking to get married, Miss Ella. I’ll be honest about that. But I don’t want a husband who doesn’t love me. Now if I was in love with Tate, maybe it would be different and I’d want to fight for him. But as much as I care for him, as good a man as he is, I don’t want him that much.”

“I just don’t understand it.” Ella laced her fingers over her still-flat belly, pressed her lips together in a frown before consciously making the effort to relax. After all, the years you spend frowning will eventually show on your face. Her face was free of lines, save for the small ones at the corners of her eyes. Ella liked to think they gave her face character.

“Marlie is not at all what I imagined for Tate. She’s a sweet girl, but…”

“She’s stronger than people think,” Sandy said with a shrug of her shoulders. “And apparently, she is what Tate wants.”

 

 

“Aren’t you coming in?” Anne-Marie asked, lifting her face to his, studying him in the silvery moonlight.

“Nope,” Jazz responded, tucking his hands in his pockets. “I’m not coming in until you make an honest man out of me.”

A slim brow rose and Anne-Marie repeated, “An honest man? What an oxymoron.”

Assuming an affronted glare, he asked, “Who are you calling a moron?”

Anne-Marie smiled serenely at him and replied, “Any man who turns down the chance to spend the night having wild sex with his fiancée is a moron, in my opinion.”

Hooking his hand over the back of her neck, Jazz dragged her forward, taking her mouth roughly, running his hands over her slim back. “The thing is, Doc,” he said when he pulled away to breathe, “I’m kinda afraid of your dad. If he knows I’m out here, he’s gonna come after me.”

“Well, shoot.”

With a wide grin, Jazz said, “That’s what I’m afraid of…shooting…”

Snorting with laughter, system still humming from his touch, Anne shook her head. “Well, if a shotgun wedding will get you in my bed, I’ll hunt up the gun.” Reaching out for his hand, she tugged him closer. Pressing her lips to his neck, she repeated, “Come inside, Jazz.”

“Annie,” he muttered, groaning when her tongue darted out to lap at his neck. “Girl, behave yourself.” Why in hell had he decided not to be with her again until after the wedding? He must have been out of his mind.

“Why?” she asked huskily. “I’m so much more fun when I don’t.”

Dragging her head back, Jazz attacked her mouth, diving deep, nipping and while his hands raced up and down her lithe little body. Then he pulled away and stepped back. Chest heaving, breaths ragged, he said, “Now maybe you’ll sleep as good as I’ve been lately.”

Eyes wide and dazed, Anne-Marie wobbled a little, not completely understanding as he ushered her inside. He lowered his head and Anne reached for him eagerly, only to have him peck her on the cheek and whisper, “I love you.”

The gentle click of the lock brought her out of her lust-induced daze and she stood staring at the door, eyes narrowed as the engine outside revved.