Kristine Rolofson – Blame It On Babies (страница 3)

“The boys at the Dead Horse can survive without you?”

Jake shook his head. “Probably not, but we’re moving out to my place. Permanently. Bobby’s going to have to find another foreman.”

“Or do the work himself,” Jess added.

“Exactly.” The men shared a smile. The thought of that wild-ass cowboy actually running his own place seemed ludicrous. “I guess it has to happen sooner or later.”

“Bobby will do just fine,” the bride declared. “And so will the ranch.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jess said to Elizabeth, but his mind was on the yellow-haired waitress whom he could see out of the corner of his eye clearing the table near where they stood. That damn apron mostly hid her body, but he’d bet his last paycheck it was the kind of body a man would remember.

“Shorty’s moving out to my place to take care of things while we’re gone,” Jake said, and Jess struggled to turn his attention back to his friend. He’d thought for a moment he recognized the woman, but on second look he doubted it. He would have remembered.

“Sounds good,” he agreed, shaking Jake’s hand once again as the couple bid him goodbye. He turned his attention once again to the blond gal, but she was busy handing out wedding cake and he couldn’t see her face. So he decided to have another drink. It would be whiskey instead of beer. He would join the crowd gathered outside and drink to Jake’s good fortune.

As the day wore on and drew closer to sundown, Jess freely sampled the whiskey and paid vague attention to the festivities. “Yeah,” he said in response to Calhoun’s words, lifting another glass to toast to…something. He hadn’t heard what Calhoun announced, but every other man standing at the edge of the tent looked damned impressed. The plump redhead was stuck to Bobby’s side like a tick, so the kid obviously wasn’t pining too hard for his lost fiancée. “Better watch out, Calhoun,” he muttered, lifting his empty glass. Someone filled it up again, which was exactly what he’d hoped would happen.

Teenage twins draped themselves over Billy Martin, Shorty sat in the shade with a flat-faced dog asleep on his lap, and a country-western band wailed from the bandstand in the center of the small park. Jake and his bride had spared no expense to keep the party going, even though they’d left town a while ago. He figured they must have invited everyone in the county to the wedding.

Thank God he didn’t have to work tonight. He had the next two days off, and Jess intended to make the most of his last hours in town. He was going to get good and drunk, drunk enough to forget that his wife had emptied their bank account and run off with a man from nearby Marysville. Drunk enough to forget that yesterday the divorce was final. And drunk enough to forget what she’d called him when she left.

Unfortunately, Jess didn’t think there was enough booze in Beauville to blot out the memory of his ex-wife.

SHE WOULD NEVER, EVER WORK for Texas Tom again, not if it meant having to load her possessions into a couple of stray grocery carts and live in the parking lot behind the hardware store. When he wasn’t leering at her chest, he was shouting orders. She didn’t know which one was worse; at least when he was leering she didn’t have to listen to the sound of his voice.

“Lorna!” She turned to see the fat toad gesturing toward another pile of garbage. Unfortunately the bags were made of clear plastic, meaning Texas Tom had seen something inside of them he didn’t like.

“What?”

“Those damn cowboys threw the silverware out with the paper plates. You’re gonna have to go through all this and make sure none of them forks get lost. I came here with four hundred forks and I’m damn well gonna leave with four hundred forks.”

She would give four hundred dollars—which would pretty much empty her bank account—to go back to Aunt Carol’s little house and soak in a bathtub filled with vanilla-scented water. Going through garbage was not her idea of a great way to end the day. “Look, Tom, don’t you think I should finish rinsing dishes?” She was standing there in wet tennis shoes, hose in hand, a stack of platters and various cooking utensils beside her that needed to be cleaned up before Tom’s nephew could finish loading everything in the truck.

“Yeah, but ’fore we leave we’re counting forks, or someone’s gonna pay,” he grumbled, his gaze dropping to her bare legs. He’d told her to wear a waitress uniform, so she’d gone to Marysville and spent thirty-seven dollars she could have used for the phone bill. She’d been so happy to find work she hadn’t questioned the expense.

“It takes money to make money,” her mother always said. And what would it take to paw through mounds of garbage? Rubber gloves and a decent vocabulary of cuss words, Lorna decided. She would curse quietly under her breath so no one would hear her. After all, some of those words might give Texas Tom ideas.

She tried to hurry through the cleaning of the cookware. The sun had set, though lanterns were placed around the tent and over the cleanup area next to the grills. Tom’s nephew was a decent enough kid, and the sooner she got the racks cleaned up, the sooner he and his uncle could head back to Marysville. With or without four hundred forks.

“Hey,” the nephew said, as she finished the last of the trays and turned off the hose. “How’s it goin’?”

“We can’t leave until we count the silverware,” she told him. “He thinks some of it ended up in the garbage.”

“Cripe.” The boy picked up all four racks of glassware as easily as if they were filled with paper cups. “He’s on that kick again?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I’ll help,” he offered, “as soon as I get the truck loaded up. I’m about halfway done.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Lorna picked up a lantern and swung it toward the piles of garbage bags. “With any luck it won’t take me long. The forks would sink to the bottom of the bags, right?”

He lowered his voice. “My uncle’s a real prick sometimes.”

“I just want to get paid,” Lorna said, setting the lantern on the bed of a truck. “He promised cash.”

“Yeah,” the boy said. “I know what you mean. Good luck.”

Good luck. Was there any such thing? Maybe, maybe not. “Luck” would be having the man of your dreams finally notice you. “Luck” would be landing a job with health benefits and a three-week vacation. Lorna untied the nearest garbage bag and put on a pair of yellow rubber gloves. “Luck” would be never having to work for Texas Tom again.

2

“YOU’RE NOT DRIVING, ARE YOU?”

Jess shook his head at the bartender. “Walkin’,” was his reply. He would walk to his truck and sleep in the cab. Wouldn’t be the first time, though those days were years ago. In his misspent youth.

Those were the days. Now, at thirty-seven, he couldn’t drink much whiskey—or anything else alcoholic for that matter—without hurting himself. It was hardly worth it, but today’s wedding preceded by yesterday’s divorce were events worth trying to forget.

He set down his last empty glass and, stepping over the bodies of a couple of cowboys who couldn’t hold their liquor, managed to exit the tent without embarrassing himself by falling flat on his face. Most everyone had gone home—or on to the bars to finish what they’d started. Even the musicians were packing up, and over in the far corner of the park, lights highlighted the removal of Texas Tom’s traveling barbecue feast.

Jess thought he’d parked somewhere over there, but he wasn’t sure. He remembered passing the Grange on his way in, so he figured he was heading in the right direction if he walked toward the lights. As he got closer, he was surprised to see that pretty little waitress rifling through the garbage like a starving dog.

“Honey,” he drawled, keeping his voice low so he wouldn’t scare her. She jumped anyway, then turned around and stared at him.

“What?”

“Honey,” he tried again, reaching for the wallet in his back pocket. “You sure as hell shouldn’t be in this pre-pre-predicament.” He pulled a couple of twenties out of his wallet and handed them to her.

“What are you doing?” She didn’t look too happy to take the money. In fact, she tried to stuff it back into his palm. And succeeded, too, before she took a step backward.

“Buy yourself a decent meal,” he said, holding out the bills again. “Decent meals,” he said, correcting himself. With forty dollars she ought to be able to eat for three days, if she was careful. “No reason to go through garbage for something to eat. Doesn’t that cheap bas—Texas Tom give you supper?”

He thought she was going to laugh, but he couldn’t see her face too well now that she’d stepped away from the lantern. He’d caught a glimpse of big blue eyes and a set of lips that were made for—well, just about anything a man could think of, he figured.

“I’m looking for forks,” she said. “And I’m not hungry, thank you.”

“Forks,” he repeated, hoping he sounded sober. He’d gotten a little dizzy a second ago when she’d smiled. “What for?”

“Texas Tom is counting the silverware.” She retied the garbage bag and set it off to one side with two others. “I have to see if any of his precious forks got thrown out before I can go home.”