Texas on My Mind Read online

  Judging from the noodle banner, so had everyone in town. “I’ll be fine. I just need a few weeks to recover.”

  At best, that was wishful thinking. At worst, an out-and-out lie. It was a sad day when a man lied to himself, but right now Riley needed anything that would get him through this.

  Lies and oxycodone.

  She stared at him, made a sound as if she hadn’t fully bought his answer. Her smile faded. “Should I ask how much you’re hurting right now?”

  This was easy. “No.”

  Claire nodded, maybe even looked relieved. Good. Because if she was uncomfortable talking about it, then maybe it wouldn’t come up again.

  “About an hour ago someone dropped off an Angus bull that Logan bought,” she said as if this were a normal conversation. It wasn’t, but he guessed this was her way of chit-chatting about anything but his injury. “It must have been worth a fortune the way they were treating it. The men wore white gloves when they touched it. Don’t worry. One of the guys took care of the paperwork and such.”

  By guys, she probably meant one of Logan’s assistants from the office in town. Or maybe a ranch hand who tended the horses and cattle that came and went through the stables and grounds on the property. Other than a couple of riding horses for their personal use, none of the livestock stayed too long, just enough for Logan to make whatever amount of money he intended to make off the deal. As a broker, Logan usually dealt in bulk purchases.

  Since Riley hadn’t been home in nearly six months, he wasn’t sure exactly who was on his brother’s payroll for McCord Cattle Brokers or for managing the livestock on the grounds. His payroll, too.

  Technically.

  But while the house would always be Riley’s home, it was Logan’s heart and soul in the family business. Logan had been as happy to stay put, and buy and sell cattle as Riley had been to head out for more exciting pastures.

  He looked out the back bay window at the sprawl of green grass, streaked with white fences and dotted with a dozen barns, corrals, the hands’ quarters and outbuildings. Everything looked exactly the same as it always had down to the yellow Lab sleeping under one of the shade trees. Both a blessing and a curse as far as Riley was concerned.

  “How’d you get from the San Antonio airport?” she asked.

  “Taxi.”

  That earned him a raised eyebrow because Claire likely filled in the blanks. Riley hadn’t called anyone to come and get him because he didn’t want to see anyone. And he hadn’t rented a car because he was in too much pain to drive. It’d been worth every penny of the hundred-dollar cab fare to get a driver who hadn’t asked him a single question.

  “Logan called the house phone earlier to check and make sure you got in all right,” Claire went on after lowering that eyebrow. “He said he didn’t want to call your cell and risk waking you. Oh, and no one’s been able to get in touch with Lucky yet.”

  That was all right. He didn’t want to deal with Lucky. Or Logan for that matter. They were his big brothers, and he loved them—most days anyway—but Riley wanted to go the less-is-better route with his recovery. Actually, he wanted the none-is-best route.

  “Why are you here?” he asked Claire, and since it was probably all related, he added two other questions. “Why are there women in my bed?” No sense asking about the one in Lucky’s because that was often the case. “And who is he?”

  Riley tipped his head to the kid, who was now out of the chair and eating the bits of scrambled egg that’d fallen off the spatula and onto the floor.

  “Ethan, no. That’s yucky,” Claire scolded, sticking out her tongue and making a face.

  She scooped up the little boy, wiping that smear off his cheek. It was chocolate. And in the same motion she eased him back into the chair. A chair with a makeshift booster seat of old phone books.

  “Don’t wiggle around, or you’ll fall,” Claire told the kid. “I’ll get you some eggs when they’ve cooled a little. The women in your bed are Wilbert Starkley’s twin granddaughters,” she added to Riley without missing a beat. “The one in Lucky’s room is their sister.”

  After she moved the skillet from the burner to the back of the stove, Claire got busy cleaning up the egg mess on the floor. Cleaning off Riley, too.

  “Wilbert Starkley’s granddaughters?” Riley repeated. Wilbert owned the town’s grocery store and was someone Riley had known his whole life, which was pretty much the norm for Spring Hill. “No way are those his granddaughters. They’re just kids. The two in my bed are grown women.”

  With boobs that jiggled when they breathed.

  Claire smiled as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. “Not kids. They’re nineteen and home from college for the summer. Their sister is twenty-one and works for their dad. Wilbert dropped them off last night, and they fell asleep waiting for you to get in.”

  He listened, still didn’t hear them stirring around. “Are they deaf? Or drugged? They slept through your bloodcurdling scream.”

  “I guess they’re just deep sleepers. Anyway, when they heard you were coming home to recover and that Della and Stella were on vacation, they wanted to help.”

  Claire lifted her eyebrow again on the vacation part of that explanation. With reason. Della and Stella didn’t normally take vacations and never at the same time. One of them was always around to take care of the place and the McCord clan.

  “I wanted Della and Stella on vacation. I’m the one who told them to go. And how are those other women supposed to help?” Riley located the biggest cup he could find and filled it to the brim with coffee. Judging from the size of the headache he was going to have to cure, he’d need at least six more cups.

  “They want to help by doing things for you so that you can get all the rest you need. That’s why I’m here. To fix you breakfast.”

  It wasn’t as if Riley didn’t appreciate Claire’s efforts. He did. However, it didn’t help his confusion that was growing with every new bit of this conversation. “But why are you here? As in here in Spring Hill? Did you move back?”

  Claire nodded. “I came back about six months ago when Gran got sick. I still have my apartment in San Antonio, though. I’m still working as a wedding photographer, too. But I’m staying on awhile longer here to clean out Gran’s house so I can get it ready to sell.”

  Yeah, that. He had no trouble hearing the grief in her voice. “I was sorry to hear she passed away.”

  Claire didn’t even try to dismiss his sympathy. Probably because she couldn’t. She’d been close to her grandmother, and it didn’t matter that the woman was old and had lived a full if not somewhat eccentric life. Claire obviously hadn’t been ready to let her go.

  Still multitasking, Claire took out two plates from the cabinet, scooped some of the eggs onto both of them and set the plates on the table. Apparently one of them was for him because Claire motioned for Riley to sit. The other plate was for the kid.

  “And who’s the kid?” Riley pressed.

  “That’s Ethan, my son. He’s two years old.” She smiled, this time one that only a mother could manage. Ethan gave her a toothy grin right back.

  Riley’s attention went straight to her left hand. No ring.

  Claire followed his gaze. “I’m not married.”

  “Oh.” And because Riley didn’t know what else to say, he went with another “oh.”

  Man, he was way out of the gossip loop. His sister, Anna, had told him about Claire’s grandmother dying two months ago but not about Claire being a mom. Better yet, Anna hadn’t said a word about who had made Claire a mom.

  Probably Daniel Larson.

  Except Ethan didn’t look a thing like Daniel. Ethan had dark brown hair more like the color of Riley’s own. Daniel could have passed for a Swedish male model with his blond hair and pale blue eyes. Maybe that meant Claire had met someone
else. Someone who looked like him.

  But Riley rethought that.

  Of course it was Daniel. The kid just got his looks from some past ancestor with that coloring. Because Claire was with Daniel. Daniel had captured her heart and just about every other part of her their sophomore year in high school, and Claire had chosen him.

  Over Riley.

  It hadn’t been a particularly hard decision for her, either. And Riley knew that because she’d left her binder behind in chemistry class, and he had seen her list of why she should pick one over the other. Fifteen years later, Riley could remember that list in perfect detail.

  Beneath Daniel’s name, Claire had written, “Cute, reliable, good listener, likes cats, no plans to move off and join the military.” Beneath Riley’s name, she’d written only one word.

  “Hot.”

  Hot had stroked his ego for a minute or two, but he definitely hadn’t stacked up against the cute, cat-loving Daniel. And while Daniel and Riley had once been close friends, it’d been nearly four years since Riley had seen him. That was plenty enough time to make a two-year-old.

  Now Claire was a mother.

  He supposed that was the norm seeing she was thirty-one, the same age as he was. People did that. They made babies. Stayed in one place for more than a year. Didn’t get shot at as a general rule. They had lives that Riley had always made sure to avoid.

  Claire dodged Riley’s stare, looking at the plate of cookies instead. Then she huffed, put her hands on her hips. “Ethan, you took another one of those cookies, didn’t you? Where’d you hide it this time?”

  “Logan’s bed,” Riley answered when Ethan didn’t say anything.

  But, man, Riley wished he hadn’t ratted him out. The kid looked at him with wide-eyed bewilderment and betrayal. Ethan’s bottom lip even quivered. Riley felt as if he had violated a major man-pact.

  “So, that’s what’s in your hair.” Claire plucked some crumbs from Riley’s head. “I’m sorry. Ethan knows he’s not allowed to have sweets without asking. He took at least two cookies last night when we were over here before you got home. He ate one, hid the other and now he’s taken another one.” She pointed her index finger at him. “No computer games for you today, young man.”

  The kid’s look of betrayal intensified significantly.

  “Sorry, buddy,” Riley said.

  Claire put some toast on the table, poured Riley a glass of OJ from the fridge, topped off his coffee. She clearly hadn’t forgotten the waitressing skills she’d learned from her afternoon job at the Fork and Spoon Café in high school.

  “Eat up, Ethan,” she told her boy. “We’ve got to get going soon. The next shift should be here any minute.”

  Riley looked at her midbite. “Shift?”

  Claire nodded, started washing the skillet she’d used to cook the eggs. “Misty Reagan and Trisha Weller. They’re coming to help you get dressed and then will fix your lunch.”

  Both women were familiar to him. Intimately familiar. He’d had sex with only two girls in high school.

  And it was those two.

  “Misty’s divorced, no kids,” Claire went on. “That brings the total to nine divorced couples in town now in case you’re keeping count.”

  He wasn’t, but divorce was a rare occurrence in Spring Hill—less than 1 percent of the marriages had failed. It was the cool springwater, some said. Most folks just fell in love, got hitched and stayed that way. Riley thought it didn’t have as much to do with the water as it did with lack of options. Little pond. Not many fish.

  “Trisha never married. Oh, except for that time she married you, of course.” Another smile tugged at Claire’s mouth. This one didn’t so much light up the room as yank his chain.

  “Trisha and I were six years old,” Riley said in his defense. “And she had brownies.”

  That perked up Ethan. “Boun-knees.” Obviously, the kid had a serious sweet tooth, something else he had in common with Riley.

  “Well, I guess a home-baked dessert is a good reason for marriage,” Claire remarked.

  It sure seemed that way at the time. “It was Trisha’s version of put a ring on it. No marriage, no brownies.”

  “And you did put a ring on it.” Claire dried the skillet, put it away and dropped the spatula in the dishwasher after she rinsed it. “I seem to remember something gold with a red stone in it.”

  “Fake, and it fell apart after a few hours. Just like our fake marriage.”

  That eyebrow of hers went to work again. “I think she’d like to make that marriage the real deal.”

  Riley frowned. “Trisha said that?”

  “Not with words, but she’s a lawyer in Austin and cleared her schedule for the next two weeks just so she could be here. I’d say she really, really wants to be here with you.”

  Well, hell. Riley liked Trisha enough, but he hadn’t wanted anyone hanging around, including a woman who was looking for more than a plastic ring from a vending machine.

  “Call them,” Riley insisted. “Tell them not to come, that I don’t need or want any help. I really just need to get some rest—that’s all. That’s why I told Della and Stella to take the week off.”

  The words had hardly left his mouth when Riley heard the sound of car engines. Ethan raced to the window in the living room with Riley and Claire trailing along right behind him. Sure enough two cars had pulled into the circular driveway that fronted the house.

  Wearing a short blue skirt and snug top, Misty got out first from a bright yellow Mustang, and she snagged two shopping bags off the passenger’s seat. She’d been a cheerleader in high school and still had some zip to her steps. Was still a looker, too, with her dark brown hair that she’d pulled up in a ponytail.

  She might be trouble.

  After all, she’d lost her virginity to Riley when she was seventeen after they’d dated for about four months. That tended to create a bond for women. Maybe Misty would be looking to bond again.

  Then there was Trisha.

  Riley had lost his virginity to her. And there’d been that wedding in first grade, possibly creating another problem with that whole bonding thing.

  When Trisha stepped out of a silver BMW, she immediately looked up, her gaze snagging his in the window. She smiled. No chain yanking or “light up the room” smile, either. All Riley saw were lips and teeth, two things Trisha had used quite well on the night of his de-virgining.

  “Oh, look,” Claire said. “Trisha brought you a plate of brownies.”

  Yeah, she had.

  And other things were familiar about Trisha, too. Like those curves that had stirred every man’s zipper in town. Now all those curves were hugged up in a devil-red dress. She still looked hungry, as if she were ready to gobble up something. And judging from the smile she gave Riley, she wanted him to be the gobblee.

  Another time, another place, Riley might have considered a good gobbling. Or at least some innocent flirting. But there was that part about people seeing him in pain. Plus, there was always the threat of a flashback. No way did he want anyone around to witness that little treat.

  “Come on, Ethan,” Claire said, scooping him up. “It’s time for us to go.”

  “So soon?” Riley wanted to ask her to stay, but that would just sound wussy. His testosterone had already dropped enough for one day.

  “So soon,” Claire verified. She waggled her fingers in a goodbye wave and headed for the door. “Enjoy those brownies.”

  She probably would have just waltzed out, but Claire stopped in her tracks when their gazes met. She didn’t ask what was going on in his head, and the chain-yanking expression was gone.

  Hell.

  He hadn’t wanted her to see what was behind his eyes. Hadn’t wanted anyone to see it. But Riley was as certain as he was of his boot size that Claire
knew.

  “Finish your breakfast,” Claire instructed. Her voice was a little unsteady now. “I’ll deal with them. I can’t guarantee they won’t come back, but you’ll have a few hours at least. Is that enough time?”

  Riley lied with a nod.

  He used actual words for his next lie. “You don’t have to worry about me, Claire. Soon I’ll be as good as new.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “PAY DOUGH!” ETHAN squealed when Claire held up the picture of the painting.

  Claire checked to make sure she was showing him the right one. Yes, it was van Gogh’s Starry Night, but there was no Play-Doh on it.

  “That’s really close, sweetie, and the artist’s name does sort of rhyme with Play-Doh,” Claire encouraged.

  “Pay dough!” he repeated, speeding up the words a little.

  She tried not to look disappointed. The directions on the “Making Your Toddler a Little Genius” packet had said to make this activity fun. Or rather FUN!!!! Claire only hoped that the creators of this product had raised at least one semigenius child and that they hadn’t just tossed some crap activities together to milk her out of her $89.95, plus shipping.

  “Try again,” she prompted, waving the picture at Ethan to get his already wandering attention. “You got this right yesterday.” And, according to the rules, she wasn’t supposed to move on to the next picture until he’d gotten this one right three days in a row. They’d been working on it for two weeks now with no end in sight.

  Ethan studied the picture and grinned. “Money!”

  Claire was certain she didn’t contain her disappointment that time. “No. Not Monet.” That’d been last month’s lesson.

  She snagged one of his toy vehicles. A van. And she held it up with the painting while trying to make a running/going motion with her index and middle fingers. Her nails nearly tore a hole in one of the star blobs. Evidently, $89.95 wasn’t enough to buy higher-quality paper, and her example was obviously too abstract.

  “Ri-wee!” Ethan squealed with more excitement than money or Play-Doh.