Authors: Rebecca H Jamison
The old man either couldn’t hear or chose to ignore him. Rosie pulled
up beside them, parked, and yelled out her window. “Better get in that
wheelchair, Grandpa, before you fall over and bash your noggin on a headstone.”
Mr. Curtis craned his head around looking for the chair. “That
granddaughter of mine can be a terrible nag. I’m starting to feel sorry for Tanner
Smith.”
Destry helped him sit down. Since Mr. Curtis had shared so many
emotions with him that day, it seemed only natural for Destry to say how he
felt. “Yeah, poor guy. Think he’d let me trade places with him?”
Mr. Curtis chuckled and winked as Rosie got out of the truck. “She’s
also a terrible cook, but she’s the best granddaughter I could ask for.”
Rosie raised an eyebrow as she approached. She seemed to know they were
talking about her, but Destry didn’t care. It couldn’t do any harm for her to know
how he felt—except to his pride.
“Thank you for bringing him here,” she whispered.
“I’ll leave you two alone.” Destry wandered off to look at some other
graves.
Even as he walked three rows over, he could still hear Mr. Curtis’s
voice. “This grass is the greenest I’ve ever seen in this cemetery. Martha
would be happy about that.”
Destry wandered among the graves, looking at the headstones of mothers
and fathers, husbands and wives. Hardly any adult there had died without having
been married and having children. Were there any single people in the cemetery?
If there were, they hadn’t warranted a marker.
Rosie came up to him as he was staring at the grave of a two-year-old
child buried in 1945. “How did you know he needed this?” she asked.
“I didn’t. I stopped by to talk to you and saw he was upset.” Destry
chose not to recount the tale of how he had found her grandpa crying in the
bathroom.
She tented her hands above her eyes, trying to see Destry’s face in
spite of the sun. “What did you need to talk to me about?”
“I was wondering if you’d consider selling your paintings.” Maybe he
had been too blunt. He braced himself for her reaction. Would she be angry?
“You mean the sticky-note pictures?” she asked, turning away from him
to arrange a faded bouquet of fake flowers that leaned on a headstone. “I
couldn’t sell those. They’re the only things Grandma left me when she died. My
great aunt Rhoda gave them to her.”
“So you’re going to hang them back up on the wall?”
“No. Grandma only kept them there in case Aunt Rhoda came to visit, but
she died four years ago.”
He tried to hide his smile. “The first day I was here, I recognized one
of the artist’s names—Blake Anderson. My mom took me to one of his exhibits
when I was a kid. I hope you don’t mind—I sent a few pictures of the paintings
to my mom. She knows more about art than I do.”
Rosie walked to the next grave and stooped to pull a weed. He followed
her example. She brushed off her hands. “I guess it couldn’t do any harm to see
if they’re worth anything. Tanner would probably like the idea.”
Destry gulped. He’d almost forgotten Tanner had anything to do with
this. Here he’d been so happy to help Rosie live her dream, but what he kept
forgetting was that Tanner was part of that dream. Tanner was the one who was
going to own the ranch with her, and Destry was helping him to do it.
They walked to the next grave, reading out the name on an ancient
headstone that had toppled over. “Poor Dorcas,” Rosie said. “She was only three
years old.”
Together, they worked to prop up the headstone, so it would be easier
to read. He could tell she had learned to respect the dead in the way he had
learned over the past year. It was worth taking a chance to see if she
understood the things that had been going through his head. “Do you know why
Alfred Nobel invented the Nobel prizes?”
She wrinkled her nose in that cute way he’d come to recognize as a mix
of amusement and confusion. “Why?”
He swallowed. “His brother died, but the newspaper reporters got their
names mixed up. They published an obituary for Alfred instead of his dead
brother. And it wasn’t complimentary. The whole article focused on how Alfred
had killed thousands of people by marketing dynamite.”
Rosie stood to look Destry in the eye. “And that was the truth?”
He nodded. “Yeah. He didn’t mean for people to die from his invention,
but that’s what happened.”
Her lips formed an adorable pout. “How horrible.” She placed her hand
on his upper arm.
He froze, afraid she might move if he did. “It turned out to be a good
thing,” he said. “Reading his own obituary forced Alfred to begin the life he
was meant to live. It’s the reason he came up with the idea for the Nobel Peace
Prizes.”
She tipped her head to the side and smiled. “It sounds a little bit
like your story.”
“It’s a lot like my story.” Her hand remained on his arm, drawing all
his attention to the warmth of her fingers on his skin. The cemetery around
them faded into the background and all he saw was her face, turned up to his. “Once
I realized that this life doesn’t go on forever, I started to make the
decisions that really matter.” He placed his hand on her arm. Slow and gentle.
She didn’t flinch or pull away. Her steel blue eyes took him in,
seeming to offer forgiveness. Unlike so many others, she judged him by his
words, not by what she read on the internet or heard from their neighbors.
Without stopping to think, he traced his fingers along her jawline,
cradling her face in his hand. She didn’t fight it or didn’t step back from his
embrace. “And this feeling I get when I’m close to you,” he said, “this feeling
like I’ve come home. It’s one of the things that matters most to me. Does it matter
to you?”
Her gaze dropped from his eyes to his lips, and that was all the
permission he needed. His thoughts swirled into a dizzy confusion as he ran his
hand down the soft skin at the back of her neck. Her lips softened as he
pressed his mouth to hers, and all her emotions opened to him—everything she
had kept hidden. Her feelings seemed to mirror his own, magnifying them, as he
drank in the sweetness of her lips, the scent of her hair, the smoothness of
her skin, the comfort of her body pressed to his.
Then he felt her tense in his arms. Her lips stilled and she gently pushed
him away. How could such a kiss not convince her to choose
him
? This was
what love felt like. This excitement. This wholeness.
She clapped her hand over her open mouth in astonishment and stepped
away. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.” She glanced back at her
grandfather, who was nodding off in his wheelchair. It seemed he hadn’t
noticed. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Destry rested his hands on Rosie’s arms, feeling the tension in her
muscles. “You can’t deny this feeling between us.”
Over Rosie’s shoulder, Destry saw Mr. Curtis grin and give him a thumbs
up before resuming his fake nap. The old guy had probably seen the whole thing.
Rosie pulled away, clasping her hands in front of her. “I feel it too,
but we can’t base a relationship on our emotions alone. I’ve seen my mother
make that mistake. After a while, the excitement fades away, and you’re left
with someone who isn’t at all right for you. I like you, Destry, but I think we’re
better off as friends. I’m sorry.”
He couldn’t give up now, not after the glimpse he’d had into her heart.
“I guess I can only speak for myself, but I think we are right for each other. I
think about you all the time—how I can make you smile or blush, how I can become
the right man for you. It’s like we’ve known each other much longer than a few
weeks, everything seems so natural, so invigorating. Look at the synergy we’ve
got going with our lesson plans, the way we build off each others’ ideas, and
the way we helped each other during the flood. We make a good team.” Tanner
could barely yield to her requests about wedding rings and stray dogs. Anyone
could see they weren’t right for each other.
Rosie tipped her head to the side in that way he loved, and frowned
apologetically. He dreaded the next words from her mouth. “I’ll always be
grateful you rescued me that day, Destry. But we hardly know each other.”
“There’s still time.” He lowered his voice to a sultry rumble. “Time to
shoot pebbles against the riverbank, irrigate fields, and play WrestleMania.
Time to enjoy the décor in your grandma’s living room. And time to stuff
ourselves with my homemade pumpkin pie.”
She squinted at him, the sun in her eyes, fighting a smile. “I’ve never
had your homemade pumpkin pie.”
He grinned, resisting the urge to reach for her hand. “That’s something
for the future. I haven’t learned how to make it yet.”
She laughed and then glanced at Mr. Curtis, pretending to doze in his
wheelchair. “I think you may have forgotten that I’m engaged to Tanner.” She
twisted the ring on her finger as she spoke.
“Believe me,” he said. “I haven’t forgotten. Lately, I spend most of my
days trying to figure out how I can help you change your mind.”
She kept her eyes focused on her ring. “Tanner’s so much more
disciplined than I am, and that’s exactly what I need. I need someone who’s
good with money and schedules, someone who understands all my quirks—and Tanner
knows me better than any man ever has.” She drew in her breath, and Destry
wondered how she could be so logical about the man she chose to live with for
the rest of her life. “It would kill him if he ever found out I kissed you,”
she said. “He’s already jea—I mean, he’s been insecure since you got the job he
wanted.”
He would have loved to tell Tanner
about their kiss. Still, he wanted to keep Rosie happy. “I won’t tell him, but
I’m not about to deny it ever happened. I love you, Rosie.” He hadn’t meant to
admit so much, but it felt right, now that the words had slipped out. “I knew
it from the moment you saved Wile E. You’ve changed my life for the better, and
I know I can make you happy, happier than Tanner ever could.”
She wrung her hands. “I better get
back to Grandpa. I’m sorry, Destry. I’m engaged to Tanner, and that’s not a
choice I take lightly.”
“I’m sorry too,” he said, though he wasn’t at all sorry about the kiss.
“We could be happy together.”
He watched her run back, her ponytail bouncing as she dashed between
the headstones. She reached Mr. Curtis’s wheelchair before Destry had even
taken a step. What else could he have said to convince her? He had told her he
loved her. She had even admitted to feeling the same crazy rush of attraction
he did. It killed him that she could overlook the importance of an emotion so
strong.
He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He ignored it.
This kiss, which he thought was the beginning, might just turn out to
be the end. He didn’t want to give up, but he wasn’t going to make himself into
a fool, begging for her attention.
His phone kept buzzing, and he fumbled to pull it from his pocket. It
was a call from his mom. The first in over a year. Maybe she was ready to
forgive him for failing to predict Cody’s overdose.
He answered. “Hi, Mom.”
Silence. It stretched on long enough to be uncomfortable. Just as he
was about to hang up, she spoke. “Hello, Destry.” He could barely hear her, she
spoke so quietly.
It had been at least three months since he had stopped leaving a weekly
voice mail message for his mom. Since then he had only been calling his dad.
“How are things in the West?” she asked, her pitch rising a little too
much at the end of her sentence. She sounded more nervous than sociable.
He watched Rosie push the wheelchair toward Mr. Curtis’s truck, her
lean arms taut with the effort, but Destry didn’t think she would appreciate
any help, given the circumstances. “I’m in love with a woman who’s engaged to
another man,” he said without thinking.
She chuckled, sounding relieved that he’d broken the ice. “You always did
like a challenge.”
“I’m afraid I might have already lost this one.”
“But you’ve found a couple of treasures.” He could hear the smile in
her voice. “I forwarded those pictures you sent to an art dealer friend. He
wants to talk to you about them.”
He raised his free hand in victory. “Really?” This could be the key to
Rosie living her dream. And though she had rejected him, he still wanted her to
be happy.
Like a song stuck in her head, the memory of Destry’s kiss stayed with
Rosie, resurfacing daily, sometimes hourly. The more she tried to forget it,
the more she remembered. It had been her fault. She invited it. Yielded to it. Relished
it. No wonder her mother constantly fell into her bad-decision trap with men—she
let passion take over.
Closing her eyes, she could feel the tips of his fingers moving along
the sides of her face as she breathed in the freshly laundered scent of his
shirt. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. Then, just like that, his
lips were on hers, and it was the way she had always imagined a kiss should be,
soft and delicate but as overpowering as the taste of a habanero pepper. The
fire of it still raged through her.
Tanner never smiled before he kissed her, nor had she ever felt the Indy
500 ride of excitement with him that she’d felt with Destry. She had to keep
reminding herself that passion wasn’t what she needed. She didn’t need a race
car. She needed the calm, reliable partnership Tanner offered. He was the safe
choice. She knew everything about him.
It would have been easier if she didn’t see Destry every day at work or
live next door to him at the ranch. Or if he hadn’t discovered that two of her
paintings were valuable enough to sell at a New York City auction house. Thanks
to him, she would have plenty of money for a down payment. Depending how well
they sold, she might have more than she needed. Maybe this had been Grandma’s
plan all along—for her to use the money from the paintings to help buy the
ranch. Rosie remembered her joking around that “the paintings are for you to
use when grandpa and I buy the farm. You can use them until you buy the farm
too.” Surely, Grandma had known they were worth something.
Now, the two most valuable paintings, packaged by Tanner, were on their
way to the auction house in New York City. They had also heard from the bank
that Tanner was preapproved for a loan that would cover the rest of the
mortgage. Rosie’s dream hovered within her grasp. And yet all she could think
about was that kiss in the graveyard and the way Destry’s hand slid across her
back.
She shook her head and turned back to her laptop. It was long past the
time to plan her health lesson about drunk driving. The truth was, it was a lot
easier to think about kissing. The pain of her grandmother’s death was still too
fresh. Could she teach this lesson without breaking down in front of her
students?
A knock sounded at the door, startling her. Rosie lifted her head to
see Destry, and once again his kiss replayed itself in her mind—the way his
hands had cupped her face as his lips pressed down on hers. Everything about it
had been gentle.
He stayed there, head cocked. “You didn’t hear a word I just said, did
you?”
“What?” she asked, realizing she was smiling—smiling about a kiss that
never should have happened. She straightened her mouth into a flat line.
Destry looked up at the clock on the wall. “Mr. Moore wants to see us
in five minutes. Make that four minutes.”
Rosie closed her laptop. Anything was better than trying to plan this
lesson. “That sounds fine.”
Destry turned to leave, but stopped, studying her expression. “What are
you so happy about?”
She shook her head, not about to reveal the reason for her smile. They
were playing the amnesia game now, both acting as if the kiss had never
happened. It was back to business as usual. “I’m actually kind of stressed. I
have to teach the lesson tomorrow about driving under the influence. I’m not
sure I can do it.”
He walked to her desk and pulled up a chair. “You’re afraid you’ll lose
your composure?”
Avoiding the temptation to look him in the eyes, she arranged a row of
pencils next to her laptop. “Yeah.”
“I say you go for it,” he said. “Tell your own story—tears and all. It
will make a stronger impression on them. They need to see the kind of pain
impaired driving can cause.”
She folded her hands. Tanner, Jade, and Grandpa were the only others
she had talked to about this, but she felt sure Destry would understand as
well. “The girl who hit us was one of my former students—Janessa Moore. The
officer refused to acknowledge that it had anything to do with drinking.”
Destry leaned back and combed his fingers through his hair. “Mr. Moore’s
daughter.” He blew out his breath. “Small town problems are so much bigger than
I ever thought.”
“I should add that the sheriff is Mr. Moore’s brother-in-law. At least,
he is now. We had a different sheriff at the time of the accident.”
If Rosie admitted her grandmother had been killed by a drunk driver,
her students would fill in the rest of the story with Janessa’s name. From
there, it would take only a few hours for Mr. Moore to hear about it, and she
was sure he would not be pleased. He clearly wanted to keep his daughter’s
guilt hidden.
Rosie could play it safe and say,
a person I care about was killed
by a drunk driver.
That way, the students could speculate, but they wouldn’t
know for sure.
Destry pulled out his phone. “I’ll ask Phil if we can postpone the
meeting.”
Rosie snapped out of her stupor. “What?” She looked at the clock on the
wall, her eyebrows pulling down into a frown. “We better get going.” She
grabbed a pen and notebook off her desk. Mr. Moore didn’t tolerate tardiness,
even in teachers.
They hurried down the hall, Rosie running and Destry walking at his
fastest pace. “I could come in and help you with that drunk driving lesson,” he
said. “It’s during my planning period, and it’s a subject I feel deeply about.”
There it was again. She kept forgetting about Destry’s desire to help
addicts. Maybe she meant to forget. After all, there were a lot of other things
to worry about than a yet-to-be-built resort for former drug addicts. She
slowed down, trying to re-focus on the conversation. “I appreciate the offer,
but I need to do this myself.” The last thing she wanted was to appear weak in
front of her class.
“Or I could come in, just for moral support,” he said, opening the door
to the front office for her.
“I’d appreciate that.” She walked through the door and pivoted to face
him. “Maybe I’ll just show the old video. That way I won’t get in trouble.” She
knocked on Mr. Moore’s door.
He called for them to come in.
“Whatever you decide, I’m here for you.” As he opened the door, Destry
brushed her hand with his, bringing memories of their kiss to the forefront of
her mind.
Mr. Moore sat behind his desk with his hands folded on top. He cleared
his throat. “Thank you for coming. Have a seat.”
She sat down with one chair between her and Destry. It was much easier
to focus on work that way.
Mr. Moore checked his watch. They were one minute late and she could
see in the set of his jaw that he was annoyed. “I won’t waste time beating
around the bush,” he said. “I’ve had some complaints from parents about Mr.
Steadman’s teaching practices.”
Destry leaned back, extending his arm across the chair next to him and crossing
his leg over his knee. He didn’t look at all worried.
“What about Mr. Steadman’s teaching practices?” Rosie asked.
Mr. Moore slid on a pair of reading glasses from the corner of his desk
and picked up a stack of square paper memos—the kind Mercedes, the secretary,
used to write down phone messages. “Basically that his class is one big party.
Now I trust that your students are learning. The problem is the parents’
perception. When their kids come home and say they’re racing cars and
pretending to surf in physics class, it doesn’t seem like they’re learning as
much. I’ve had similar complaints about chemistry and computer tech—parents don’t
perceive playing tag and making ice cream sundaes as proper learning
techniques.”
Rosie sat straighter in her chair. “I can vouch for Mr. Steadman’s
teaching methods. Each activity he does has a learning target.”
“You’re welcome to come observe,” Destry said, sounding calmer than he
probably felt. “Parents are welcome too.”
Mr. Moore didn’t respond to Destry’s offer. “Just make sure your
students are well prepared for the state tests. Once we get the scores, we can
show the parents how well their kids are doing. It might also help if you
assign homework more often.”
Destry moved to the edge of his seat, as if he were about to stand. “I
can do that.”
“Good.” Mr. Moore sifted through his stack of memos. “Also, it’s come
to my attention that you’ve been wearing flip-flops to school.” Something had
definitely changed Mr. Moore’s feelings about Destry working there. Maybe it
was the articles Jade had found. Whatever it was, Mr. Moore seemed to have
forgotten about the corporate donations Destry had raised over the past few
weeks.
Destry raised a foot and pointed to his loafer. “I change out of
flip-flops before my classes start.”
“Better to change at home,” Mr. Moore said. He pushed the stack of
memos back to the corner of his desk and turned to his laptop. That was his
signal that the meeting had ended.
Destry sat forward in his chair, his back straight, bracing his fists
on his thighs. There was nothing submissive or small about him. He had the look
of a boxing champion about to go back into the ring. “I can wear more
professional footwear and assign more homework, but, frankly, I took this job
because I felt I had something to offer the people of Lone Spur, something that
goes beyond flip-flops. If that’s not the case, maybe it would be appropriate
to find a different teacher.”
Rosie’s eyebrows shot up. She had seen plenty of people lose their
tempers with Mr. Moore, but Destry hadn’t lost anything. Sitting there with his
fists on his knees, he seemed powerful enough to take on the whole town. It
struck her that he was exactly what they needed—someone to stand up to the
Moores and all the other people who clung to the status quo as if the Almighty
had commanded that nothing ever change. She had to keep Destry working at the
school for Alan Erskine and all the other boys who loitered in his classroom.
And despite all the distraction he had created for her, he had helped her
improve her teaching skills.
“Speaking for myself,” she said, “I’ve seen more positive changes in
the students since Destry has arrived than I’ve seen in the previous seven
years. He’s a gifted teacher, and he has a way of inspiring the students no one
else has been able to reach. Because I’ve followed his example, two girls in my
fourth period class decided to major in biology when they go to college next
year. And he’s helped me come up with real-world projects. Just this morning,
my earth science class developed earthquake-proof structures for third-world
countries.”
Mr. Moore looked at Rosie over the rim of his reading glasses. “Thank
you both for your input, but as I said before, our teaching methods need to
conform to the traditional standards this school is known for.”
Rosie couldn’t keep from saying what she thought. “We’re also known for
the twenty-two percent of students who never end up graduating.”
Mr. Moore popped an eyebrow. “Which is why we need to get back to the
basics.” It was exactly what she had expected him to say.
As they stood to leave, she kept her eyes on Destry, searching for any
sign that Mr. Moore had broken his spirit.
After they stepped outside the office, he grinned and leaned forward to
whisper in her ear. “Thanks for backing me up in there.”
Her face relaxed into a smile. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d
felt so appreciated. “I meant what I said.”
Realizing his lips were just inches from hers, she felt her face turn
crimson, but she didn’t have time to worry because Mercedes came out from
behind the front desk, heading straight for Destry. Mercedes always managed to
look dewy and fresh, as if she perpetually reapplied her lip gloss.
“Don’t let the parents get you down,” Mercedes said, sticking out her
bottom lip in an adorably annoying pout. “There are always a few that will
complain no matter what the teachers do.” She touched his forearm.
He patted her hand, smiling down at her. “Don’t worry about it. I knew
this was part of the job when I applied.”
Rosie stepped back and examined the two of them as they stood before
her. They looked like the quintessential high school couple—the tall, muscular
football player and the adorable cheerleader. Mercedes was far prettier than
Rosie could ever hope to be. Unlike Rosie, she had no dirt under her manicured
fingernails, no frizzy tangle in her hair, and no pimple on her cheek. Besides
that, she was a genuinely kind human being. Rosie couldn’t remember her ever
saying a mean thing about anyone, not even about her ex-boyfriend who left her
for another woman. After all she had been through, Mercedes deserved a good man
like Destry. Still, Rosie felt a strange desire to grab Destry and yank him
free from Mercedes’s grasp.
“We’re having another game night at my house on Friday,” Mercedes said,
stepping back to look up into Destry’s face. He was at least a foot taller than
she was. “You’re welcome to come.” She glanced Rosie’s way. “You too, Rosie.
You can bring Tanner if you like.”