Vesta’s hands trembled with another chill, making the rubber eyepiece bump against her cheekbone. She wished she hadn’t canceled Riley’s visit. There was something about the young chaplain that made her feel connected and . . . hopeful. Not much else did these days.
* * *
“I can’t . . . believe . . . I’m in Luckenbach!” Riley shouted over the sharp twang of steel guitar and a cattle drive of boots against the historic dance floor. “Doing the electric slide and—oh, brother, wrong way. Again. Sorry. I’m so rusty.” She whirled back around, faked the grapevine step to catch up, and saw Jack grinning beside her as the classic Brooks and Dunn tune swelled.
“Oh, get down, turn around, go to town. Boot scootin’ boogie . . .”
“Good thing there was only one way out of that plane!” he shouted back, the light from drooping swags of bulbs bouncing off his hair and the shoulders of his worn-soft black henley. He grinned, rocking forward along with the whooping crowd. Then pointed in the direction of the next turn, nodding as she hitched the step and followed the line of the dance. “You nailed it that time.” Jack’s gaze swept discreetly over her. “But in those boots . . . with that skirt . . . I’d probably follow you into oncoming traffic.”
“Yeah, heel, toe, do-si-do. C’mon, baby, let’s go . . .”
Riley was glad she could blame her blush on the overly warm dance floor. And that she’d decided against the German knockwurst at the Fredericksburg restaurant. The butterflies she thought she’d left at the drop zone were threatening to polka in her stomach. She’d had no idea that Jack was taking her to his hometown or even that he’d grown up in the beautiful Texas hill country. They’d walked the quaint streets of Fredericksburg, Jack ruggedly handsome in faded Levi’s and boots, pointing out the Pacific War museum and the
biergarten
where he’d waited tables, talking about Wildseed Farms and Enchanted Rock. Seeing him like that, learning where he’d come from, had felt so—
“C’mon.” Jack slid an arm around her waist. “Let’s get out of here.”
He guided her through the dancers, out of the huge open-air dance hall and back toward the outdoor theater, a ramshackle stage embellished with hundreds of license plates under gigantic spreading oaks that gave roost to chickens. There was another boisterous crowd out there, every age and all attire, from biker leather and bandannas to designer linen. Hands hoisted old-fashioned sarsaparilla bottles and longneck beers, and laughter was the common language—along with music. This time it was an aging, bearded guitar picker wearing an “Everybody’s Somebody in Luckenbach” T-shirt and Willie Nelson braids.
Riley shook her head. “I think we’ll have to stand,” she said, her voice already hoarse. “There’s no room.”
“Not staying.” Jack tugged her hand and pointed toward the famous wooden post office and a chrome and leather sea of Harleys. “Back to the car. Sunset time.”
Blue skies and a sunset . . .
Riley climbed into the Hummer.
In twenty minutes they’d navigated miles of hilly roads past huge private ranches with lush native grasses, herds of spotted axis deer, and the occasional exotic, twisted-horn blackbuck antelope. Then they turned onto a dirt road, climbing steeper still, through pink granite boulders, stands of cedar and live oaks. Tires crunching, the Hummer finally came to a stop at a huge gate. Locked with a chain.
Riley glanced sideways as Jack cut the engine. “I’m adding trespassing to my adventure day?”
He smiled. “My uncle’s property. Grab that ring of keys in the glove compartment.”
Jack opened the gate, snagged a camping blanket, and they left the car behind and walked. Up a deer-narrow trail that climbed toward the crest of the hill—crushed pink granite, clumps of wildflowers and prickly pear cactus, hemmed by wispy knee-high prairie grass. Not so steep that Riley couldn’t manage it in boots and a skirt, but enough of a hike that her heart quickened. Until they reached the top, and then the view took her breath away.
26
“It’s . . . incredible,” Riley murmured, senses swirling. “Those hilltops and the bluebonnets down below—they’re like a lake of flowers. And all those fruit trees. Acres and acres. What are they?”
“Peaches.” Jack stepped closer, pointing to the tidy rows. “Red Globe, Regal, Bounty.”
“They’re my favorite fruit.” Riley slid her fingers down a tendril of her hair. “Even my shampoo is peach.”
“No kidding?” Jack looked like he was trying not to laugh. He pointed along the horizon. “There was this annual event called Easter Fires, where people started fires in barrels and set them up on the hills. It started from an old German tradition that got tangled up in local history involving a treaty with the Comanche Indians. Apparently some Indian signal fires scared the kids. So the Fredericksburg settlers explained that the Easter Bunny used the fires to boil water for coloring eggs.” He chuckled at the look on her face. “Trust me. Until a few years back there was a pageant. People dressed up in bunny suits. Whole families for generations.”
“Did you . . . ?”
“I plead the Fifth.”
Riley laughed, glanced back down. “I don’t see a house. Your uncle doesn’t live here?”
“No. He’s in New Mexico. Leases the orchards out, comes back to hunt.”
“And your mother?”
“Moved to Santa Fe two years ago to help my sister with her kids. She sold the house after my father died.” Sadness flickered across his face. “I’d come and gone for years—backpacking across Europe, in the Army, school—so there wasn’t much sense in Mom staying. At that point, it was only a matter of ending her condo lease.” He shook his head. “And conning me into taking the Siamese fighting fish.”
Riley smiled. “Rocky.”
“Yes.”
“Do you miss having your family close?”
“I . . .” Jack hesitated, his brows pinching together. “I go there a couple of times a year. To ski and for a conference. I call; we text. You know.”
Riley didn’t know. Couldn’t fathom it at all. It had only been two weeks since her last visit to Houston, and despite her mother’s drop-in visit, her folks were well past pout stage about “never seeing her.” She’d call them tonight. With no mention of the failed job proposal, skydiving . . . or that she’d been seeing Jack outside of work.
“Well . . .” He slid the blanket from under his arm. “Sun’s sinking fast now. Let’s find a spot without cactus and fire ants and get set for the show.”
Riley helped to spread the blanket and sat, not surprised that Jack settled close beside her. After the plane, the dancing, and sharing so much over the past couple of weeks, it felt natural. Visiting his hometown and this beautiful place made her want to know even more about him. Despite Jack’s reckless reputation—which he managed to bolster at every opportunity—Riley sensed some vulnerability when it came to his family.
We have that much in common.
“There,” he said, pointing toward the west. “First streaks of pink. The peach blossoms are that same color. In March, sunsets are pink from sky to tree . . . to the shower of petals on the ground below. My aunt called it Ballerina Valley—not the best tactic to recruit a boy for orchard labor.”
“You worked here?” she asked, easily imagining him as a boy, sun-browned, scurrying up a ladder. “Picking peaches?”
“Picked them, ate them, pitched them. And squashed the mushy ones on my sister’s head.” Jack touched a fingertip to Riley’s hair, a smile teasing his lips. “I invented peach shampoo.”
She smiled, watching the pink horizon changing moment to moment, its wispy purple clouds now burnished with orange and gold. Travis property, pieces of Jack’s past.
“Why New Mexico?” she asked, turning to look at him. “Why did your family go there? Work?”
“Partly.” Jack pulled up his knees, leaned forward. “Roots, too. My great-grandmother is from there. Via Mexico. Maria Alma Flores . . . Travis.”
“Ah.”
You have her eyes.
She took a slow breath, noticing how the color of the sky highlighted the gold in his hair. Blond hair, dark eyes.
“Plenty of stories regarding that page of family history, trust me.” Jack shook his head. “It wasn’t easy for her. Foreign country. Prejudice.” A muscle bunched along his jaw. “People can be so cruel.”
“Yes.” It made sense—Jack’s generosity toward Bandy and his passionate defense of Gilbert DeSoto, Jane Doe, Hector; the whole idea of the free clinic . . .
Your grandmother’s eyes and her cause, too. It’s personal for you.
“I was thinking,” Jack said, shifting beside her, “about those competencies you need for that staff nurse application. What if you give me a list and we work on them at the clinic? One by one, in a targeted strategy. Gretchen could help, and—” He stopped, brows furrowing. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Riley said, her heart cramping at his generosity.
And now you’re fighting for me.
“It’s just that . . . Thank you, Jack.” She touched his arm. “For wanting to help and for wishing me blue skies in that plane. For dinner and Luckenbach . . .” Riley took a slow breath, watching the ember-orange horizon. “And for my first hill country sunset. I don’t know how you do it, but somehow you seem to understand exactly what I need, and—”
“Wait.” Jack leaned forward, sought her gaze. “Don’t give me so much credit. The truth is, you can add
selfish
to everyone’s long list of complaints about me.” His eyes held hers for a long moment. “Today wasn’t just about helping you. It has a lot more to do with what
I
need. Which, I’ve recently figured out, is . . . to be with you.”
“Oh.” Riley’s breath caught as Jack brushed the back of his hand gently across her cheek. Her heart stalled. “I . . .”
Can’t think. Or breathe or . . .
There was a stretch of silence made deafening by the drumming of her heart.
“Mmm . . .” Doubt flooded into Jack’s eyes. “I’m scaring you.” He drew his fingers away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”
“No,” she said in a rush. “I’m not scared.” Slow breath.
Talking skills—I’m supposed to have them.
“Are you sure? For a second there, you looked like I was pushing you out the door of a plane.”
She smiled, foolishly dizzy.
He needs me?
“You surprised me, that’s all.”
Jack looked wary. “Surprised like a scorpion in your shoe?”
“No.” She took hold of his hand, warmth spreading.
His head tilted. “Nervous because I was raised by wolves?”
Riley laughed. “I’m taking that back. Now that I’ve seen your hometown. And your sunset.” She leaned a little closer, watching Jack’s eyes in the deepening dusk. “You did surprise me with what you said . . . about needing to be with me. Only because I’d been thinking the same thing about you.” His immediate smile made her pulse quicken. “And I don’t think you’re selfish, Jack. Far from it.” She reached up, rested her palm along his jaw. “You’re generous and caring. You have this incredible courage of conviction. And honesty . . .”
Jack grimaced slightly, and Riley suspected she was making him uncomfortable. It was the last thing she wanted. She brushed her thumb along the stubble of his jaw and chuckled. “For a reckless maverick, that is.”
* * *
The rosy light had turned Riley’s eyes from blue to smoky lavender, and Jack was feeling more and more like a nervous adolescent. But something about this—about her—seemed more important than anything had in a long time. He had to handle it right.
“No,” she said, shaking her head, “you’re not a maverick. And I’m not a hothouse flower. Today it’s far less complicated, simple. I’m a first-time skydiver, and you are . . .” She smiled. “The inventor of my shampoo. Thank you, by the way.” She leaned forward, brushed her lips against his cheek.
He slipped his arms around her before she could move away and then hugged her close, burying his face against the soft, fragrant tumble of her hair. Her arms twined around his back. It felt so different from that time at the River Walk, when their embrace sprang from pain and comfort. And much better now . . .
because I care for you more than I ever thought was possible.
“Riley . . .” Jack nuzzled her neck, felt her pulse against his lips. He breathed in the dizzying scent of her, reluctant to let go, then leaned away far enough to search her eyes in the shadowy light. The sweet vulnerability in her expression made his heart ache.
Sweet, beautiful, brave.
Jack cradled her face in his hands, then dipped his head to lightly kiss her brow, cheek, the soft corner of her lips . . . before covering her mouth with his own.
27
Riley padded barefoot from her bathroom to the kitchen, shower-damp hair brushing across the shoulders of the hooded terry tunic she’d pulled on over leggings. A quick breakfast—coffee, bagel; did she have any cream cheese?—then she’d change into a skirt and blouse, pick up her linen blazer at the cleaners, and head to the hospital.
She glanced at the clock—7 a.m. Way too early. So . . . she’d slow down, dawdle over the coffee and poach some eggs, then return her mother’s call. Maybe do that on the cell phone . . . while she walked the bike trail? Good idea. Or see if Wilma wanted to walk along with her, then . . .