Desperado Read online

  Then, knowing that this was probably the first time that anyone had touched him this way since Annabel had died, she wrapped her arms around his neck in a loose hug and whispered against his ear.

  “Have I told you ‘thanks’ yet?”

  “For what?” his response was little more than a whisper.

  “For helping me.”

  “I made a mess.”

  She couldn’t resist stroking his hair. It was softer than she’d imagined. Silken. And the waves sprang back against her fingers.

  “Not that. Thanks for helping me with the Games. I know it isn’t exactly how you’d planned to spend your time next week.”

  His other arm wrapped around her as well, and for one brief instant, he hugged her tightly against him.

  “You’re welcome.”

  The words rumbled from a spot deep in his chest.

  P.D. longed to kiss him again to see if he would respond this time. But instinctively, she sensed that Elam was still on edge, the past warring with the present. So she stepped back, and his arms dropped away.

  Turning, she gathered up the box of straws. “Leave the sugar. I’ll bring the stepladder back tomorrow and deal with it. In the meantime, I’ll send one of the busboys in to sweep up the mess.” She purposely kept her tone light and carefree—as if their embrace had simply been an inevitable way of conveying her thanks. If Elam knew how her attraction for him had suddenly blossomed tenfold, she feared it would scare him away for good.

  Elam followed her out of the storeroom, ducking to brush even more sugar out of his hair.

  Again, she laughed. “You’re going to need a shower to get it all out, I’m afraid. Otherwise, you’re going to be sticky all night.”

  Damn, damn, damn! Did that comment suddenly sound as suggestive to him as it did to her?

  She led Elam back to the kitchen. The instant she stepped inside, Bart Crowley, her manager, rushed to take the box from her hands.

  He glanced suspiciously at Elam. Normally, customers weren’t allowed beyond the dining room.

  Nevertheless, Bart gestured to P.D. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

  P.D. had hoped that business could take care of itself for a few more minutes, but she shouldn’t complain. “Sure.” She turned to Elam. “Why don’t you go take a seat and listen to the music?”

  Bart Crowley let the door slap shut behind Elam’s back before he asked, “Is that Elam Taggart?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  Bart’s jaw flicked for a moment, but he quickly said, “No reason. I just haven’t seen him around lately, that’s all.”

  “What did you need?” P.D. prompted.

  Bart jerked a thumb toward the back window, his features tight. “That line cook you fired last week? Eddie Bascom? He’s been hanging around, insisting on talking to you.”

  P.D. sighed. “Is he still here?”

  “No. I had a couple of the waitstaff run him off—but not before he kicked your garbage cans and beat the hell out of the Dumpster lid with a tire iron.” Bart’s look became ironic. “Apparently, he wants his job back.”

  Frowning, P.D. realized that by firing Bascom for stealing steaks from the freezer, she’d created more problems rather than solving them. She’d agreed not to press charges against him if he left quietly, but now it appeared that she would have been better off turning him over to the sheriff.

  “Let me know if he shows up again. And if he causes trouble, call the police.”

  After checking the morning’s produce orders and making a few additions, she turned back to the dining room in time to hear the melancholy strains of a song twining into the air. One that had been written by the guitarist, Manny Zarate, when his daughter Annie had left for college. A hush settled over the patrons as the lead singer began the familiar ballad.

  Soft and sweet like a lullaby,

  She came to me ‘neath a summer sky,

  Filled my life with immeasurable grace,

  With a gentle smile and a hint of lace.

  P.D. was washed in a wave of horror.

  No. Oh, no! Elam’s late wife was named Annabel. And Annie’s full name was…

  Annabel, oh, Annabel. What I’d give for one more smile,

  Or to sit and talk to you for a while.

  Annabel, Annabel where did you go?

  Won’t you come back home for the winter snow?

  She rushed to the swinging doors, intent on doing something—anything—to stop the emotional train wreck that was about to happen. But she’d taken only two steps before she saw through the window that Elam had grown still in his chair. The color had leached from his face, leaving the darkness of his hair and beard in such sharp contrast that he could have been carved from marble.

  Never in her life had P.D. seen such utter devastation settle over another human being. In the space of a few bars of music, he became a ghost of the man he’d been mere minutes before—and in that instant, she knew, without ever being told, how much he’d loved his wife. How much he continued to love her.

  She taught me how to live and love, Like an angel sent here from above.

  As the rest of the lyrics flowed into the dimly lit restaurant, P.D.’s sole aim was to stop the music—even if she had to interrupt the band with a bogus announcement. But she’d barely made it into the dining room when she saw Elam lunge to his feet. Despite her promise to feed him for a week, he threw several bills on the table, grabbed his jacket, then strode from Vern’s with ground-eating strides.

  P.D. hurried to follow him at a more casual pace, not wanting to draw attention to his exit with her own panicked reaction. But by the time she reached the main entrance, Elam’s pickup was already on the highway, his lights glowing blood red in the darkness.

  *

  ELAM drove without seeing, needing to outrun the storm of emotions that hurtled toward him like a tidal wave. For months, he’d managed to lock things away, to dwell in the here and now and ignore the specters of the past. Then, in one unguarded moment …

  He’d heard his wife’s name being sung to him in the darkness of a crowded room.

  He took a corner wide and fought for control, even though he wanted nothing more than to drive, farther and farther, until he managed to outrun his own memories. His fingers gripped the wheel until he feared either his bones or the plastic would snap. He didn’t know where he was going, but he was going there fast. And once he got there …

  He needed to tear something apart, beat out the frustration that simmered beneath the surface of mundane everyday chores. He wanted to exorcize the gnawing loneliness eating at his gut until he feared that he would never really sleep again, never laugh, never love …

  The thought seared through him like a lightning bolt and he slammed on the brakes, skidding onto the shoulder. Dropping his head, he hunched over the wheel, breathing hard, trying not to remember Annabel.

  Her sweet musical laughter.

  Delicate features.

  And the hair that ran through his fingers like corn silk.

  Most of all, he missed the way she burrowed under his arm in the middle of the night, curling up in a tight ball like a kitten, one hand always flung out to touch him, as if she feared he would be spirited away. And heaven only knew he’d been gone too much during their ten-year marriage. He’d probably spent half of it deployed in the Middle East. But even when he was far from home, he’d known that Annabel was waiting for him. She was there in the daily letters she sent, the stolen phone calls, and the funny care packages with her horrible cookies.

  Until three years ago.

  Then, she suddenly wasn’t there. Wasn’t anywhere. She was just … gone.

  He’d spoken to her on Skype mere hours before her death. They’d argued about what colors to paint the master suite in the Big House. And even though he’d groused at her selection, he’d let her win. Because she was like a little bird, nesting, waiting for his imminent return.

  So when he’d come home—a journey he didn’t even remember—he c
ouldn’t believe she was dead. There had to be a mistake. Annabel was out there somewhere, waiting for him.

  Elam blinked against the tears—the damned tears that never solved anything. His chest grew so tight that he had to gulp for air, but he still refused to give in. He’d spent plenty of solitary nights, hiding from his brothers, weeping in the darkness. And it hadn’t changed a thing. Annabel was still gone. Even worse, the memories of the time they’d spent together were fuzzing around the edges. Bastard that he was, he could remember the day that they married. And the first time he’d held her in his arms.

  But he couldn’t seem to remember what she liked for breakfast or her favorite television shows. And was that threadbare cotton nightie she wore in the heat of summer pink or white? The trivial minutiae of their lives together were seeping through his hands like sand, and he found it harder and harder to pull the images back.

  Suddenly, the grief he’d held at bay for so long flooded his body, filling him with an exhaustion that made breathing too much of an effort. Closing his eyes, he vainly fought to forget the stolen moments in P.D.’s storage room. The touch of a woman’s lips upon his own, the caress of velvety fingers. In an instant, Annabel’s image was superseded by that of another woman. One who was tall and strong, with breasts that would more than fill a man’s hands, and hips that would easily straddle his as she rode him.

  Elam tried to push the thought away—tried to remember his wedding night and making love to his wife under the stars. But much like the song he’d heard, he’d been robbed of her presence so long he couldn’t seem to connect with Annabel’s spirit anymore. At least not enough to comfort him during the long, solitary hours.

  And heaven help him, even though it felt like a betrayal, he longed for a woman he’d met only that morning to touch him again.

  *

  P.D. rushed to her office and closed the door behind her. Pacing behind the desk, she flung herself into her chair and reached for the phone she kept in the lap drawer. But as soon she punched the Power button, she wilted.

  Who was she going to call? She didn’t have Elam’s number—and she couldn’t call one of his brothers. What would she say?

  Have you seen Elam? Is he upset? Really, really upset?

  She tossed the phone back onto the desk, pressing a finger to the ache forming between her eyes.

  Suddenly, all thought of the Wild West Games faded in importance. She’d heard enough of the stories from Bodey to know how worried the Taggart brothers were about their eldest brother. And she’d always thought their concern was an overreaction.

  Until tonight.

  She had to do something. She had to make things better somehow.

  Jumping to her feet again, she snagged her purse and stormed out of the door. After locating Bart in the kitchen, she asked, “Can you lock up for me tonight?”

  Bart look alarmed. “Is something wrong?”

  Too late, P.D. realized that she’d never asked anyone else to lock up for her. She’d always been there until the last table had been wiped down and the final car had left the parking lot. Then, she oversaw the receipts and the closing up herself.

  “No. Not really. I’m coming down with a lousy headache.”

  “I’ve got some ibuprofen in my locker.”

  “No! No.” She sighed. “Maybe I’m coming down with something.”

  P.D. didn’t know why she felt it necessary to lie to her manager. But she didn’t want to explain herself, and she didn’t want anyone knowing where she was going. Sheesh. The town grapevine would have a heyday with that.

  “Would you mind?” she asked again. “My keys are in my desk drawer. If you could add up the receipts and put the night’s earnings in the deposit box at the bank on your way home …”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  P.D. squirmed a little when Bart seemed touched by her trust in his abilities.

  “Thanks.”

  Before she was required to explain anything more, she dodged through the rear delivery door and scrambled in her purse for her keys. Climbing into her truck, she revved the engine and waited for the stuttering grumble to grow even. Then she backed out and turned onto the highway.

  She wasn’t sure what she intended to do. It wasn’t conscious thought, but instinct that caused her to drive south. Before she knew it, she was turning into the winding gravel lane that led to Taggart Hollow.

  At first, she drove slowly, afraid that she might catch up to Elam—and wouldn’t that be swell? He’d think she was checking up on him. But after flicking off her lights, and easing around the corner toward the Big House, she was able to see that Elam’s truck was nowhere to be found.

  Just in case, she parked her vehicle near a copse of aspen by the side door. Then she took the steps two at a time and knocked softly on the screen.

  She’d always loved the Big House. The structure was quintessential turn-of-the-century farmhouse with a wide wraparound porch, ornate timber arches and dormers, and a river rock foundation. Earlier Taggarts had planned on housing several generations within its walls, because it was one of the largest homes that P.D. had ever seen. Nevertheless, it looked as if it had grown out of the earth rather than being built.

  A light flicked on in the kitchen and she heard uneven footsteps approaching. Thump-tap. Thump-tap. Thank heavens. Bodey.

  The door swung wide and Bodey’s brows rose in surprise when he saw P.D.

  “Isn’t it about closing time at Vern’s?” he asked, opening the screen for her to come in.

  “Yeah. I asked Bart to lock up.”

  Bodey’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not your usual routine. Is something wrong?”

  “No … yes.” She sighed. “I don’t know.”

  He motioned toward the table. “You want something? Beer? Soda? Coffee?”

  Her nerves were already jangling with caffeine but she still said, “Have you got any Diet Coke?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  He swung toward the counter and took a glass from the cupboard, filled it with ice from the freezer, then snagged a beer for himself and a can of soda for P.D. Then, after handing them to her, he maneuvered gingerly back to the table.

  As P.D. sank into a chair, he hooked one for himself and leaned his crutches against the polished wood.

  “So what’s up?”

  She took her time pouring her drink into the glass, then finally admitted, “Elam came to Vern’s to talk about the Games.”

  Bodey frowned, the beer bottle hovering in front of his mouth. “He didn’t back out of the deal, did he?”

  “No. At least I don’t think so. At least … I hope he doesn’t …” Realizing she was making a mess of things, she asked, “Would you happen to have his phone number?”

  Bodey grimaced. “Elam doesn’t have a land line up to the cabin and he stopped using his cell once he came back to Bliss. Said he needed his privacy.” He took a swig. “What he really meant was that he was tired of people asking how he was doing.”

  “Oh.” P.D. used the tip of her finger to poke at the ice in her glass.

  “Should we be asking how he’s doing?”

  “I—” P.D. exhaled a puff of air and said, “I don’t know. It’s a long story.”

  Bodey shrugged. “I’ve got nowhere to go since I’ve been sidelined from the next few Cattle Cutting events. Even if I did, I couldn’t get there fast,” he said, slapping the orthopedic boot.

  “Well,” she drawled, searching for the right way to explain the evening’s events. “He came into Vern’s and I fed him.”

  “Always a plus.”

  “Then we talked about the Games.”

  “Was he grousing about the competition?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “That’s good.” He suddenly grinned. “What did he think about the costume requirement?”

  Her breath escaped in a semblance of a laugh. “He wasn’t thrilled, but he didn’t balk too much.”

  Bodey crowed in delight. “Maybe it will inspire hi
m to shave off that beard and trim his hair. He looks like a raggedy sheepherder who hasn’t seen civilization in a while.”

  P.D. had known Bodey long enough to realize that, to those employed in raising cattle, being called a “sheepherder” was cutting criticism.

  In her opinion, Elam didn’t look “raggedy” at all. There was something wild and untamed about his current look, but she wasn’t complaining.

  “So … what happened?” Bodey prompted.

  “I got called into the kitchen for a few minutes,” she said, neatly avoiding the encounter in the storage room.

  “And?”

  In a rush, she said, “And the band started playing Manny’s song, ‘Annabel.’”

  Bodey froze with his beer partway to his lips, then whispered, “Shit.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “I’m assuming Elam didn’t take it well?”

  She shook her head. “He went white as a ghost, then left Vern’s like his seat was on fire.”

  Bodey shook his head, staring sightlessly ahead of him. “Hell. Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed him into helping.”

  “But he seemed fine up until then.”

  Bodey set his bottle on the table and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, seeming to examine his laced fingertips.

  “It’s been three years since she died.” He cleared his throat. “When he came home for the funeral, Elam was devastated.” Bodey looked up to meet P.D.’s gaze. “I swear, Annabel was the only girl he ever dated. As far as he was concerned, he loved her so much the sun rose and set in her eyes.”

  P.D. felt a twinge of jealousy, then a twinge of pain. No one had ever cared for her like that. Not even her own parents.

  “After the services, Jace and I tried to talk him into staying with us as long as his leave would allow. But the minute the Navy would let him work again, he headed back to Afghanistan.” Bodey’s voice grew husky. “I honestly thought they’d be sending him home in a box. He was so angry … so …” Bodey scrubbed his face with his hands. “I can’t tell you how relieved we all were when we found out he was coming home. He was injured, sure, but he was alive.”