When the Stars Come Out--A Cottonbloom Novel Page 2

  They were fraternal twins, unlike in both temperament and looks, yet the ties that bound them were made of bullet-stopping Kevlar.

  “If—and it’s a big if—Ford is actually serious about selling, I think we should let things play out.” Wyatt tossed his empty bottle toward the bin underhanded. It thumped the side, and rolled back and forth on the floor.

  “I’m sorry, what?” Jackson had been sure that Wyatt would cast his vote for tracking Ford down and beating some sense into him.

  “I know what you’re thinking; Sutton has turned me into a wuss.”

  Jackson couldn’t stop a chuckle from rising up and out. “You’re definitely easier to get along with since you’ve been getting some on a regular basis.” He sobered quickly. “What if Ford sells to some asshole out of spite?”

  “Let me clarify. I don’t propose we do nothing. Just not as in your face as I tend to favor. Sutton’s already put out some feelers for information. Ford would have to contact a lawyer for the paperwork.” Wyatt grimaced and looked toward the window and the woods beyond. “Considering Ford and Tarwater are golfing buddies, he would be the obvious choice.”

  “You okay with her talking to her ex like that?”

  Wyatt and Sutton had met over a thong he discovered under the seat of Andrew Tarwater’s Camaro. The Cottonbloom, Mississippi, lawyer had been Sutton’s fiancé, and the scrap of lace had belonged to Sutton’s best friend. Tarwater had not remained her fiancé for long. What Jackson had assumed was a simple rebound had turned into love, and Wyatt was indeed the definition of whipped.

  But as long as Sutton made Wyatt happy, then Jackson would support her—and them—one hundred and ten percent. If she broke his brother’s heart though, he would become her worst nightmare.

  “I’m not worried about Sutton having second thoughts, if that’s what you’re getting at. Tarwater is a natural liar, so whether he’ll even give up the truth is debatable. Plus, he’s an asshat. If he says something to hurt her feelings, I’m not sure I won’t get myself thrown in jail for assault.”

  “No worries, I’ll bail you out.” Jackson punched his arm and flashed a smile. “If you promise to clean my bay for the next month.”

  Their chuffing, slight laughter petered into a comfortable silence.

  “It’s a long shot, but Ford might actually do us a favor.” Wyatt’s tone was serious even though the sentiment sounded like a joke.

  “Ford wouldn’t cross the road to tell us the garage was on fire. He’d stand there and watch it burn for the insurance money. Him doing us a favor is more than a long shot.”

  “I don’t know. He’s lost weight and looks stressed. I’m worried about him.”

  The fact this assessment was coming from Wyatt held water considering their naturally adversarial relationship went back as far as Jackson could remember. “You think he’s sick or something?”

  “I don’t know.” Wyatt picked at the laces of his gloves, his voice vague but with an undercurrent of concern. “Let’s look at the bright side. Anyone interested in buying his stake would be doing it because they love cars and restorations, and if they’re rich, they might give the garage a leg up.”

  “That sounds like a moon shot.”

  “Maybe, but think about it. We’ll never attract the kind of cars we need to build the restoration business. Not if we limit ourselves to Cottonbloom.”

  “You’ve made huge inroads over the river and brought in three cars in two months.”

  “The widow’s walk of cars will dry up soon enough. Without some influence, this garage will stay small potatoes. We’ll make a living, sure. But no matter how hard we bust our humps, we’ll never get rich.”

  “Is that what you want? Money?”

  Had Jackson stepped into The Twilight Zone? Wyatt was rock-solid dependable. Did his work without complaining. He never seemed to need or want money, unlike Jackson who had his racing to support. Hearing him now rocked the foundation not only of the garage, but of their already-skewed family dynamic.

  “I want the freedom money can buy. We’re twenty-nine. Haven’t you ever wanted to take some time off to travel? See something besides the undercarriage of a car? Are you going to live up here forever? Don’t you want to settle down with a good woman and maybe have kids?” Wyatt gestured around the loft and its mismatched furniture. The wall-mounted flat-screen TV had been their only splurge. “No offense, but I don’t want to grow into a grizzled bachelor with you.”

  The questions whirred through his head like a misfiring engine. He hadn’t thought about the future in those terms. He was focused on the day-to-day micro issues that arose with the cars under his care, not the macro issues of life in general. All he could do was shrug.

  “How long has it been since you brought a woman back here?” Wyatt scrubbed the back of his neck, his dark hair in need of a trim and curling at the ends. “If we had more money, we could hire on more help, and you could work on occasionally getting laid.”

  A resentment that might have been tinged green with jealousy rose. “Just cuz you’re settling down, doesn’t mean everyone wants that. I prefer being alone. Love it, in fact.”

  An alarm that signaled a lie went off like a distant tornado warning. Truth was, since Wyatt had taken up with Sutton and spent a majority of his nights at her house instead of their loft, the quiet had become more burden than blessing.

  “Your life is this damn garage.” Wyatt linked his hands behind his head and looked to the beamed ceiling. “Just like it was for Pop,” he added softly.

  The subtle admonishment drove a steel rod into Jackson’s spine and tensed his shoulders. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means the most meaningful relationship you have is with your car.” The hint of a smile played around Wyatt’s mouth. “And maybe Willa.”

  “Relationship? Willa and I work together. That’s it.” An echo of his earlier thoughts drove his knee-jerk defensiveness. It wasn’t a lie, yet it didn’t feel a hundred percent truthful either. He hated waffling through the gray area in between. Life was easier in absolutes. Black-and-white, right and wrong. One thing he could say with no qualms. “She’s the best mechanic we’ve ever had.”

  “She’s a goddamn prodigy, which brings up another point. We pay her next to nothing. As good as she is, she could make more money over the river in Mississippi changing oil at one of those quickie lube places. I don’t know why she hasn’t already quit.”

  “She wouldn’t quit on me. Us. I mean us.” He clenched his teeth together to corral his runaway tongue. If Wyatt’s raised brows were any indication, he’d noticed Jackson’s slip.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that. She asked for her pay and took off early. My guess is she has a job interview somewhere else. Might not even be back on Monday morning.”

  Jackson shot to his feet. Wyatt might be right. Something had been amiss with her for a couple of months now. A skittishness had marred their usual camaraderie, but he’d ignored it, hoping whatever was bothering her would work itself out. Ignoring problems was generally how he approached life and relationships. But he couldn’t afford to ignore this one. He couldn’t lose Willa.

  Wyatt grabbed his forearm. “Hold up, we have bigger frogs to gig. Mack texted. He’ll be back by five and wants to talk.”

  Jackson sank back down and wished for another beer or six, but he needed to keep his wits sharp, especially if he was going to drive later. Which he was.

  “What is Mack thinking?”

  “No clue. He doesn’t tell me jack these days.” Wyatt’s voice reflected a wariness and worry that didn’t sit well with Jackson. Wyatt was the most emotionally intuitive of all of them, even if that made him reckless and prone to acting impetuously.

  Jackson looked out the window. Trees spanned all the way to the horizon. Their family had gone through upheavals and hard times in the past. His grandparents had been forced to give up cotton farming and sell the rich land. Tough years followed while his father built the garag
e. With money tight, it sat beside their family home out of necessity. The location outside of town hurt their business, but except for Ford, none of them wanted to pick up and move.

  Memories of summers long gone echoed through the woods. Most of the leaves were gone, leaving green pines interspersed with bare branches. After their mother ran off and left them, the brothers had taken care of each other while their father had toiled away in the garage. Those days were harder, but they’d managed to have fun anyway. The resiliency of children.

  Jackson had known he was destined to work in the garage from the time he could walk. He’d never wanted anything else. Fixing a car inside and out provided a simple joy. Yet, darker impulses drove him to the dirt track in search of an adrenaline rush behind the wheel. He couldn’t explain the wildness that simmered under his general calm. Honestly, he did his best not to scrutinize the troublesome complexity of his moods.

  Jackson usually confined his worries to his family and to the garage, but somehow Willa had gotten tangled up in his life without him noticing. All he knew was the thought of her moving on torqued his anxiety to new levels. Uncomfortable levels. He stood and held out a hand to haul Wyatt off the couch. “Let’s get this over with. I have something to take care of.”

  Chapter Two

  “I’ll have a pork plate and sweet tea to go.” Willa did a mental calculation for tax and pulled out two fives. More than she should spend, but her stomach vetoed any protest.

  Now not only was she saving to fix her car, but she needed a cushion. If she had to move, money was a necessity. Any decent place required a deposit for rent. Not to mention utilities. And how long would it take her to find another job that didn’t require her Social Security number or real name? The thought made her stomach hurt from something other than hunger.

  “Make that two for here, Rufus, and I’m buying.”

  Willa spun around. Jackson Abbott’s chest filled her vision. The animallike noises her stomach was making must have drowned out his approach.

  “Sure thing, Jackson.” Rufus favored them with a grin and turned to dole out barbeque, baked beans, and slaw.

  She tucked her hair behind her ear, feeling intensely vulnerable without her steel-toed work boots, coveralls, and ball cap. Her flip-flops, worn-out jeans with a rip at one knee, and a black T-shirt with the emblem of a band she’d never listened to were from the thrift shop down the street.

  “You don’t have to pay.” When she found her voice, it was breathy.

  “I want to.” His words were low and rumbly and sexy, and she resisted the urge to lay her cheek against his chest, desperate to have someone, anyone, to lean on, even for a moment. Obviously, hunger was impeding her mental faculties.

  In the two years she’d lived in Cottonbloom, she’d never run into Jackson outside of the garage. Her forays to secretly watch him race didn’t count since he’d never noticed her. The only place she was a regular was at the library, because it offered free Internet and entertainment—two things she couldn’t afford to waste money on.

  Her mental faculties slipped further away as she allowed her gaze to wander over his shoulders before rising. He’d showered, his damp hair darker than its usual rich brown, but hadn’t shaved, his stubble even more pronounced from the afternoon. The scent of soap and clean laundry was mouthwatering in a different way than the barbeque was. The butterflies in her stomach did a slow bump and grind. God, she was hungry for so many things.

  Rufus laid a tray with two plates and drinks on the counter. He and Jackson exchanged money. When she went to pick up the tray, he beat her to it, his fingers passing over hers. She hoped he didn’t notice them tremble.

  She didn’t protest. Honestly, as weak and off balance as she felt from a combination of hunger and his presence, she might have accidentally dumped it on the floor. And, if she had, she wasn’t sure she had the pride not to grab a fork and scrap off the top.

  He unloaded the plates at a two-person table off to the side and nudged his chin toward the opposite chair. Now she was expected to eat across from him and hold a conversation when she wanted to bury her face in the barbeque and inhale it?

  Still, he was basically her boss, and he had paid. Which meant she could eat a little better this week or put the extra money toward her escape fund or car repairs. She slid onto the vinyl seat and ripped the spork from its plastic bag. Luckily, he didn’t attempt to engage her in conversation until she’d eaten all her pork and half her beans. She forced herself to go slow, yet he was only a quarter through his pork when she came up for air.

  “How’d you end up in Cottonbloom, Willa? You got family ’round here?” he asked as she took a draw of tea.

  She sputtered around the straw. Until this moment, the most personal question he’d ever posed involved a list of her ten favorite cars, make and model. “No family. Cottonbloom is a nice town.”

  That actually was the God’s honest truth. Cottonbloom had been a pit stop on her way to Jackson, Mississippi. A place to grab something to eat and stretch her legs. She’d wandered down the streets on both sides of the river, window-shopping while enjoying an ice-cream cone she’d splurged on in the cutest little shop she’d ever seen.

  At the time she hadn’t realized they were actually two different towns. Cottonbloom, Mississippi, with the ice-cream shop and pizzeria and high-end stores on one side, and Cottonbloom, Louisiana, with the best barbeque in the South and antiques stores and secondhand shops on the other. Something about the river and vibe had drawn her. With an impulsiveness that had gotten her into trouble when she was a teenager, she’d bought a local paper and skimmed the want ads.

  “Really?” He sat back in his chair. “You think Cottonbloom is nice?”

  “You should know since you grew up here.”

  He studied her as if she were an engine with a valve or two stuck, the intensity startling. “Most people think Cottonbloom is an odd place with our divide and rivalries.”

  “I think it’s a special place.” Breaking eye contact, she poked at the mound of slaw on her plate. She’d passed through more cities than she could name, some small, some big, all of them hard. Until she’d stumbled upon Cottonbloom and the Abbotts. Finding the ad for a mechanic placed by Abbott Garage had made everything seem fated. And she didn’t even believe in fairy tales.

  The sense of safety she’d cultivated was as immaterial as the fog that rolled off the marshes at night. She’d known it would eventually vanish. A couple of good years hadn’t changed the way her luck ran—from bad to worse. She wouldn’t complain or lament the turn. After all, it was no more than she deserved.

  “If you think it’s so odd, why hasn’t a single Abbott brother moved on? Not even Ford.” She shoved a sporkful of slaw in her mouth, savoring the flavors. It felt like her last meal before sentencing.

  “I can’t speak for the others, but I never considered it.” He shrugged and looked toward a wall covered with autographed pictures of LSU football players. “I wasn’t the best student, but I was good with my hands. Understood cars without trying. I never wanted anything else than to work in the garage with Pop.”

  “But he’s gone.” The words were out before she had a chance to stop them. She froze with the last of her slaw hovering midair.

  “Yeah, he’s gone.” The only visible reaction was a tightening around his eyes, but his voice held a sadness he worked hard to hide even from his brothers. But she’d noticed.

  “I’m sorry. I miss him too.” Her apology and attempt at empathy sounded weak.

  She did miss Mr. Hobart though. He had been nice to her and given her a chance when not many others would. He’d been the glue that bound them all together and to the garage. Since his death, an uneasiness that felt vaguely selfish had niggled at her. A countdown had started, and now the end was in sight.

  If she was going out, she might as well go out with a bang. Well, not a literal bang. That was out of the question. Although now the thought had been planted, she had a good idea what her dre
ams would entail that night.

  Tentatively, she ran her fingertips over the back of his hand. He didn’t flinch away from her touch. In fact, his fist loosened enough for her to tuck her fingers around his palm for a squeeze. It was like she’d plugged into an electric socket, the zip of energy raising the hairs on the back of her neck.

  She’d touched him before of course. They passed tools back and forth with utilitarian expediency. This was different. Compassionate and tender. His hand was strong and the calluses spoke of hard work and expertise.

  She let him go, trembling in the aftermath, and concentrated once more on getting food to her belly. She couldn’t afford to think of Jackson like that, the cost too steep for her heart. Admiration from afar was her only option.

  He pushed his half-finished plate to the side. Her gaze followed the food before returning to him. His eyes narrowed as he cast a look toward his plate and back to her. “I’m full. You want the rest of mine?”

  Most people would demur and say no. Men didn’t like women who ate like horses, did they? It shouldn’t matter what Jackson thought of her. But it did. She battled her pride for all of two seconds before nodding, putting his plate on top of her empty one, and digging in.

  She’d run away from home due to pride, fear, and a fair amount of immature stupidity. The intervening years had taught her pride didn’t keep you warm or fed, and she’d shed the useless trait. Fear was her ever-present companion, sometimes roaring, sometimes slumbering. But she hoped she wasn’t as stupid as she’d been back then.

  Only since finding her footing at the garage had her feelings of self-worth sprouted like buttercups pushing through the ground after a long winter. This time around she was more cautious. She did her best work at the garage every single day, but she understood there were more important things than pride. Safety for one.