When the Stars Come Out--A Cottonbloom Novel Page 7

  A million reasons to leave circled in her head, but one really good one to stay outweighed them by around two hundred well-muscled pounds. It was the first time another soul had been in her trailer, and Jackson seemed to stretch the space to the point of snapping bolts and popping nails. It had been both disconcerting and comforting.

  Seeing no one outside, she followed River down the portable metal steps, juggling an armful of books. River had scratched at the door an hour after Jackson left, and Willa had been so relieved, she’d allowed River to sleep in her bed. Waking next to a warm body had been a new experience, and not an unpleasant one.

  But, in the brief time between dreams and reality, she’d imagined a different warm body. One with rumpled brown hair and greenish hazel eyes with a flashing, lazy smile and hands that were rough from hard work but knew how to be gentle with her. She’d woken with an ache in her belly and heart.

  She waved good-bye to River as if the dog were a person and headed across the river into Mississippi. She hadn’t lied to Jackson. She had a standing Saturday-morning date with stacks and stacks of books at the Cottonbloom Library.

  She drove across the steel-girded bridge into Cottonbloom, Mississippi, and to the library on autopilot, her mind back in Louisiana with Jackson. She had a blueprint to handle curious men who wanted more than she could give.

  The problem was she did want to give Jackson more. Everything. Confessions had threatened to leak out—like the fact she’d let her best friend down in the most earth-shattering way possible—but the leaks would turn into a torrent and eventually the dam she’d built to protect herself would collapse. Already she was plugging holes like the little Dutch boy.

  She parked in front of the library and took the steps two at a time. The library occupied an old mansion that had been gifted to the town by an old-maid recluse. Upon her death, officials had found boxes upon boxes of books. In a stroke of genius, the house had been converted into a library. A sizable extension had been added to the back, but it did nothing to detract from the street-side charm of the white columns and marbled porch.

  Willa could spend hours wandering the different rooms, each with their own theme and treasures, but her favorite was a large upstairs room that housed the historical fiction. Something about stepping into the past and living someone else’s life for a few hours helped her bear the thought of the years stretching out in front of her.

  “Figured I’d find you up here.” Marigold Dunlap pushed a cart of books into the room. She was the head librarian, middle-aged, thick around the middle from her self-proclaimed addiction to peach cobbler, and the nicest woman Willa had ever met. With curly red hair and dark blue eyes, she crackled as if an electrical current gave her endless energy.

  Willa had discovered the sanctuary a library could provide during her six months living in Baton Rouge. The anonymity and quiet of the huge marbled public space was a balm to the chaos of her days spent scrabbling together enough money to live and avoiding trouble on the streets. The peace came with the added perk of free computer use.

  She would pretend to read to avoid being accused of loitering. The pretend reading had soon turned into real reading. One of the first things she did after settling in Cottonbloom was to find the closest library.

  Marigold wasn’t like the shushing, aloof librarians she’d encountered at other libraries. She had a loud laugh that traveled from the first to the second floor, an open, inquisitive nature, and good heart. Still, it had taken more than a handful of Saturdays for Willa to respond to the other woman’s overtures.

  “How was Jane Eyre this time? Was Rochester still a secretive, lying bastard?” Marigold’s laugh made Willa giggle in return.

  “Hasn’t changed a bit, but I can’t stay away from him.” Willa turned back to the row of books. “Recommend something new for me.”

  “Want gothic and romantic and chilling?”

  “Sounds right up my alley,” Willa said.

  Marigold went deeper into the rows and came out with three books. “Try these.”

  Willa clutched them to her chest, not bothering to examine them. Marigold’s seal of approval was good enough. “How did the football team do last night?”

  “Lost. We’re out of the play-offs, but we beat Cottonbloom Parish, so the season is still a rousing success.”

  “How’s Dave feeling?”

  “Fair to middling. Chemo is a real bitch.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Willa reached for Marigold’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

  Tears shimmered, but Marigold blinked them away. “Prognosis is good, so I’m hanging on to that.”

  Her husband was a general contractor which meant Marigold was now the family’s sole provider. The stress of the financial and emotional burden had carved deeper furrows across her forehead and bruised her eyes. With her own situation tenuous, all Willa could offer were optimistic platitudes, which wouldn’t be fair. The worst might indeed happen and often did.

  “Is there anything I can do?” As the offer came out, she realized it was as useless as a platitude. Marigold would never ask for help.

  Sure enough, she smiled even though her eyes showed the trace of tears. “Introducing you to my favorite books brightens my day.”

  Willa forced her lips into an answering smile. “I can’t wait to dive into these. I’d better check out. Do you mind?”

  “Of course, come on.” Because Willa didn’t live in Mississippi and couldn’t provide identification, Marigold checked out books on her account for Willa. At first it had been awkward, but Marigold had a gift of putting people at ease and earning their trust. Even Willa to some extent. In return, she guarded the books with her life.

  The most heart-wrenching loss when the tornado had blown through hadn’t been her clothes or furniture or trailer, but the six library books. She’d tried to pay for them, but Marigold had waved off her attempt.

  They descended the staircase side by side. “I may have adopted a dog,” Willa said.

  Marigold gasped and gave a little clap. “That’s wonderful. I worry about you in that trailer all by yourself.”

  “I’m hardly by myself.” At least twenty of the trailers were filled at the moment. Private conversations drifted through thin walls and open windows. It qualified as too much togetherness in her opinion.

  “Exactly. You’re surrounded by ne’er-do-wells.”

  Some troublemakers roamed the park, but most of the residents were like her. Trying to survive. They might not be the friendliest bunch, but they all understood an aspect of life Marigold had never faced.

  “I can take care of myself, but it is nice to have some company, even if our conversations are generally one-sided.”

  “Generally?” Marigold chuckled and Willa joined her.

  “I’m supposed to take her to the vet this afternoon. Jackson Abbott has offered to pay. Should I let him?” Willa chewed on the inside of her mouth.

  “Of course you should,” Marigold said breezily.

  “But what if he—I don’t know—wants something in return.”

  Marigold took her upper arm, stopping halfway down the steps. “I don’t know what all happened to you before you landed in Cottonbloom, but one thing I do know … those Abbott brothers are good men. Honest and fair-dealing. Dave helped the twins fix up their loft.”

  Had she been that transparent? “I may—” She cleared her throat when the words came out choked. “I may have to move on soon.”

  Worry clouded the vibrant blue of Marigold’s eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’d certainly miss you. But you’ll still be around for Christmas, won’t you? I’m counting on you for dinner Christmas Day.”

  Willa had the urge to throw herself at the older woman for a hug. She was the closest thing Willa had to a real friend.

  “I don’t know. Nothing is for sure.”

  “Nothing is ever for sure, darlin’. That’s one thing I’ve learned the hard way this year.” Marigold’s voice was even and knowing. Not waiting for a
show of sympathy, she led them onto the busier first floor. “You need a computer this morning too?”

  Willa glanced toward the bank of free-use computers along the back wall. “Maybe I’ll read the headlines right quick while you check me out.”

  “The books will be ready when you are. Take your time.” Marigold headed to the front desk.

  Willa slipped onto the hard plastic chair at one of the terminals and pulled up the online site of her hometown newspaper, scanning for any mention of her father or his garage. Nothing in the most recent articles, but an ad placement on the side drew her attention.

  Her father stood in front of his garage with a half-dozen employees lined up behind him. He looked uncomfortable in the way of men not used to or desiring attention. Across the bottom was written The Best Mechanics at the Best Prices. Come see us at Buck’s. The ad must have been her stepmother Carol’s idea.

  She enlarged the picture, but it pixelated before she could tell if the look in his eyes was happy or sad. Next she typed the name of her ex-boyfriend in the search bar. The hits were all old and familiar. He either wasn’t out of jail or was staying under the radar. The lack of information should make her feel better, but with her own fortunes teetering on change, the anticipation of something bad happening built her apprehension.

  Derrick blamed her for ruining his life. Granted, he wouldn’t have gotten in trouble with the drug dealers from Memphis if she hadn’t buried his huge stash of heroin and meth in the state park right outside of town. But he would have ended up in jail one way or another.

  Willa shouldered a heavy dose of blame herself. Her naïveté knew no bounds. Derrick had been the first boy to pay her any attention, blinding her to logic. Or maybe that had been her hormones. A year had passed before she’d figured out he had a side business as a small-town drug dealer. The humiliation and shame had the power to churn her stomach this many years later.

  Marigold waved and pointed to the stack of books on the circulation desk before heading back up the stairs. After one more look at her dad, Willa closed the browser, grabbed her books, and headed back to her place.

  She was surprised but not shocked to see Jackson’s Mustang parked in her usual spot. She found him behind her trailer at the edge of the field on his haunches talking in his low gravelly voice to River while he scratched behind her ears. She looked mesmerized by him. Willa couldn’t blame the poor dog. She often felt that way around him.

  What would it be like to be the recipient of the single-minded attention and care he was currently directing toward River? The stab of jealousy was as real as it was ridiculous.

  She stayed at the corner, adopting her usual observation stance. His hair was longer than usual, the ends curling at his collar. Unlike Wyatt, Jackson kept his hair short and his shirts tucked. Speaking of, his shoulders and back stretched his long-sleeved black T-shirt taut. His squat highlighted the curve of his butt and muscular thighs. Between working in the shop and the rounds he went with the punching bag in the barn, he was in phenomenal shape. That, added to his hard-line view of right and wrong, meant he would have done well in the military.

  “Are you ready?” His rough voice penetrated her examination of his stellar butt.

  Her gaze shot up to meet his. How long had he been watching her watch him? He rose and turned toward her, never taking his eyes off her, the movement full of power and grace. Amusement blunted the intensity of his stare, and flames licked up her body.

  Embarrassment, yes, but also the new awareness that had marked the last week. Not on her end. She’d always experienced a tingly curious warmth around him. It was the sudden return of interest that had her sniffing the air like a dog in heat.

  He approached with River on his heels, a new collar and leash giving her little choice in the matter. She trotted ahead to lick Willa’s hand.

  Willa rubbed the top of her head. The olive-green collar matched the dog’s eyes. “Did she hassle you over the collar and leash?”

  “Nope. Seemed happy to wear it, in fact.” His voice dropped into another timbre. “Another sign she belonged to someone at some point. She wants to belong to you now.”

  Like fleas, invisible yet biting, guilt had her turning away from the trusting eyes of the dog. Her life was too complicated to make promises. While they were at the vet, she’d make inquiries about a shelter that would take River in and find her a home.

  “Since I know dog hair all over your interior will make you stroke out, I’ll drive.” She headed to her Honda, trying to shed the guilt through humor. “Unless you can’t stomach being seen in a Honda.”

  “I’ll scrunch down in the seat if I see anyone I know.” He might be mostly teasing, but he hadn’t protested her offer to keep his car free of dog hair either.

  River stationed herself in the backseat, her head between their shoulders, her doggy breath rank. Willa cranked the engine and gave a silent prayer. The Honda coughed its way to running. The squeal it made on reverse was reminiscent of a rejected opera singer.

  “Your clutch could go at any minute.”

  “You don’t say,” she muttered dryly. Hopefully, he wouldn’t look behind them and see the plume of black smoke.

  “Why don’t you talk to Mack and get on the schedule so we can fix her up?”

  “Because I know what the garage charges for labor, and I can’t even afford myself.”

  “We can work something out.” He acted like it wasn’t a big deal. And, Lord knows, the brothers had a constant rotation of project cars they worked on and took to auction. The side business satisfied their obsession and brought in extra cash.

  The difference was they owned the garage, and she was an employee. This vet visit was bad enough. She couldn’t afford to get further into debt with Jackson. It would only bind her tighter to him. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it handled.”

  “Okay.” He drew out the word.

  The car did not help her cause when it shuddered as if entering its death throes on her shift from second to third gear. She gave the accelerator a pump, and it settled into its usual sickly cough.

  The vet’s office was set several streets away from River Street on the Louisiana side of Cottonbloom. Willa had seen the sign go up, but hadn’t given the place much thought otherwise.

  With River between them and Willa holding on to her leash, they stepped inside the double doors. The place smelled of antiseptic and bleach with an underlying scent of wet fur and something earthier that reminded her of a farm.

  “I’ll check us in.” He nudged his chin toward the bank of chairs against the wall. A TV was mounted in the corner and set to a cartoon.

  Jackson and the receptionist spoke in voices too low for her to hear. She tapped her foot, nervous on River’s account even though the dog seemed more curious than anything.

  A woman poked her head out of a door beyond the receptionist’s desk. “River?”

  Willa popped up and wiped her free hand down the leg of her jeans. River trotted toward the woman who’d called her name and the leash slipped out of Willa’s grip. How had the dog learned her name in so short a time?

  Jackson scooped up the leash and Willa followed him into a small examination room. The vet was younger than she expected. Maybe thirty or a little beyond. Tall and striking and blond. Considering her line of work, she was smart too.

  The vet was dressed in a blue-and-white-striped cotton blouse, slacks, and flats, casual yet with an air of sophistication. She and Jackson looked great together. Willa pulled on the fraying hem of her secondhand T-shirt.

  “I’m Isabel Mercier.” She offered a hand to them both, and introductions were made.

  Willa tried to gauge Jackson’s interest in the pretty vet, but his expression was as bland and stoic as ever.

  “A stray, huh?” Isabel squatted down and reached out. With the door shut and escape not an option, River scrambled back a few feet, her ears pricked and her chest rumbling.

  Willa got down on her knees and put her arm around
the dog, leaning in to speak comforting nonsense close to her ear. With Willa at her side, River submitted to the vet’s examination and the series of vaccines, although the low rumble was like constant thunder and her eyes followed every movement. Isabel passed a small handheld device over River’s scruff.

  “What’s that do?” Willa asked.

  “A chip reader. It’s becoming more common for owners to implant a chip that contains contact information, but River doesn’t have one.” Isabel looked River over, her expression serious. “She’s had a litter of pups in the past but is spayed now. She either belonged to someone or spent some time in a shelter. I’d guess she’s around three years of age.”

  “Is she healthy?” Willa’s hands tightened in the dog’s fur.

  “Malnourished, but I expect that will change.” Isabel smiled, making her even prettier. “We’ll have her blood work back in a couple of days, but yes, healthy as far as I can tell. I assume you and Mr. Abbott will be adopting her?”

  Willa’s gaze shot up to Jackson. “Not together. I mean, we’re not together. It would be me. Alone.”

  Was that a flash of amusement on Jackson’s face? It was gone too fast to tell. “Willa and I are just coworkers.”

  Just coworkers. The qualifier hurt even though Willa couldn’t argue the point. The dry, barren fact didn’t dampen the longing for something so far out of her grasp it hurt to reach for it.

  She buried her face in River’s fur and took a deep breath. “What if I can’t keep her? Do you have any suggestions? A no-kill shelter? Or a family with kids maybe?”

  “Sure,” Isabel said slowly. She grabbed a flyer from a drawer and handed it over. It was for a shelter in the next parish over. “It’s not no-kill, but they try their best to find good homes.”

  She followed Isabel out of the room and to the front desk. Isabel and Jackson chatted about ordinary things like where he worked and how she came to be in Cottonbloom. The small talk was drowned out by the dollar amount the receptionist reeled off. Jackson handed over his credit card.