But damn, she looked good.
Her hair fell in long dark waves down her back, the color a rich sable. She’d lost weight and was edging toward too skinny, but it didn’t diminish the round swells of her breasts beneath a sleeveless tank or the lush curve of her hips beneath her jeans. Although she was seated, he knew the long, long legs that currently ended in sexy flip-flops that bared purple-painted toenails were a spectacular sight, whether she wore one of her conservative dresses for teaching or a pair of shorts for a town picnic.
Purple polish?
He had no idea why he found that cute since he could care less about nail polish or the varied colors it came in. Yet, on Reese Grantham it looked good. Everything looked good on her, from the outfit tonight to the more severe choices she wore while teaching. She was pretty and sexy, in a way that wasn’t garish or overdone and...
And he’d do well to cut off that train before it got a head of steam.
No matter how good she looked, it couldn’t erase the sadness that lingered in her eyes or the light smudges that filled in the hollows below them.
Nor could it erase the fact that one of her father’s crimes had been committed on Reynolds land the prior spring. In the crime that had begun his descent into capture, Russ Grantham had killed his quarry at the edge of Reynolds property, seeking to make it look like a drug deal gone bad.
“What are you doing out on a Tuesday night?” Reese asked, reaching for her beer. The question was enough to jar him from the bleak direction of his thoughts and he reached out and hung on to it with both hands.
“I could ask you the same.”
“I asked first.”
She had a spine, something that had always intrigued him, and with a small nod, he answered her. “Figured I’d get a beer or two. Snag a few games of pool off anyone who was interested.”
“Please don’t let me stop you.”
Although he heard no hint of the bum’s rush, he couldn’t resist teasing her a bit. “You trying to get rid of me?”
“No!” Those pretty hazel eyes widened as if she realized what she’d said. “I didn’t mean you had to go away. I just meant you don’t have to babysit me.”
“Why’s it babysitting?”
“Because I can already see the good cowboy routine. The nod to Tabasco that you’ll take care of me. The whole you-can’t-drink-alone stance. You feel sorry for me.”
Although he knew she didn’t have kids, it struck him in that moment that she spent her professional life around children and had clearly developed that legendary second set of eyes in the back of her head.
“You saw that?”
“What?” She inclined her head toward the opposite end of the bar. “The manly eye contact with Tabasco, ensuring you’d get me home?”
“Yeah. That one.”
“Yes, I saw it.”
He nearly laughed at the prim tone and the way her hands folded on the bar in front of her second round of beer and whiskey chasers, but held back. She was amusing, but he wasn’t trying to make fun of her and for reasons he couldn’t quite define, he wasn’t sure she would understand the difference tonight.
Hell, he didn’t even understand it. He’d headed in because he was restless and tired of his own company. A state that had become increasingly consistent over the past year. He hadn’t felt this way in a while. The last time he could remember was his final year in special ops, when even three major wins, removing several terrorists in power hadn’t settled his thoughts of home and the help he knew his family needed on the ranch. Before that, it had been the decision to enlist, escaping the confines of that same family and the sense that the world was bigger—and needed more of him—than simply raising cattle.
Oh, how things had changed.
Which had all brought him here.
A mindless night out had seemed like a good idea. He wasn’t big on having his business spread around Midnight Pass like manure, so he hadn’t put seducing a woman on the list of activities for the evening, but he’d be lying if he didn’t acknowledge—only to himself—that he was enjoying her company.
He’d be lying even harder if that thread of sadness he saw in her eyes didn’t pull him in.
“Well, I might be looking out for you but I’m not sitting here feeling sorry for you.”
Her head tilted slightly, just enough to send her hair falling over her shoulder in a just-so motion that made him want to reach out and run the tips of his fingers through the strands. “Well, that’s a surprise.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s exactly what I’m doing sitting here. Feeling sorry for myself.”
“Whiskey’s not the answer.”
“You mean there’s an answer?” Those pretty hazel eyes widened, her voice deadpan. “One that doesn’t begin with ‘you just have to take it day by day’ or ‘God has His plans, even if we can’t understand them’?”
Hoyt knew those answers. Had lived them himself and dealt with the endless comments designed to be helpful and supportive. First when his mother had died of cancer, and later, when his father’s bad business practices had come to light.
Instead of offering comfort, they’d been intrusive and taxing and designed to make the person saying them feel better, not the recipient.
He knew he had a reputation for being a cold, sullen jerk and he could hardly lay all that at his old man’s feet. But he had definitely honed those personality traits after his father’s actions had come to light.
Why talk to people when they really didn’t want the truth? Each person’s own version of events was far more interesting. And why make any effort to quell the gossip when the ones engaging in it were perfectly happy to keep whispering behind your back?
“No, I don’t think there is an answer,” he said. “And I know for a fact God’s plans and how you take your days are not answers to that question.”
“On that we are agreed.” She lifted her whiskey shot and clinked it against his glass where it sat waiting on the bar. Liquid sloshed to the edges but she was obviously still steady enough not to spill. “Let’s toast on it.”
He lifted his shot glass, tapping it gently to hers. “To a lack of answers.”
“Cheers.”
Hoyt took his shot and braced himself for a second round of coughing—and the opportunity to settle his hands once more on the slender arch of her shoulders—but she held her whiskey. Her eyes did narrow into a determined squint, but she held on.
And why did he think that was sexy as hell?
She was a mystery to him. A woman who he’d known most of his life, had always found pretty enough and interesting enough, yet he’d never ventured even one single step in the direction of those waters. He wasn’t the serious type in his relationships and he sure as hell didn’t want forever.
Hoyt’s own father had done a piss-poor job of convincing everyone he wanted forever and instead had done his level best to ruin whatever legacy his time on earth might have produced. Hoyt and his brothers and sister had lived with that truth, each learning to deal with it in their own way.
For Tate it was laughter. For Ace it was taking ownership of everything and everyone. And for Arden it was playing little mother and earth mother, all in one fell swoop.
He was the one who ran away. First with his emotions