What would she ever do without him? How would she make it? They lived with his parents on his father’s ranch. Terry knew he’d inherit the whole operation someday, but they had no real money, not of their own. Her husband hung out with the same guys he’d known in high school, partied nearly as hard and cheated on his wife. And every time he got himself into a scrape, he ran to Daddy.
Her life had turned out so differently from what she’d planned. She’d married Terry Wentworth because she believed in his potential, the sweetness in him. She’d wanted to see him rise to that potential. But at eighteen she probably wasn’t the best judge of character. Since then, she’d realized he was too lazy and too weak to fight the influence of having everything handed to him on a silver platter. He had no determination, no ambition, because no problem was too big for Daddy to solve.
Except this one, Jackie promised. Burt Wentworth was a formidable foe, but if he gave her trouble over the divorce—and she knew he would—she’d fight him.
She thought of marching into Maxine’s to tell Terry so, then decided against it. Why embarrass him? Let him have his fun. Reality would intrude soon enough. But she couldn’t leave without letting him know she’d caught him red-handed. Otherwise he’d claim she’d seen someone else’s truck in the dark. He’d lie and cry and play the martyr. And she was done with all that.
Backing the Suburban out of the lot and parking it where the children could no longer see Terry’s truck, she retrieved the large hunting knife they kept in the glove box, got out and methodically slashed all four of Terry’s tires. The wheezing sound of escaping air followed her back to the Suburban. By now the baby was quiet, and her older children had stopped fighting, too busy turning in their seats, trying to see where she’d gone.
“What did you do?” Alex asked, as she climbed back in.
Jackie put the knife away and started the car again. “I just left Daddy a message,” she said.
CHAPTER ONE
One year later…
JACLYN’S DIVORCE was final today, but she didn’t feel much like celebrating. Her father-in-law and ex-husband had made her life hell with all their legal motions and expensive lawyers. She’d spent almost everything she’d earned waitressing on her own pathetic attorney—had run up a sizable bill, besides—and still she’d gotten no spousal maintenance, a mere pittance for child support and no more custody rights than Terry.
But she had escaped. Finally. She’d won in that regard and in one other: the court had given her permission to leave Feld, as long as she didn’t go farther than a two-hour drive. Now she lived in Reno, Nevada, a mini-Las Vegas, self-dubbed the “biggest little city in the world.” With a small strip of casinos, a constant influx of truckers, and slot machines in every gas station and convenience store, it wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind when she left the Wentworth ranch, but it was better than Feld. At least she was free to build a life for herself that didn’t include Terry’s family and their influence, or the sickening knowledge that her husband was warming someone else’s bed. No more nights spent searching for him, wondering where or when he might turn up. No more heated arguments and denials.
And no more financial security. For better or for worse, Jaclyn was on her own. And being on her own could be downright lonely, she realized, rinsing off the knife she needed to slice pie for table number five. It was summer so the kids were out of school. Terry had come from Feld to pick them up, and now she was looking at three full days without them. She had to work tonight and tomorrow, but she was off, for a change, on Wednesday. What would she do with herself?
Maybe she should offer to take a shift for one of the other waitresses. She was already scheduled for forty hours this week, but heaven knows she needed the money.
“I just seated another table at your station,” the hostess informed her. “Can you handle it? Or should I have Nicole punch in?”
It was late afternoon, before the dinner crush. Jaclyn was the only waitress on the floor and had three tables going already, but she could manage another. On a busy night at Joanna’s, the manager assigned five tables to each server. Sometimes, when they were slammed, Jaclyn took six. “No problem. I’ve got it.”
“Two men,” the hostess responded. “And one looks good enough to eat.”
Jaclyn didn’t care if they were handsome. She felt no desire for another relationship, at least not yet. That they were male was significant, though. In her experience, men usually tipped better than women or families or seniors.
She delivered dessert to the four older women dining together at table five and approached the newcomers to find them both perusing the menu.
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked.
“I’ll have a cola,” the man on her right replied. Heavyset and about forty years old, he was resisting the loss of his hair by combing the few remaining strands over the dome of his head. He certainly didn’t look good enough to eat. Which meant…
The man on her left lowered his menu. He had warm brown eyes, black hair and a ruggedly attractive face with a slightly cleft chin. His dark tan gave the impression that he worked outdoors, despite the business suit that fit his athletic body to perfection.
“Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?” he asked.
Jaclyn shook her head. Working in a café-style restaurant open twenty-four hours a day, she heard that line a lot. Only, it was usually after dark, not at four o’clock in the afternoon. Still, she had to admit it sounded better coming from a man who looked as if he could be plastered on a billboard advertising men’s briefs.
“I doubt it. I’m new to Reno.”
He frowned. “I never forget a face. Where did you live before?”
“A little town off the loneliest road in America.”
“Highway 50. You’re from Feld,” he said. “You were Terry’s girl.”
Jaclyn blinked in surprise. “Yeah. How did you know?”
“I lived there for a while.”
Even here she couldn’t completely escape Feld or Terry. Jaclyn racked her brain, trying to remember who this man was. He looked about her age. If he’d lived in Feld long, she’d certainly know him.
And then it dawned on her. This was Cole Perrini, the boy who’d moved in right before their senior year. The wiry, rangy youth was gone. He seemed at least two inches taller and nearly fifty pounds of pure muscle heavier. But it was definitely Cole. The eyes and that cocky grin gave him away, along with a certain hard-bitten edge that seemed to warn everyone to keep their distance or take their chances.
“Oh, you’re Cole,” she said, remembering far more than just his name. The oldest son of a poor mining family, he’d lived in a cheap trailer just outside town and driven a beatup old truck. Terry had been voted most likely to succeed that year. Had there been a category for it, Cole Perrini would have been nominated most likely to get someone pregnant. Which was exactly what he’d gone on to do. The girls loved him because he was handsome and dangerous and, from what Jaclyn had heard, good with his hands. Terry’s crowd hated him—for the same reasons.
“You married Rochelle,” she added.
He winced. “We’re divorced.”
“I know.” The beginning of Cole and Rochelle’s story was common knowledge, at least in Feld. Rochelle had loved Cole to distraction and chased him for more than a year. She’d gotten pregnant, and he’d married her. The rest Jaclyn had heard when she’d run into Rochelle years ago. Cole hadn’t been faithful—which sounded all too familiar—and the marriage had ended in divorce just a few months after Rochelle miscarried.
“You still with Terry?” he asked.