Marrying Molly Page 6

  "Well, Tate, I'm just fine." Ray, a rangy fellow with a retiring manner, dipped his sandy-brown head and sipped from his coffee. A minute later, Dixie slid in behind the counter. She filled Tate's cup and took his order, all the while smiling that gorgeous smile of hers.

  While Dixie was scratching on her order pad, Tate glanced over at Ray. He was looking at Dixie as if she hung the damn moon. For some mysterious reason, that look on Ray's face had Tate thinking of Molly—and that embarrassed him.

  He quickly looked away, his gaze settling on the smoke-stained yellow wall opposite the counter. A series of old photos hung there, photos of the long-dead Jim-Denny himself. In each picture, Jim-Denny stood on the bank of a muddy lake or a pond and proudly held up a flathead catfish. More than one of those fish was as big as a Saint Bernard.

  "He was a noodler, old Jim-Denny was," Ray said, noticing the direction of Tate's gaze.

  "We'll have this order right up, Tate." Dixie winked at him and then bounced on over and stuck Tate's order under the wire above the grill.

  "Jim-Denny was an Oklahoman by birth," Ray continued in a musing tone. "Hands all scarred up from sticking his fists in the mud banks of bogs..."

  Tate already knew this, but he didn't let on. He sat there and drank his coffee and listened to Ray tell him all about the ancient art of noodling, where fishermen used their own hands as bait.

  "The world is one wild place, ain't it?" Ray asked rhetorically after he'd finished the tale.

  Tate agreed that it was. "Looking for work, are you, Ray?" He gestured at the want ads open in front of Ray.

  "Well, I am considering it," Ray replied modestly. "Work just exhausts me, I won't kid you. I don't have the concentration or the disposition for it and I never did." Ray lowered his voice and spoke confidentially. "But I figure I ought to do something, now that Dixie has said she will be my wife. She works hard. I know I owe it to her to help out."

  "Good point," agreed Tate. Ray's inability to hold a job was the next thing to legend around town. Folks liked to say he hadn't worked in decades. But Tate, who made it his business to keep up with what went on in his town, knew that now and then, Ray would manage to get himself hired on somewhere. Inevitably he would miss a lot of days—or while on the job, his attention would wander. He'd always ended up fired.

  "Hey, if you hear of anyone hiring, maybe you could let me know?" Ray looked at him kind of half-hopeftilly—as if he wasn't really sure himself about the whole concept of joining the workaday world.

  Since Tate—and Tucker, too, technically—owned a percentage of most of the businesses in town, Tate had a pretty good idea of who might be looking to hire a new man.

  Would that help his cause with Molly, if he arranged for Ray to get work? Hell. Doing something like that was against his most firmly held beliefs. Forcing one of the local merchants to hire Ray would be, beyond a doubt, bad for business.

  And Tate Bravo did not do what was bad for business.

  To what depths was he willing to sink to get Molly to give in and marry him? It was a question he decided to ponder further at a later time. "Sure, Ray," he said in a tone that made no promises.

  About then, Dixie set Tate's breakfast in front of him. She leaned in close, and he got a whiff of her heady perfume. "Got a call from you-know-who last night. Can you believe someone sent my mama five pounds of Wisconsin cheddar yesterday?"

  Tate felt a warmth inside, a sensation of self-satisfaction. "Did your mama enjoy it?"

  Dixie nodded. "She was tuckin' into it good and proper when you-know-who got home from work." Dixie leaned a little closer and lowered her voice another notch. "So what's next?"

  "Still deciding," Tate replied mysteriously. "That's a big, long list you gave me, and I have plenty of choices."

  Dixie beamed. "Well, keep it up. I think you just might be on the right track."

  Saturday, it was candy corn. Granny was happily munching away when Molly got home from the shop and a little last-minute grocery shopping at four.

  "From Tate?" Molly asked, though she already knew the answer.

  Granny nodded. "Honey bunch, what could I do? It's candy corn."

  "Buy your own?" Molly suggested hopefully.

  Granny only grunted and grabbed another handful.

  And on Sunday?

  Granny got barbecue—delivered straight from that great place out on the highway. Now, how had he done that? Molly wondered. That place on the highway was closed on Sundays.

  And however he'd managed to get those fall-right-off-the-bone ribs on Sunday, they weren't all of it. Tate sent the full array of fixings, too: a choice of hot or mild sauce, tart and sweet slaw, foam cups full of both baked beans and string beans, pillow-soft potato rolls...

  There was even a half pound of brisket and two hot links.

  "Sweet love, you have got to have some of this," Granny insisted when the feast arrived.

  Molly didn't even bother to argue. After all, she liked her barbecue, too. And if Tate wanted to kiss up to Granny, well, that was a good thing, wasn't it?

  Just because Molly refused to marry Tate didn't mean she wouldn't do what she could to build a cordial relationship with him. She would try her best to get along with him, though in the end, she had doubts she would succeed. On every front—political, sexual and matrimonial—she'd set herself to subverting his famous iron will. Tate didn't take kindly to anyone who subverted of his will.

  While they were sucking the rib meat off the bone and forking up big mouthfuls of beans and slaw, Granny looked across the table and asked, "You having his baby, sweetie love?"

  "How'd you hear that?" Molly said carefully. In the past four years, since she'd had that accident at the iron foundry and taken early retirement, Granny didn't get out much.

  "Word gets around, sugar, even to those of us who keep close to home. And the word is you're pregnant and you have refused Tate Bravo's offer of marriage."

  Molly swallowed a bite of tender brisket. "Oh, Granny. It was no offer, it was a flat-out command."

  "So, it's true, then." Granny let out a gleeful cackle of laughter.

  "You've got barbecue sauce on your chin—and what are you laughing about?"

  Granny grabbed a napkin. "Well, dear heart, after two generations of disappearing men, it's downright refreshing to see an O'Dare woman finally meet up with a man who is plumb determined to do what is right-Molly wasn't feeling all that refreshed. "Look at you. A week ago, you were firing your shotgun at him."

  "You know very well I fired way over his head— and now that you mention it, where is my shotgun?"

  "Safe."

  "Safe where?"

  "Forget that shotgun. Consider your pride and your dignity. A little barbecue and some candy corn and Tate Bravo's got you eating out of his hand."

  Granny did more cackling. "Don't forget the cheese."

  Molly was not the least amused. "I'm not marrying him. Don't think I will. It would never work out."

  "Darling love, I know you'll do what you have to do. Pass me some more of those green beans, now will you?"

  Monday Granny received two digitally remastered Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys CDs. When Molly got home, "Big Ball's in Cowtown" blared from the stereo and Granny was dancing around the room.

  "Granny!" Molly shouted over the riddles and guitars. "Don't you think this is going a little too far?"

  "I sure do love those Texas Playboys," Granny shouted back. "When I was a little thing, Mama and Daddy used to pile me in the pickup and take off to dance halls all over the state. I'd fall asleep in the balcony to the sweet rockin' sounds of Western swing. Oh, my. Oh, yes..." Granny closed her eyes and went on dancing.

  Tuesday, when Molly came home, Tate was right there, bold as you pleased, with a leg up on her porch railing, making himself good and comfortable. Granny sat in the rocker holding a picture frame tight to her chest.

  "Granny, are you crying?" Molly blinked in disbelief as she watched a single tear trail down her grandm
other's creased brown cheek. Granny sniffed, waved a hand and looked off toward the pecan tree beside the porch. "Granny?" Granny pressed her lips together, shook her head and clutched the picture frame tighter.

  Ignoring the thrill that shivered through her at the sight of him, Molly turned to Tate. "What did you do to her?"

  "Hello, Molly," he said, as if challenging her to observe the proprieties.

  He was getting no civilities from her until she damn well knew what was happening here. "Why is my granny crying?"

  Granny spoke up then. "Oh, honey cakes, I'm not crying because I'm sad. I'm crying because...well, Tate has brought me something today that I didn't even know I wanted. Just look here." She peeled the picture frame off her chest and turned it Molly's way.

  It held a glossy studio photo of a chubby, goofy-looking cowboy with a space between his teeth. "Andy Devine," Molly muttered. Granny had always been a huge fan of Andy Devine.

  "And look there," Granny cried with a sniff. "Autographed, too." Granny grabbed the picture back and hugged it some more. "Oh, where are all the men like Andy? I always did love him. Agreeable and down-to-earth and loyal as they come. From The Spirit of Notre Dame to Wild Bill Hickock and Andy's Gang. He was even in Stagecoach, remember that?" Warily Molly nodded. Granny heaved a big sigh. "Dead and gone over twenty-five years now. Where does the time go?" Granny dashed a second tear away and gazed adoringly at the long-gone Andy's glossy image. "I'm hanging this in my bedroom where I'll see it first thing in the morning and last thing at night. It never hurts to be reminded of things as they should be, or the things that can bring a smile." She threw back her head and crowed, "Hey, Wild Bill, wait for me!" Then she jumped from the rocker, yanked open the storm door and disappeared inside.

  Molly gave Tate a sideways look. "I'm beginning to think she really ought to get out more."

  He shrugged. "It made her happy. What's wrong with that?"

  She looked at him for a long time, thinking how handsome he was, with those fine broad shoulders and those sexy dark eyes. Finally she realized that good manners required a few appreciative words. It wasn't easy, after all their wrangling, to speak to him pleasantly. But somehow, she managed it.

  "It's nice that you've been...good to Granny. She's loved everything you sent her. I know you had a few clues from my mother. But still, Granny doesn't get enough attention, and you have given her pleasure. And for that, I do thank you."

  He had that look about him. As if he would like to grab her and gobble her up. The problem was, Molly realized, she wouldn't mind being gobbled one bit. Not as long as the one doing the gobbling was Tate. "Come on," he said.

  She eyed him uneasily. "Come on, where?"

  "Let me take you to Junction Steakhouse. We'll get ourselves a couple of T-bones." He smiled then. Oh, Lordy, that man did have one killer of a smile— when he chose to use it.

  Molly sank to the rocker that Granny had vacated. She felt just a little bit shaky, she truly did. "It's just so strange..."

  "Tell me." His voice was soft as cottonwood fluff, blowing light on the evening air.

  "To have you sitting right there on my porch rail, asking me out. I'm not used to it. It's just...not the way things have been between us."

  He gave her an easy shrug. "Well, Molly. It's one of the benefits of everyone knowing about us. Since we're not sneaking around anymore, we can spend an evening together and not care who finds out. They all know, anyway."

  It sounded lovely. For a second or two. But then she considered a little more deeply. "Yeah, and when they do find out I had dinner with you—I mean, if I do have dinner with you—I'll never hear the end of it-"

  "Ignore all the gossip," he instructed, as if it were that simple.

  "I'm doing my best—and while I'm ignoring the gossip, what should I do about the never-ending criticism and the steady stream of thoughtful advice?"

  "Tune it out."

  She snapped her fingers. "Just like that, huh?"

  "That's right."

  "Easy for you to say," she muttered.

  "Hey, they gossip about me, too."

  "Yeah, but I'll bet not a one of them has the nerve to tell you what they think of you right to your face."

  He frowned—and then he got an amused kind of look. "And just what do they think of me?"

  "You don't want to hear." She was muttering again.

  He leaned closer still. "Molly." His dark eyes made promises she longed to let him keep. "Please. Have dinner with me."

  Whoa, Molly thought. Just a darn minute, now. She folded her arms under her breasts and rocked to the rhythm of her own frustration. "Smooth. Real smooth. When we both know what you did in my salon last week—shouting it out like that, making total fools of both of us."

  He gave her a look she could have taken as patronizing. But then again, maybe not. Maybe that look was a tender one. "You did say to go ahead," he reminded her, "that everyone would have to know eventually anyway."

  She rocked some more. "Put it in pretty paper, tie it up with a big, shiny bow. Dress it up any way you want to, but that's not going to change what you did, let alone why you did it. You tried to use shouting out the truth about the baby as a threat to get me in line—and when your threat didn't work, you were cornered. You had to go through with the shouting part."

  He shifted on the porch rail, leaning back and then leaning close again. "Say I told you I regret that I did go through with it, that I am sincerely sorry for any pain or emotional suffering I have caused you by announcing outright what you weren't yet ready to make public knowledge."

  She resisted the powerful urge to reach out and touch his handsome face. Sourly she challenged, "What kind of piddly little apology is that? Are you sorry or not?"

  "I am, Molly." His voice was as smooth and intoxicating as the expensive whiskey he liked to drink. "I am deeply sorry for any pain or emotional suffering I have ever caused you."

  She set to rocking again—much more gently than before. At last, she nodded. "All right, then. Apology accepted."

  His smile was knowing and sexy and made her long to launch herself into his arms, lock her mouth to his and proceed to do the very things that had gotten them into this fix in the first place. "Well, then." His voice was Tupelo honey now, flowing out sweet and slow. "Would you have dinner with me?"

  Suspicion flared, searing away her tender, yearning feelings. She rocked back hard in her chair. "Wait a minute. I get it. This is just more of the same, isn't it? You're just working on me to get me to go out with you—so you can work on me some more to get me to marry you. You're not really sorry for shouting out the news about the baby, and you never were."

  His eyes kind of sparked, betraying his temper, which she knew from hard experience was as hot as her own. But he didn't lose it. He spoke again, so gently. "Molly. I am sorry." He put up a hand, palm out, like a witness taking an oath. "I swear it. I am sorry. Won't you please believe me?"

  She had to admit that he did look at least somewhat regretful—and her throat felt tight. She cleared it. "Okay. I accept your apology."

  "Thank you." He granted her a regal nod. Then he turned his head half-away and slid her a glance.

  "However, I think to be fair you ought to apologize to me, too."

  She stopped rocking and stuck out her chin at him. "I should apologize? For what?"

  He made a sound halfway between a grunt and a chuckle. "Maybe you've forgotten how you snuck in my window, woke me from a sound sleep, told me you were pregnant and then climbed right out the window again?"

  Molly lifted a hand from the chair arm and studied her manicure. The polish on one nail had a tiny nick in it. "I admit. I should've found a better way to tell you."

  Nobly he replied, "I accept your apology."

  Had it been an apology? Well, if technically it hadn't been, she was willing to allow that her way of telling him about the baby hadn't been any more considerate than his way of telling everyone else. She acknowledged his acceptance with a nod
fully as regal as his had been. She also knew his next question before he asked it.

  "All right, then. Dinner?"

  Her contrary nature had her pretending to hesitate—but not for long. She looked down at her Prime Cut T-shirt and then back up at him. "Give me five minutes?"

  The gleam of triumph flared in his eyes. "Five minutes it is."

  They ate at Tres Erisos, the private club behind Junction Steakhouse. At Tres Erisos, members could purchase drinks by the glass. Tate liked a glass of his high-dollar whiskey before dinner.

  "Texas," Molly muttered, shaking her head, when their waitress, Adela, set Tate's drink in front of him.

  He saluted Molly and took a sip. "No place like it," he announced with pride, setting down his glass.

  "Ain't that the truth," she grumbled, glancing around at the other booths and at the U-shaped mahogany bar in the center of the dim room. Everywhere she looked, pairs of avid eyes quickly looked away. "You'd think we could at least all agree on our liquor laws." In Texas, as in many southern states, some counties were "dry." You could not buy liquor in any form. Most counties, like theirs, were "partially dry;" liquor was available but carefully controlled. A few were "wet," which meant restaurants and bars could be licensed to serve drinks and you didn't have to drive miles and miles to find a package liquor store.

  Tate was frowning. "What's the problem now? You want a drink?"

  "No, I don't. And that's not my point."

  He took another sip—a big one. "I'll take that to mean you do have a point."

  "Ha-ha."

  "Molly." He seemed to be keeping his voice low with effort. "If you want to change the liquor laws, better run for county supervisor."

  "I'm not through as mayor yet."

  "Did you have to remind me?" He signaled Adela for another. She set it in front of him almost before he got his hand in the air. Molly scowled. "What?" he demanded.

  "Oh, nothing." She fiddled with the stem of her water glass. "I don't usually hang around in private drinking clubs with the good ol' boys, that's all."

  "Molly," he said again. That was all. Just Molly, in a weary, worldly-wise, so-patient tone.