Busting Loose (5 page)

Dammit.

 

A knock sounded, bringing Morgan out of the paperwork he was finishing up. “Just a sec,” he muttered without looking up. If he looked up, he'd lose his place. If he lost his place, he'd be doing this for another hour. If he was doing this for another hour, he'd have to stab himself with a pencil.

“Almost . . . there.” He finished with an overexuberant period and shoved the file to the side. “Now, what's up?” He looked up and found Bea watching him from the doorway to his small office, one shoulder propped against the frame. Her long legs were crossed at the ankles, one red wedge tapping impatiently.

“Morgan, I've got a few questions about the shelter.”

“Hmm? Shelter? Something wrong?”

Bea shook her head, then must have thought better of it and nodded. “Yes. I mean, nothing immediate. But you've mentioned before there aren't nearly enough spaces for all the dogs in this area that need a place to go.”

“That's true.” He laced his fingers over his stomach and stretched his back a little.
Thank you, God, for the break.
Nobody—absolutely nobody—became a vet for the paperwork and charts.

“So I'm realizing it's great and all that the shelter is here. I know it's pretty new. And it's very nice, for the dogs it can hold.” She chewed on her bottom lip a little, and he wanted to smooth the mark away with his thumb. Damn, she had too pretty a mouth to worry it like that with her teeth. Full, but not in a fake, collagen-filled way. They were soft looking. Expressive. Kissable.

“Morgan.”

“Right. The problem?” He blinked, then took his glasses off when he realized they were smudged. As usual.

Bea sighed and reached for the frames. He handed them over without a word, and she polished them on the sleeve of her shirt as she spoke. “The problem is, those dogs aren't moving fast enough. There are some awesome dogs, but nobody knows about them. I just had a patient ten minutes ago tell me she didn't know there was a shelter connected to the clinic, and she's been coming here for years.”

“Hmm.” He took the glasses back and put them on. The world became clearer. And Bea's beauty only became brighter, more well-defined. “I can't exactly do a whole lot about that, you know. If people don't pay attention—”

“Make them.”

Morgan blinked. “Beg pardon?”

Bea smiled a little. “You're too sweet for this. You make them pay attention. That's all advertising is. Thrusting something under someone's nose often enough they can't ignore it any longer.”

“I don't think I understand what you're getting at.”

“It's like this.” She walked in, closed the door, then opened it again as a whine penetrated. “Well, come on then.” She shooed her dog inside the office. He pranced in like the fuzzy chaperone he was, and she closed it again. Then, perching her tight little butt on the edge of his file cabinet, she started again. “When I was auditioning for soaps, I had to make a nuisance out of myself. They didn't want to give me the time of day. Why? Who the hell did I think I was? I was nobody. One toothpaste commercial and a handful of catalogs do not an impressive résumé make.” Bea's eyes went a little dreamy, as if remembering fondly those early days. Then she snapped back to the present. “I badgered. I bothered. I snuck into auditions and callbacks I wasn't invited to. And finally, someone noticed.”

“And you got the part,” he finished for her.

“No, I got kicked out by security.” She grinned. “But on my way out, I delivered a stirring monologue—that might or might not have been laced with profanity. It caught the casting director's ear. Something about overt passion and whatever. Case in point, I caught their eye based on persistence and tenacity . . . and a little bit of creative sneakiness. That's what the shelter needs.” She thought for a moment. “Not sneakiness. But the tenacity part.”

He sat for a minute, absorbing. Advertising. He hadn't really considered it, past putting a small flyer in each of the exam rooms. Clearly, even that wasn't getting people's attention. Decision made, he swallowed a smile and pointed at her. “Okay then. Let me know how that goes.”

“Great! So . . . wait. How what goes?” Her face was a study of confusion.

“The whole advertising thing. Tenacity, persistence, the whole bit. That's what you were talking about, right? I'm too sweet to make a nuisance out of myself, but you're not? You were volunteering to take over advertising, weren't you?” He grinned widely. “That is such a relief, I can't even begin to tell you.”

“But I . . . that's not quite what . . . I just don't . . .” Bea sputtered. “You can't trust me with this.”

“Sure I can. I mean, let's face it. How much worse could it get, right? Nobody knows about us now. So any word out there would be better than nothing.”

Bea nodded slowly. “You sure you trust me with this?”

“Of course I do. You're perfect. And it'd be a huge help.” He stood, and risking her scorn, wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed in a platonic sort of hug. “Thanks for volunteering.”

“Volunteering. Right.” She opened the door, Milton at her heels. “Sure thing.” As she closed the door behind her, Morgan laughed a little to himself.

Step by step, she was doing most of the work for him. Before he knew it, she'd be a permanent resident and be wondering why she hadn't moved back years ago.

 

Bea cursed the pitted, dirt-packed driveway that led from the main road to the ranch. Maybe she could convince Peyton to pave this sucker. It couldn't hurt to ask, right? When she came to the Y at the heart of the ranch, she debated for half a second before turning left instead of right to go to her apartment. She was starving, and all she had at her place was a suspicious apple and the remnants of a peanut butter jar she'd stolen from the big house a week ago.

“We're gonna go get some food, Milton.” He nosed her arm in agreement, and she drove up to the main house, parking in her old spot.

She let Milton out, then just stood and looked for a minute at the ranch. The end of the workday was long past, and only a few men remained to finish cleaning up and settle the livestock down for the night. She watched the sun set over the land her parents had passed on to the three of them, and couldn't hold back a little smile.

This wasn't something she could find on a Hollywood sound stage. No replicating that clean view, or mimicking the way the wind gently moved the wheat and corn beyond the barns. There were some things no amount of Hollywood magic could re-create.

She watched Milton find a nice spot on the grass and water the lawn. That snapped her out of it. Wow, was she getting sentimental about land she didn't even want? Yeah, a third of it was hers . . . which was a shocker in and of itself. She'd felt sure, after their mother had passed, the entire thing would go to Peyton. The sister who stayed and kept up with the running of the ranch. The one who truly wanted the responsibility of owning all that . . . vastness.

But instead, it'd been split into three equal parts. And when she'd suggested her sister buy her out, Peyton had informed her that just wasn't happening. Not yet, anyway.

Would she have stayed, Bea wondered, if she'd had the check in her hands that day? Probably not. She'd have hightailed it back to LA and never looked back. She wouldn't really know her nephew—drooling slobber monster that he was—or get a front-row seat for the spectacle of her sister and brother meeting the loves of their lives and falling head over heels. She would have missed so much.

She
would
miss so much, she corrected, as she opened the front door and let Milton prance in ahead of her. “We're home!”

Only Emma's voice greeted her. “Kitchen!”

She toed off her shoes and left them on the mat by the door, following her dog. The boy had a keen sense for food, but a horrible sense for a weak target. Emma was no more likely to give the dog a scrap from her kitchen counter than she was to jump off the roof and fly. Tough old bird, their Emma. But more motherly than their own mom ever had been. Scraped knees, hurt feelings, and spilled juice were Emma's domain. Perfect children who kept their outfits spotless and their mouths shut were their mother's.

“Hey, Emma. What's for dinner?” She kissed the shorter woman on the cheek and nabbed a slice of green pepper from the cutting board.

“Stir fry, and don't be eating all the vegetables.” Emma shooed her off and went back to chopping. The knife gleamed as she made quick work of the stack to be cut. “We'll eat in an hour. You're lucky I even have enough to cover you. You've been absent so many times these past few weeks, I almost forgot you exist.”

“Aw, Emma.” Bea hopped up on the counter, crossing her legs and letting the top foot swing. “I don't have any groceries at my place.”

“Saunter in, saunter out. Steal food when you feel like it,” Emma grumbled. All an act. Feeding people was her favorite pastime. Her second favorite . . . complaining.

“It's not stealing. It's . . . borrowing without the intent of returning.” Bea considered grabbing another slice of pepper, eyed the fast-moving knife, and decided against it. “Besides, I'm entertainment. With me at the table, there's never any want for conversation.”

“Your mother used to say that,” Emma said, then winced when Bea froze. “Not that you're anything like her.”

Bea sighed. “It's okay. I know I am. I hear it enough from Peyton. Trace, too, though he's more . . . subtle in his disappointment.”

“They're not disappointed. They're confused. You just turned out different, is all. They need to figure out how to relate to you. Your mother—I know,” she cut in when Bea scowled. “I know you don't like talking about her, but I'm gonna do it anyway. Your mother drove the wedge between you as children as surely as if she'd taken a sledgehammer and pounded it there. She might not have intended to do it, but she did all the same. Thoughtless, as usual. That was your mama.”

“And I'm just like her.” No point in keeping the bitterness out of her tone. Emma wouldn't pop her for it.

“No. You're not thoughtless. You're out of practice with considering others.” Emma slapped at her hand when she reached quietly for another slice. “You'll ruin the stir fry for everyone else.”

“I'm the only one in this family who appreciates a vegetable that isn't a starch.” But she smiled and thanked her when Emma held up one more slice.

“Rabbit food,” Emma grumbled.

“And I'm not out of practice. I'm just not prone to it, period. It's genetic. I like looking out for myself. I'm the most important person in my life, aren't I?”

“There's that fake junk again.” Emma rolled her eyes and reached into the fridge for the chicken. “You have more soft spots than you want to let on, for God knows what reason. The point is, you think about others far more often than you want people to believe. I'm on to you.”

Bea scoffed, but watched the housekeeper closely.

“You wouldn't have gotten that worthless dog if you didn't think of others.” Emma pointed at Milton—situated right by her feet—with the tip of her knife.

“Small dogs are hot right now. Everyone has a purse dog.”

Emma's eyebrows drew together. “He's not a working dog, he's not important. Sure isn't a pampered purebred purse dog either.”

“He's a Milton, and I love him.” Bea hopped down and rubbed the top of his head. “Yes, I do.”

“There.” Emma smiled, satisfied her point had been made. “Exactly. If you spent less time holding up this ridiculous helpless city girl façade and more time thinking about your family and what they need, you might actually turn a corner somewhere with them.”

Bea sat on the kitchen floor for a while, quietly entertaining the idea. “But I am a city girl.”

“I note you left out the word ‘helpless.' ”

Dammit. “I'm going to watch some TV before dinner. Come on, Milton.”

“Think about it,” Emma's voice sang out as she walked through the kitchen door and into the dining room.

“Pass,” Bea mumbled.

M
organ caught up with Trace in the barn, barely. He was hanging up his tack, staring at it like he was memorizing the placement on the peg board and table where he settled all the equipment.

“Problem, Trace?”

He rested his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Just giving everything a once-over. I like to see if elves have moved anything overnight.”

“Elves?” Morgan glanced at his friend in the dim light. “Been drinking already?”

Trace laughed and shook his head again. “Nah.” With a brush of his hands on the thighs of his jeans, he turned and smiled. “So, what's up? It's not normal rotation day. Peyton call you out?”

“Nope. Stopped by to talk to you, actually.”

“Okay. Shoot.” Trace led the way out of the equipment area and into the long row of stalls. Equine heads poked out over several stalls to say hello, and the men stopped to give a rub or a quick word of hello to each one.

“I'm going to be dating your sister.”

Trace stopped short, hand frozen over a sweet mare's forelock. “I think you should talk to Red about that one, since I'm pretty damn sure he's gonna have—”

“Not Peyton. What the hell?” Morgan rubbed the back of his neck. “Bea. Your youngest sister,” he clarified, though he wasn't sure why. When Trace stared, he added, “Long legs, short blond hair, Muldoon blue eyes? Ringing any bells?”

“Yeah, it's ringing bells all right. Alarm bells.” Trace scratched the filly and moved on. “But okay, so what's there to talk about?”

“I figured I owed you the heads-up, seeing as you're her big brother. Might be feeling protective. Wanted to let you know I have the best intentions there.”

Trace laughed again, and Morgan relaxed a little. At least this wouldn't decline into one of those soap opera things where Trace defended his sister's honor with a punch to the jaw. Morgan could fight back, but being honest, Trace would kick his ass in the end. And he needed his hands to operate.

“I think you probably mean that.”

“Then what's so funny?”

“Because,” Trace said between chuckles, “I have a hard time seeing any of her intentions as being honorable in return.”

Morgan's hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Are you saying something about her moral character?”

“I would rather not comment on my sister's moral character. I just think she'd run you in circles and leave without blinking.” Trace shrugged. “It's her way. Doesn't make it wrong, it just makes it distinctly Bea.”

Morgan had to work to keep his voice relaxed, when his jaw wanted to clench and his teeth threatened to grind. “So your only objection is for my benefit, not hers.”

Trace paused and looked behind him for a second. His blue eyes, so like Bea's it was a little odd, narrowed. “Maybe I'm not saying it the right way.”

“Ya think?” Morgan said under his breath, and had the mare nearest him whickering softly back. He rubbed her velvety nose and let her sniff his arm in return for the support.

“I just see it as an unbalanced match. Not in the whole ‘one is better than the other' way. Just that . . . it doesn't seem to fit.”

“You and Jo didn't fit at first,” Morgan pointed out.

His friend's mouth quirked a little. “Got me there. Took more than a little convincing to get her to even think twice about a single dad. But we got around to making everything fit.”

Trace shrugged and headed toward the house. “Coming to dinner?”

“Nah. Gonna head up to Ma's and eat. She's been chewing my ear off about not coming by recently.” He waved as Trace walked on toward the main house, past Bea's car parked out front. Maybe he shouldn't have been so hasty in saying no . . .

But his family came first. And so he'd fulfill his obligations there and enjoy the time with his parents. And eventually, he'd get back to the goal of making everything fit for him and Bea.

 

Bea took her turn to clean up after dinner with the minimum amount of bitching. It was amusing to see both Peyton and Trace's jaws drop when she did something unexpected. But mostly, she wanted to avoid The Love Nest, which was what dinner had turned into recently.

She'd been avoiding meals for several weeks now, and her job had become a handy excuse in recent days. But mostly, she was starting to feel more than a little left behind. Not that they went out of their way to make her feel like a fifth wheel. But she could add up numbers, and since Seth didn't count as a formal date, she was definitely the odd man out.

After stacking the dishes in the sink for Emma— who had a dishwasher loading system and refused to be budged—she wiped her hands on the towel and headed back through the dining room. Milton abandoned his post by Seth's high chair, where he diligently waited for the inevitable oopsie snacks, and followed her over to the living room.

If Bea had had a TV and cable in the apartment, it would have been much easier. But alas, no hookups. So she had to do her channel-surfing in the big house. She clicked on the TV, waited for the DVR to register, and started the most recent episode of
The Tantalizing and the Tempting
. But after five minutes, she turned it back off. Her stomach couldn't handle the cheese. Lord, had she ever been that obvious?

Of course she had been. That was the point with a soap opera. You were cheesy and overdramatic, to fit with the music and dialogue. Which was why the entire gig fit her like a glove.

“Bea?” Peyton walked in behind her, footsteps soft on the thick carpet. “Watching anything interesting?”

She snorted, and answered honestly, “Nope. You want?” She held the remote up.

Peyton shook her head. “No. I just thought we could . . . talk.” Her mouth twisted as she said the last word, like it tasted funny.

Bea snorted again, this time with laughter. “Did you lose a bet? Or did Trace put you up to it?”

Peyton sank down into the gilt-framed Victorian replica chair opposite the couch, her back straight, butt barely touching the cushion. “I hate this chair.”

“I hate everything down here.”

Peyton nodded slowly, looking around the lower level of the house. Their mother had redecorated the home back when they were teens. Some theory about looking wealthy to attract wealth. Only she'd had worse taste than Elvis, and just turned the entire first floor into a palace of gold gilt crap. Bea liked the finer things in life, but this wasn't fine. It was scary-hideous.

“Uh, how about my office instead?”

“Oh, sounds so official.” When Peyton just stared, she shrugged. “Why not?” And followed her sister into the office that had once been their father's domain.

Only, not quite. Yes, his presence still rang true in the space. His desk, the thick, scarred hunk of wood, took up the majority of the room. A framed black-and-white photo of him as a boy on his first pony hung behind the chair. And some of his books were still on the bookshelves. But Bea was pleased—and surprised by the pleasure—to see Peyton had really made the space her own. Her own photos, her own books, just her, everywhere.

Peyton sat down and rocked a little in the chair. “You enjoy working at the clinic?”

Bea settled down on one of the soft chairs across the desk and crossed her legs. Milton pawed at her lower leg, whining to be picked up. She shooed him down again. “I don't mind it. It's something to do.”

“Something to do,” Peyton murmured, shaking her head. “You haven't asked about the ranch's financial situation recently.”

Bea said nothing, only scratched the top of Milton's head.

“I still can't cut you a check worth anything decent.”

She watched, fascinated, while her sister flushed with . . . what? Embarrassment? Shame? Anger? She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Peyton flush. She was cool as a cucumber, always. No drama, no tantrums.

“Things are turning around, but the turnaround is slow. It's not going to be an instant fix. If you're hanging around waiting for a big payout, it's not coming anytime soon.”

Bea waited a little to see if she was done, and when Peyton remained quiet, she sighed. “Am I a burden?”

Peyton's eyes widened a little. “No.”

“Am I getting in the way?”

“No . . .”

“So, it's fine that I'm here. I'm not ruining your hopes and dreams by sticking around?”

Peyton's eyes narrowed. “Why would you say that?”

Bea stood, jarring Milton's head back. Dammit. She'd actually thought—for one stupid moment, really believed—they'd started making some headway. And now Peyton was hinting she could leave anytime. Why didn't she just shove her out the door with her suitcase? “If it's a big deal that I'm out in that apartment over the garage, I can find something in town. Or I can just leave.”

“Sit down, Bea.”

“I don't need to—”

“Sit.”

Bea's butt hit the seat before she could even think twice; then she immediately scolded herself for following orders like a hired hand. She wasn't the damn help. She was a sister. A part of the family, much as Peyton would like to claim otherwise.

“I don't want you to leave. You don't have to go.” Peyton rubbed at her forehead, tugged a little on the dark, sleek tail of hair she always had tucked up under a hat or pulled away from her face. They shared the same eyes, the clear Muldoon blue coloring distinctive enough there was no way to mistake their connection. But in every other way, they were as physically different as night and day.

“So if this isn't the boot, what is it?”

“Call it checking in. We don't see each other all that often. Less, now that you're not underfoot with that mutt. Your job and the garage apartment keep you pretty busy.”

Milton made a sound, a mix between a whine and a growl that indicated he knew slander when he heard it. “It's okay, baby. She didn't mean it.”

“I probably did,” Peyton said, but in a cheerful voice and with a smile. “But either way, the point is, I just wanted you to know . . . it's okay. If you want to stay, it's okay.”

The simple words, however stark and void of emotion, tugged a little on her heartstrings. “I'm not here for good, sis. Don't get any crazy ideas.”

Peyton laughed. “I'm definitely not assuming that. But just . . . there's no rush. That's all.”

Bea stood, feeling a little more off balance than she had been not ten minutes earlier. “Okay. Thanks.”

“But if you wanna earn your keep,” Peyton called out as she walked through the door, “we'd never say no to another pair of hands mucking out stalls.”

“Spiteful bitch,” Bea muttered, but smiled as she waited for Milton to prance through. Then she slammed the office door behind her, merely on principle. Peyton would expect it, and she'd hate to disappoint.

 

Bea stepped into Jo's Place and immediately wished she was there for pleasure instead of business. But instead, she scouted out her targets and locked in. Oh, this was fun. She tugged a little at her top—skimpier than usual, but one that looked fine when paired with the cardigan she'd removed ten minutes earlier—and made sure her top button was open. Just enough skin to provide the shadow of cleavage for anyone who was looking.

And she'd yet to meet a man who wouldn't look whenever possible.

After waiting a beat, as if scanning the crowd, she walked over to the bar and smiled at Jo. “Hey, girl.”

“Hey, yourself.” Jo smiled and draped a bar towel over the shoulder of the black polo she wore. All the servers wore the same simple uniform, with
Jo's Place
stitched where a pocket would go. Simple, understated, and something that made it clear this wasn't a yucky titty bar. Good food, great drinks, and a warm, inviting place to meet up with friends. Jo had taken the disgusting hovel of a cowboy honkey-tonk and turned it into a wonderful, classy but not overreaching bar. “Taking a break from work?”

“Lunch hour. Normally I bring something with me, but I decided to live dangerously.”

“Need to be back fast? If you eat at the bar, it's quicker than a table.” Jo pulled out a menu, then rolled her eyes and put it back under the bar. “Rabbit food and water?”

“Yes on the water, but . . .” She trailed off, then turned to scan the lunch crowd again. “Oh, look over there. Isn't that Bill Jeffries?”

“Yes,” Jo said slowly. “Why do you care?”

“And he's sitting with Stuart Wilde, right?”

Jo set a glass of ice water by her elbow. “Bea, what are you up to?”

“Up to?” Bea drummed her fingertips on the top of the bar once and gave her the best
trust me
smile she could muster. “Jo, that's rude. You shouldn't assume the worst of a paying customer.”

“Thus far, you've ordered water, which is free.” Jo's eyes narrowed. “This doesn't have anything to do with that whole petition to close me down a few months ago, does it? Because that's in the past now, and I want it to stay there. Those two men are in here once a week, and they tip the servers well. Don't ruin that.”

“Jo, not everything is about you.” Bea took a sip of water and fluffed out her hair. It'd been a pain to deal with all morning, constantly falling in her eyes every time she bent over her computer keyboard or answered the phone, but she knew it was the most flattering way of framing her face. “Give me a ten-minute head start, then order a salad to go, please? I'll swing back by the bar and pick it up in a bit.”