across the dresser. No clothes hanging in the closet. And definitely no note. He’d taken everything with him as if he meant to never come back.
And the problem is?
No problem. Sure, she preferred being the one out the door first, but at least he’d had the good sense not to linger and make things that much more awkward.
Anxiety pushed her that much faster and she pulled on her clothes quickly. She was getting out of here now, and she wasn’t going to think that maybe, just maybe, it might have been nice if he’d at least said goodbye.
Forget worrying over one measly cowboy. She had one hundred and fifty-two to think about.
Slipping out of the motel room, she ignored the knowing smile on the maid’s face as she rushed down the walkway and rounded the corner toward her own room. A quick shower and change, and she would hit the soda machine next to the ice maker before the diner. She wasn’t facing Livi and a room full of Stetsons until she’d calmed down completely. To do that, she needed sugar. Lots of sugar.
A soda. Maybe a bag of M&Ms.
Forget a fully stocked minibar for the source. The Lost Gun Motel was like any other small-town inn she’d ever known.
That meant vending machines instead of minibars. Homegrown soda fountains and pharmacies instead of McDonald’s or a CVS. A family-owned general store instead of the brand-name, big-box type.
Sure enough, she rounded another corner and spotted an old Coke machine stuffed with glass-bottled sodas. A crate sat next to the rusted-out monster, the slots half filled with empties.
Her gaze snagged on an Orange Crush and she could practically taste the sugary sweetness on her tongue. As if it had been just yesterday that she’d given up her favorite drink, instead of eight years. The day she’d turned eighteen and left town in her granddaddy’s ancient Bonneville.
She’d never looked back since.
She’d never wanted to.
The soda had been just as bad for her as the small-minded hometown where she’d grown up, and so giving it up had been a no-brainer. She’d switched to lattes and bright lights and a great big city full of zillions of people who didn’t know what a big pile of unreliability her father had been. There were no knowing looks when she walked into the corner drugstore. No one gossiping behind her back when she went into the nearest Starbucks. In L.A. she was just one of the masses, and she liked it that way. She liked her privacy.
Which was why she’d stayed away from home all these years.
Since her mother had dropped the bomb that she was getting married—again—to a local wrangler from one of the nearby ranches, despite the fact that she’d walked that road once before. Arlene had obviously learned nothing the first time with Sabrina’s father. He’d been a ranch hand. Worth his salt when it came to horses, but worthless when it came to being a good husband and father. He’d cheated on her for years before finally running off with a barmaid from the local honky-tonk when Sabrina had been thirteen.
Her mother had been devastated. She’d cried for months, then she’d spent the next few years telling herself that he was coming back, that it was just temporary. Eventually, she’d faced the truth. Not that it had done any good. She’d turned around and hooked up with loser number two. Different time. Different man. Same story.
Sabrina hadn’t been in any hurry to watch a repeat of the past. When her eighteenth birthday had rolled around, she’d packed up and left her mother, her mother’s new cowboy and her small-town life in the dust.
Her resentment toward Arlene and her cheating father had faded over the years, but she’d never been able to bring herself to go home. To the same double-wide where she’d listened to her mother cry herself to sleep night after night after Sabrina’s father had walked away. The place had never felt like home.
It never would, so there was no sense rushing back and pretending. Instead, she’d accepted the truth and turned her back on Sugar Creek like a piece of gum that had lost its flavor.
Sure, she’d seen her mother a few times over the years, but always on neutral ground. Arlene had flown out to California once. They’d met in Vegas another time. Colorado for Christmas a few years back.
She’d heard through the grapevine that her father had ended up single again, working on a horse ranch in Montana. Not that she cared. The day he’d walked away from her had been the day that he’d died in her mind, and so she had no desire to see him.
But as much as she hated him, she owed him, as well. He’d at least taught her one important thing—to never, ever fall for the same type of man.
A man who didn’t know the meaning of the word commitment.
Which was why she was chalking last night up to a good time. A temporary good time that was now over and done with.
No matter how much it had felt otherwise.
She slipped inside her motel room and spent the next few minutes getting dressed, before she heard a knock on the door.
“Maid service,” came the voice from the other side a split second before the hinges creaked and the knob twisted. A woman with bleached-blond hair and too much red lipstick came up short in the doorway. “It’s nearly noon,” the woman said as she noted the towel wrapped around Sabrina. “Folks are usually up and about by now.”
Folks, as in the locals. But Sabrina wasn’t a local, which meant she fell into the same class as a communist/sociopath/deviant puppy kicker. Small towns like Sugar Creek and Lost Gun were close-knit. Folks didn’t take too kindly to outsiders, and they certainly didn’t trust them. Which was why Sabrina made a point to give Olive—according to the name tag—a big smile before retreating to the bathroom to get dressed, and an even bigger tip when she grabbed her purse to leave fifteen minutes later. Not that it made her any less of a communist/sociopath/deviant puppy kicker. It just meant that she wouldn’t have to beg for an extra set of towels. And maybe, just maybe, she might get an additional name or two to pursue for her database.
“So he’s the hottest single male in town?” she asked Olive a few minutes later, after complimenting her lipstick and matching nail polish, and slipping her another five.
The woman shrugged as she smoothed Sabrina’s sheets. “I don’t know about hot, honey, but Martin Trawick is surely single, now that his fifth divorce is final, that is.”
“He’s been married five times?” Unease rolled through her.
“Six, actually, but we don’t count the first one on account of it was old man Talley who officiated and he ain’t an actual clergyman. Just tells folks that so’s he can get the clergyman’s discount special at the diner. It’s an olive-loaf sandwich with fresh pickle chips. Anyhow, Martin is always looking for his next wife. He’d probably be tickled to sign up for your service.”
Okay, he wasn’t prime grade A marriage material. At the same time, they weren’t promoting an actual marriage service. She and her roommates had invested a lot of time in their mission statement, which outlined their venture—namely, an interactive website where women could go to meet, not marry, cowboys. Which meant the only criteria she had to establish was that any prospective candidate was a Wrangler-wearing, cowboy-hat-tipping, boot-stomping country boy.
“What does Martin
