memories crashed in on Alex Palermo, he drove. He never thought about a destination. He only knew that if he rolled down his truck windows, played some cowboy country on the radio and prayed, the memories would fade and so would the guilt. The praying part happened to be a new addition to the process. Pastor Matthews of the Bluebonnet Community Church had insisted he try it.
They’d joked that real men can eat quiche. Real men can pray. They can even cry every once in a while. As long as it didn’t become habit. They’d fist-bumped and joked over that.
On a cool day in December, Texas Hill Country wasn’t at its warmest. But the breeze coming through the open windows of his truck helped to clear his mind. He’d been doing really well, but tonight, maybe because it was almost ten years to the day since he’d killed his father, the memories had resurfaced with a vengeance.
No, he hadn’t really killed his father. Deep down he knew that he hadn’t. But for years he’d told himself he was responsible for the death of Jesse Palermo. In reality, alcohol and a mean bull had killed Alex’s father.
Earlier, standing in the arena where his father had drawn a bull rope—and his last breath—Alex had been hard put to remember that it hadn’t been his fault his dad had gotten on that bull.
The tires of his truck hummed on the pavement. He took a deep breath and turned up the radio. As if he could outrun the pain.
A few miles out of Bluebonnet Springs, he hit the brakes. Because either he’d gone crazy, or ahead of him, on the shoulder of the road, was a woman in a wedding dress. The last thing he wanted was a bride, even someone else’s bride. His common sense told him to keep on driving.
Common sense told him that he had enough problems of his own without getting tied up in someone else’s hard times. He’d taken off driving in the hopes of outrunning some of those problems.
Unfortunately he’d never been good at listening. His twin, Marcus, always accused him of being the good twin. He didn’t know if he’d agree with that, but he supposed he must have a chivalrous side. He pulled to the shoulder just ahead and got out of his truck. The woman was definitely real. And wearing a wedding dress. As if on cue, it started to rain. Steady, big drops. The kind of rain that danced across the pavement and soaked a person’s clothing.
“Need a lift?” he asked, hoping they could get back in the dry warmth of his truck soon.
Better yet, she could tell him she had a ride already on the way to pick her up. But a bride without a groom? That didn’t exactly spell wedding bells and happily-ever-after.
“I’m fine.” She said it with her chin raised a notch, even as the rain picked up pace. He was losing objectivity because that little lift of her chin showed some pride and big eyes that rivaled the stormy sky.
“Ri-i-i-ght.” He said it slowly. Did he point out to her that she was miles from anywhere, wearing a wedding dress and standing in the rain?
“You can go on. I know where I’m going.”
He looked around, at the open fields, pastures full of cattle and nothing else. He glanced back at her and grinned, because they both knew she was bluffing.
“I know we’re taught from the time we’re little not to get in the car with a stranger. But I think even your mama would want you to get in out of the rain.”
Hands up so she could see them, he took a step toward her.
She reached for the bag slung over her shoulder. “Don’t come any closer. I’m armed.”
He glanced at the bag and the object pointing through the thin cotton. “With a high-heeled shoe?”
“I’m warning you.” She issued the command with a startling amount of conviction as rain poured down from the steel-gray sky. She was a tiny thing with a pixie face and a massive amount of brown hair piled on top of her head.
Rain dripped down her face and she swiped it away with her shoulder. That chivalrous side of him kicked into gear. He jerked off his jean jacket and held it out to her. She eyed it the way a stray kitten eyed a bowl of milk, but didn’t take it.
“Well, I’m not really worried you’ll shoot me with a shoe.” He grinned as he said it, hoping to put her at ease. “But I do think we’re both in trouble if we don’t get out of this rain. I’m not going to hurt you, I just want to get you off the road.”
The rain picked up and he saw her shiver. Her feet were bare. So were her arms. She took another swipe at the water dripping down her face. She eyed the jacket and his truck.
“Listen, we could stand here all night or I can just literally pick you up and put you in my truck.” He did not want to do that. She looked like the kind of female that once a man had her in his arms, he’d want to hold her forever.
He didn’t do forever.
For a full minute she stood there facing him, then she nodded, giving in. He hurried ahead of her to open the passenger door of the truck. As she struggled to get her skirts under control, he took her hand and helped her in.
That hand was like a frail bird’s, cold and fine-boned. He held it gently, afraid he’d hurt her.
“Are we on the way to the church? Or do you have somewhere else you’d like me to take you?” he asked as he climbed behind the wheel of his truck.
Huddled in the seat, her teeth chattered. He turned up the heat.
“Do you know Dan Wilson?” she asked, hugging herself for warmth.
“Yeah, I know Dan.”
“Could you take me to his house?”
He tried again to give her his jacket. This time she took it, sniffing at the collar before settling it over her bare arms.
“It’s clean,” he said, a little defensively.
“I know, I just...” She shrugged a bit and looked sheepish. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. If you could take me to Dan’s...”
“I can, but do you know what you’re getting yourself into?”
She gave him a puzzled look. “No, I guess not.”
“Dan isn’t the most pleasant guy in the world. He’s been sick and that’s made him extra cranky.”
“I’m his granddaughter.”
He had pulled onto the road so he shot her a quick look. “Seriously? I mean, not that you can’t be. But I didn’t know Dan even had a granddaughter.”
“He hasn’t seen my mom since she was a little girl. I tried to get him to come to the wedding...” She let the words trail off as her gaze slid to the window. A delicate finger brushed across her cheek.
Tears. He’d never been good with tears. He had two sisters and fortunately neither of them was the type to cry. The Palermo siblings had learned the hard way that tears didn’t help. In fact, sometimes tears made it worse.
His dad hadn’t invented the warning “Do you want me to give you something to cry about?” but he’d definitely put action to the words. He’d put
